Vows were spoken.
“I, Philippa, take thee, Roland, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness, and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part…”
She heard her voice as if it were another’s. Northwich’s regard remained solemn, his countenance grim. He seemed no happier to bind himself to her than she was to him.
But it hardly mattered any longer when the finality of their union was being confirmed. Northwich had taken her hand in his, and he slipped a ring on the finger which had been bereft of her wedding ring ever since she had uncovered George’s correspondence. Now, there was a ring upon it once more. The thick weight of the gold band, carved with ornate filigree and adorned with an emerald cabochon, fit perfectly.
What an irony.
Northwich’s gaze seared into hers as he spoke. “With this ring I thee wed. This gold and silver I thee give. With my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
“Let us pray,” said the clergyman.
The rest of the ceremony passed in a similar blur.
Pippa and Northwich signed the register. She was once more a married woman.
* * *
The familiar swayof the train over its tracks and the torpor of the countryside was not as calming to Roland today as he ordinarily found it to be. But then, today was no ordinary day. It was his wedding day.
And seated across from him in the sumptuous railcar, her daughter sleeping sweetly at her side, was his wife.
Pippa.
Almost impossible to believe that five years after the day he had first clapped eyes on her at Auntie Mil’s country house party, Pippa was finally his duchess. At long last.
However, the mood today was hardly celebratory. She had been drawn and pale throughout the recitation of their vows. At one point, in the midst of the closing prayers, she had swayed, and he had been prepared to catch her.
But she had not fallen. She was stronger than he gave her credit for, Lady Philippa Morgan—scratch that—Pippa Northwich. For that was her name now, from this morning forward. Still, there had been no customary wedding breakfast and scarcely any time with the only guests who had attended their hasty, clandestine nuptials. Hastings and his wife had been cautiously optimistic for Roland and Pippa’s future.
Roland was as convinced as ever of the futility of his feelings for her. She had not married him because she loved him. Nor had she married him because she wanted him. Right to the moment her lush pink lips had formed the words promising herself to him for the rest of their lives, he had been half-afraid she would cry off, despite the danger.
It was a hell of a bind in which he found himself. At long last, he had the woman he loved as his wife. But she had been attacked two nights ago, and it was fear for her safety and that of her daughter which had driven her into his arms. He could take no pleasure in that knowledge.
“Shall I fetch a basket from the refreshment car?” he asked into the uneasy silence which had descended between them, thinking that he had not seen her eat yet today.
The journey to St. Pancras Station, following their ceremony, had been hasty and had not allowed for a luncheon. They had packed enough for a weeklong stay, but he was prepared to remain in the country longer if necessary. Chief Inspector Stone had promised to send word keeping them informed of the progress of the case. For his part, Roland planned to spend some time speaking with Pippa to see if she could recall anything that would lead to additional information he could send to aid Stone in his investigation.
Pippa’s gaze, which had been settled upon the most recent edition ofTit-Bits, rose to his at last. She had purchased the journal for a penny from the station whilst Charlotte had marveled over the height of the ceiling as they awaited their train. Her daughter’s innocent enthusiasm had delighted him.
His new wife’s reticence had not.
“No, thank you,” she told him now, before calmly returning to her reading.
Perhaps she intended to ignore him until their arrival at York. “There is a choice of beef and chicken, I believe, along with ham or tongue, bread, cheese, and salad.”
On this occasion, her gaze did not rise to meet his. “I cannot bear to eat tongue.”
“Ham, then.”
“I am not hungry.” Calmly, she turned a page.
“Surely Char-char shall be hungry when she awakes from her nap?” he pressed, nettled at her lack of interest in both sustenance and him.
If she did not wish to eat, her daughter most assuredly would.
“We can fetch a basket when she wakes, if it pleases you.” Another page turned.
