The man turns to the woman in the blue dress. “I’ll need you to stay and be a witness for this last one, Mrs. Farriday.”
The woman nods as she gathers back her fountain pens and the document from the previous two witnesses. The happy couple in yellow and gray walk away arm in arm.
The photographer turns to Martin. “I’ll take your photograph, as well, if you’d like, sir. I do nice work. Only a dollar for a nice portrait for your mantel. And I’ll set you up for a set of cabinet photographs for giving away. Only two dollars for a dozen.”
“No, thank you,” Martin replies, not even looking at the man.
But I want a photograph of my wedding day. I want Mam to see this refined gentleman I am marrying, and how content I look on his arm. I want her to believe it will be different for me this time. I want to believe it, too.
I touch Martin’s arm. “Please, may we have him take a photograph?”
Martin swivels to face me.
“I would like one for my mother. And one for us. Shouldn’t we have one for us? And maybe one for your parents back east?”
He considers this for several seconds and then turns to the photographer. “We won’t need a dozen. Just two. One for the mantel and one for her mother.”
Martin hands the photographer the money and gives him an address. He then fishes out of his pants pocket two gold rings. The smaller one is set with a tiny glittering sapphire. He hands the larger one, a plain gold band, to me. It is smooth and warm in my palm.
And then the clerk is in front of us, telling us the judge is ready. The vows are simple and short. In a matter of mere breaths, it seems, the judge is finished and the rings are exchanged. The judge pronounces us married and then he stands and bids us good night.
There is no kiss to seal our vows. Our words did that, and the certificate will bear witness that we indeed said them.
I am led to a long table, handed a fountain pen, and told where to sign my name. Martin signs next, followed by the woman in the blue dress and the clerk. The judge, gone now, has already signed it.
“All right, then,” the photographer says to us. “If you’ll justturn toward me, folks. Sir, if you’ll just slip one hand into your pocket there.”
Martin and I stand as directed and the photographer takes the shot in a burst of bright light from his flash lamp.
The clerk and Mrs. Farriday are leaving by another door, and the photographer is hoisting his camera and flash pole on his shoulder and heading out of the emptying courtroom. I look down at the ring on my finger. Under the amber light of the ceiling lamps, Martin’s little sapphire sparkles like a tiny moonlit ocean.
Night has fallen soft and ghostly when we emerge from the courthouse. Swaths of denser fog now hug the streetlamps and obscure the sky like a never-ending bridal train. We climb back into the waiting carriage.
Martin is again quiet as we ride. The silence doesn’t seem to fit the occasion, even one as unusual as ours. I clear my throat. “Thank you for allowing that photographer to take our portrait.”
Martin turns his gaze from the window to look at me. “You’re welcome.”
“So... are you sure you don’t want to send a photograph back home to your parents as well?” I am wondering if he, like me, is hesitant to inform his family of what he’s just done. When he doesn’t answer me, I add, “I understand if you’re anxious about telling your parents. I... I actually feel the same way about telling my mam.”
He hesitates a moment. “My parents died when I was little,” he finally replies, his tone betraying nothing of what it might’ve felt like to say those words to me. “I was raised by an aunt and uncle back east. We’re not close.”
My heart instantly aches a little for him. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right,” he says easily. “I don’t remember my parents.”
“Still, I’m sure it was very difficult for you losing your parents so young like that. How did it happen?”
“They were coming home from an event in the city but were caught in a blizzard no one knew was coming. They lost their way and froze to death in their carriage.”
“Oh, Martin.”
“That was a long time ago. I don’t think about it anymore.”
I wonder if this man has spent his whole lifetime telling himself it was just a small thing that he grew up without his mother and father. How does someone school himself to believe losing parents at such a young age doesn’t matter? I can’t imagine it. I lost my father when I was sixteen and it was nearly my undoing. I wait a moment to see if Martin will query me about my own parents.
“My mam likely won’t approve,” I say when he doesn’t. “I’m not sure what my father would’ve thought.” I turn my head to look out the window. I see only mist and other carriages and the hulking shapes of buildings in the undulating fog. “He probably would’ve said it was imprudent or preposterous, what I’ve just done. My da liked using fancy words. He collected them in a book like some people collect old coins. He wanted to go to university and become a professor, but there was no money for that. He became a roofer just like his father had been. But he taught himself what he could on his own. He was always borrowing books from the rich people in the village who had libraries. He’d read the books out loud to me and my brothers, and he’d find so many words he wanted to remember. He wrote them in a little ledger. He fell from a roof a few years ago. He never woke upfrom the fall and died a few days later. He was such a gentle soul.” I turn to face Martin, my mouth suddenly agape. I hadn’t intended to share that much with him. I don’t know why I did.
Martin is studying me, however, with what seems to be intense interest. Something about what I said has drawn me to him an inch or two. And then the moment passes.
