Chapter Fourteen
Paul had kept an eye on the proceedings as the evening progressed. He and Harriet had mapped out a strategy, and although they both knew luck played a large part in it, he was relieved to see that it was progressing much as they’d hoped.
When Harriet slipped away, he made his final rounds, mentioning to the Earl that they would be on their way to church shortly. The brief nod he received was sufficient, and thus he bowed his way from the room, leaving on the sound of laughter, loud voices and the occasional clink of glassware.
The Charades game was apparently a success.
As the sound receded, Paul picked up his pace and nearly ran upstairs to their room. Harriet was already there, putting the finishing touches to the pretty green dress she’d pulled from her cupboard.
She turned to him. “It’s the only one I have thatisn’tproper for a housekeeper.” She looked at him anxiously. “Is it proper for a bride?”
His words caught in his throat at the expression in her eyes. He swallowed. “You are beautiful, no matter what you wear.”
She took a breath. “You’re kind to me. I have to ask, one last time, are you sure about this?”
“I couldn’t be more sure.” He didn’t dare touch her. “Are you?”
“Yes.” No hesitation.
“Then let me change my jacket and we’ll be off.” He slipped off his butler’s formal coat and took his own jacket from the hook. “I know you do, but I must ask…you have the license?”
She nodded. “Right here.” She held it up for him to see, then put it into the large pocket of her cloak.
He came to her and helped her wrap it over her shoulders. “Hold it tight, now. And pray the Vicar will help us.”
She lifted a hand and covered his where it rested on her shoulder. “He will. He’s got to.”
“Let’s go and find out.”
Their exit from the hunting box was accomplished smoothly, and the horses found the going easy since the ground was hard but dry. The air was brittle, the sky bright with stars and a waning moon, so the ride to the church, though cold, was not unpleasant.
They spoke little, focussing on their mounts and the lanes, navigating the few branches that had succumbed to the weight of the snow, and soon finding themselves within sight of the Pineneedle Drift church.
“There it is,” said Paul, the words accompanied by breaths of steam. “St. Merwyn’s.”
“Ah,” said Harriet from the depths of her muffler. “It does have a name.”
“And a good-sized congregation, apparently.”
As they neared the church, they saw the large number of horses and more than a few carriages tethered in the shelter of one side, lit by the glow through the stained glass windows.
“Well, it is Christmas Eve. I expect a lot of the congregation prefers to spend tomorrow at home with the family, rather than going out to church. It’s a special time, that’s for sure.”
Minutes later they added their horses to the line tied beside the church, and—with an apprehensive glance at each other—walked inside.
The service, it seemed, was about to begin.
Taking seats at the end of a pew halfway up the aisle, Harriet and Paul unwound their mufflers and loosened their cloaks. The church wasn’t warm, but the number of congregants helped keep it from being bitter, as did the candles which cast a broad swath of light over the altar and the first few rows of the congregation.
The organ struck up the introductory notes of a Christmas carol and everyone rose as the Vicar walked from a side door to his position in front of the altar.
He blessed them with the sign of the cross—and smiled.
Paul and Harriet were struck dumb.
It wasSimon Ridlington.
Paul gripped Harriet’s hand. “Do you see?” he whispered.
