“Welcome to San Francisco, Sophie,” Martin says as soon as he is close to me. His voice is a little deeper than I’d imagined, a little softer. He doesn’t seem nervous, not even a little. And he called me Sophie, not Miss Whelan. My first name fell off his lips as though we’ve known each other for years. He takes my hand and clasps it like we are old school chums.
“Thank you,” I say, and then, in an attempt to match his relaxed tone, I add, “Martin.”
He lets go of my hand. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, without visible emotion, and yet he doesn’t sound insincere. He sounds satisfied, relieved perhaps that I didn’t change my mind.
“Yes, I’m happy to be here as well.”
He reaches for my travel bag. “Do you have a trunk that needs to be sent along to the house?”
I own nothing else and my cheeks warm a degree. “I don’t.”
But Martin doesn’t seem concerned or amazed that the entirety of my worldly possessions fits into a single travel bag and the handbag I am clutching. “We’ve only a few minutes before the courthouse closes, and they are expecting us.” He speaks the words as though we might merely miss the opening lines of a play if we don’t hurry. We leave the dock and enter the expansive and busy ferry building. We walk through quickly to the street entrance on the other side.
Delicate wisps of fog are just starting to swirl down upon the city, gauzy as gray silk and so very much like the approach of evening on the northern coast of Ireland. The street bustles with end-of-workday activity. A few automobiles sputter and cough as dozens of horse-drawn carriages and delivery wagons skirt them without much notice or fear. A streetcar full of riders rattles past.
“I’ve a carriage for us just here.” Martin leads us to an ebony-hued buggy hitched to an even blacker horse that waits curbside. The driver opens the door for me and I step inside. Martin climbs in to sit across from me.
As the carriage begins to move, he asks if my travel was acceptable.
“Yes, thank you. It was.”
He nods.
“Is Kat waiting for us to return after... after our errand?” I ask.
“Yes.”
And then, because I must, I ask Martin if he has changed his mind about anything we’d agreed upon in our previous correspondence.
“I have not,” he replies. “Have you?”
“No.”
“Then we’re settled.”
“Yes.”
And then, since we are apparently all set, Martin casts his gaze out the carriage window.
I had expected nervous conversation in the carriage or a string of questions politely thrown in my direction or perhaps a steady stream of information from him about his daughter or maybe even his dead wife. But Martin doesn’t speak as the carriage makes its way to the courthouse. Perhaps he is shy around women? Or maybe he is choosing to mask any nervousness with silence, just as I am. Some minutes later the carriage comes to a stop.
“You can leave your travel bag,” Martin says as he reaches for the handle. “The driver is going to wait.” Martin steps out and then assists me. The combined courthouse and city hall looms in front of us like an opulent palace, with great columns of carved marble and a sparkling dome that is half-blanketed in light mist and twilight.
Inside, we walk swiftly through the echoing foyer and toward the offices of the justice of the peace, the heels of my shoes clicking on the marble flooring.
We enter a courtroom where another civil ceremony appears to have just concluded. The black-robed judge, graying and portly, is shuffling papers behind his tall desk, and at a table next to him a woman in a dark blue dress is showing the newlywed couple’s witnesses where to sign the certificate of marriage. A photographer is taking a portrait of the bride and groom. The bride is wearing a canary yellow shirtwaist, and her new husband a gray suit the color of thunderclouds. The two of them look like sunshine and rain, but they are beaming—joyful and clearly in love. A trio of lilies rests in the crook of the woman’s arm.
“Next couple, please?” The clerk of the court—a lean, bespectacled man—looks past the freshly married couple to where we stand. “Mr. Hocking and Miss Whelan?”
“Yes, we’re here.” Martin reaches for my hand and leads me forward to stand in front of the justice’s immense oaken desk.
“Stand right here,” the clerk says. “If you have rings, get them ready. The judge will address you in just a moment.”
“Thank you,” Martin replies, without a hint of uneasiness.
“No witnesses of your own?” the clerk asks in a bored tone.
“No. It’s just us.”
