The air was magical. Something divine was to occur in this grand, impressive, revered building today. Two people were to become one.
Even Rhoda, who was to stand up beside her, glowed. She hugged Sophia, and both of them looked at each other with a strange sort of shock on their faces. How could anyone not have hope on such a beautiful day?
“Sophia…” Rhoda shook her head, obviously puzzled. “…you are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen in my entire life.”
Sophia’s mother stood behind her, fussing at Sophia’s gown but answering in agreement. “Just what I have been thinking all morning, Miss Mossant — Rhoda, my dear.” Even Rhoda would bask in her mother’s happiness today, it would seem.
Before any more words could be spoken, the organ struck a loud, majestic note, and a hush fell over the building. Penny had arrived earlier, as had Mrs. Crump. They handed bouquets to both her and Rhoda. Dudley, ah, there he was, stepped out from behind a column, and Mrs. Crump sent both him and her mother down the aisle to the pew at the front of the church. Fully in command of the spectacle, she then pulled Rhoda to stand at the end of the center aisle. Gripping Rhoda’s arm for a moment or two, Mrs. Crump seemed to be counting inside of her head, and then gently shoved her into the sanctuary.
Sophia and Mr. Scofield were next.
She’d not looked forward to walking with her stepfather. She’d felt betrayed. She’d felt as though she’d trusted him to be a father to her and that he’d instead used her for profit.
Except, for almost the entirety of her life, hehadbeen something of a father to her. He also, apparently, cared deeply for her mother. How could one feel animosity knowing both of these things to be true? She tucked one of her hands through his arm and clutched at the bouquet in her other.
She would almost believe she was like any other bride. But all the tradition, all the flowers in the world could not change the nature of this wedding.
Her stepfather’s solid grasp held her back as she would have dashed down the aisle at a much quicker pace. Did she merely want to get this over with? If she rushed through all of it, she could then pretend it never happened. Mr. Scofield spoke quietly into her ear. “Be patient, Sophia. Your groom is not going anywhere. I told you this was what you wanted, my dear. You’ll do better to trust the men in your life.” And then he chuckled.
That was the moment when she looked to the end of the aisle, to her groom she was walking toward.
Lord Harold, dressed in a fine suit with lace at his wrists and a gloriously embroidered waistcoat, looked, it seemed, almost as though he were in pain.
Beside him stood his brother, Lord St. John. Sophia glanced over the right side of the church.
Captain Brookes sat three rows back. He was formally dressed, mostly in black, relieved only by a freshly pressed white cravat. His dark eyes tugged at her.
“This is not what I want!”She wanted to scream at the congregation.“It is what all of you want!”And they were getting it!
She held Devlin’s gaze with her own, and he must have noticed the panic in hers. For he lifted his chin and steeled his eyes.“Be strong,”he seemed to be telling her.“You can do this.”
Sophia pushed back the tears that had sprung out of nowhere and nodded, such a small movement only he would see. And then, unless she was to crane her neck backwards in order to stare at the man she really wished to marry, she turned her head up to the altar where Harold stood.
And then she was there.
Beside him.
Her groom.
Mr. Scofield turned her slightly, so that she faced Lord Harold and the bishop.
When the organ stopped playing, the only sounds in the building were the rustling of dresses and creaking wooden pews. This was a place of solemnity, of purity and tradition.
“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” The priest addressed Mr. Scofield in a booming but solemn voice.
Oh, no, my good sir,Sophia thought acidly.Who selleth her?
“Her mother and I do,” her stepfather answered with great conviction. He then bent forward and awkwardly kissed her on the cheek.
In a formal manner, Mr. Scofield lifted her hand to the bishop, and the bishop placed it in Lord Harold’s.
She wondered, at that moment, if it was always thus so with her husband, his touching her only when absolutely necessary.
The bishop recited a few prayers for all to be in agreement with and then turned his attention to the bride and groom.
“Repeat after me, my lord.” The bishop bowed toward Lord Harold, who nodded and turned to face her. He echoed the bishop’s words dutifully. “I, Harold James Farnsworth Michael Brookes, take thee, Sophia Ann Babineaux, to be my wedded wife, 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…” He choked up a little, and Sophia wondered at the woman he did love. “…to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance, and thereto, I plight thee my troth.”
The minister than directed Sophia to take Harold’s hand and repeat the same. She stumbled a little at his name. She’d not known he had so many, although she ought to have assumed so as he was from such a dynastic family. She spoke the words flatly, woodenly, much as, she thought with an insane impulse to giggle, the way her mother had described some women lay on their wedding night.
