“Nathan, my boy!” he said happily when they were outside the classroom. “What a sight you are! And Mad Irish himself wonderin’ if you’d ever return to Ballaburn. I told him you were as good as your word—and so you’ve proved me right.” His large hands clasped Nathan by the shoulders and gave him a small shake, beaming widely. Father Colgan had fiery red hair and eyebrows only a shade darker. His green eyes were open and friendly and his nose was slightly flat and misshapen, the result of three rounds of fisticuffs with a street bully in his youth. “Mad Irish has seen you, hasn’t he? You’ve only just come from Ballaburn?”
Nathan shook his head. “We’ve only just come from Petty’s Hotel and before that fromtheAvonlei.Mad Irish is certain to hear I’m back before the day’s out.”
Father Colgan turned his hearty smile on Lydia. “And it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, dear child. I’ve been wanting to meet the woman who could lay claim to—”
“My heart,” Nathan interrupted. He had no idea where Father Colgan’s statement might end, but he was not prepared to take any chances. It worked. The priest was distracted.
“Love, is it?” Father Colgan laughed. “Sure, and I can see for myself that it is. Who would have thought? I wasn’t certain there was a colleen who would have you. And what a fair lass she is, too.” He poked Nathan lightly in the ribs. “What a wager it’s been, eh? Make the introductions, boyo.”
When Nathan was done, Lydia was warmly embraced by Father Colgan. His obvious affection surprised her, for she had done nothing to earn it save become the wife of Nathan Hunter. Perhaps that counted for something more than Nathan had led her to believe. Squattocracy indeed.
“Lydia and I want to be married here, Father,” Nathan said.
“Married? But you said…it’s Lydia Hunter, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes,” Lydia assured him. “But I don’t remember that, you see, and Nathan thought I might like to have another ceremony. One Icanremember. You’ll do it for us, won’t you?”
Father Colgan’s smile was fixed now and his eyes were sharply questioning as he turned to Nathan.
“Lydia,” Nathan said quickly, “would you mind terribly if I spoke to Father Colgan in private?”
She was gracious, though bewildered. “I wouldn’t mind at all. Perhaps I could stay with the children. Their recitation requires a little work. Seven times eight isnotsixty-three.” She slipped inside the classroom and in a matter of minutes the droning voices became a lively chorus.
Father Colgan listened and nodded his approval. “She’s a fine one. You were fortunate it turned out so well for you. How’s Brig taking it and what’s this folderol about her not remembering your wedding?”
“Let’s go to your office,” Nathan said. “Lydia will be fine with the children. She loves them—the more urchin-like, the better.”
The priest listened without comment for twenty minutes as Nathan explained the situation more fully. Even then he knew there were some things the younger man was keeping to himself. He wanted to press with questions but counseled himself to tread lightly. He leaned back in his chair, supporting the back of his head in the cradle of his palms. “It was a mad scheme from the beginning,” he said finally. “And didn’t I say that very thing to Irish? Oh, well, I’ll take it up with him when I see him again. He’s not been to church above three or four times since you and Brig left for California. As things turned out, praying wouldn’t have come amiss.”
Perhaps that was so. Nathan wasn’t sure, and what he didn’t need from Father Colgan was yet another lecture on the sheer folly of Mad Irish’s plotting. “Will you marry us?” he asked.
“It’s what she wants?”
“Yes. You can ask Lydia yourself.”
“I believe you. It’s clear as my lumpy nose that she loves you.”
“She thinks she does.”
Father Colgan had no reply for that. Nathan would not believe anything he said to the contrary. “Very well, Nath.” He sighed. “I’ll do it. Mad Irish would like to see this marriage, though. Can it wait a day or so? Give him time to come in from Ballaburn?”
“No. Lydia and I want to be married today.”
“All right. We’ll have the ceremony in the chapel. I’ll excuse the children for the afternoon. Let me get the proper vestments and find Sister Isabel and Sister Anne. They’ll be very pleased to act as your witnesses and Mad Irish would never dare doubt them.”
Nathan’s lipswere cool and dry as they touched Lydia’s mouth at the end of the ceremony. Her hands were enfolded in his, protected and warm. There was a faint reassurance as he squeezed them gently. Lydia’s dark blue eyes were bright, her smile radiant, both of them lighted from the inside as if she were the source.
Father Colgan offered his congratulations and kissed Lydia on the cheek. He turned to Nathan. “There was never a wager like it,” he said, shaking his head. “And, God willing, there never will be again. Here, sign your names in the book so the marriage can be recorded.”
Lydia wrote first, signing her name Lydia Chadwick Hunter. There was a space to record her occupation. “What do I put here?” she asked.
“American free settler,” the priest told her. “It means you’re not a convict.”
Lydia finished quickly and gave the pen to Nathan. He had to produce his ticket-of-leave and dutifully record his crime and his sentence. For the first time Lydia had a sense of the burden Nathan carried and she understood the bitterness she sometimes glimpsed in his eyes. When he straightened she saw the anger that was not quite shuttered, the embarrassment at having to record his convict status in front of her. She took the pen from his hand then took his hand, and now it was she who offered reassurance.
They did not return to their hotel immediately after the ceremony. Nathan took Lydia to eat at the Royal Hotel, which boasted a polygonal bar and two grand saloons, each one hundred feet long. They dined on clams and wild rice, sweetly buttered peas, and drank champagne from delicately fluted crystal goblets.
“People know you here, too,” she said, a little awed by the fact.
