She picked up the next length of ribbon and began to do something useful with it.
CHAPTER 8
William stood at the front, in the grey morning light that came through plain windows and fell across plain stone, and looked at the altar and thought about nothing in particular with a concentration that suggested he was, in fact, thinking about several things and had decided not to look at any of them directly.
James arrived with two minutes to spare, which was an improvement on his habits, and stood beside him with the relaxed ease of a man attending an event he found genuinely interesting.
“Nice church,” he commented.
“Don’t.”
“Small, but–”
“James.”
“I’m only saying it has a certain–”
“If the next word ischarm,” William threatened quietly, “I will make sure you regret it.”
James fell into silence, which lasted approximately forty seconds.
“You know,” he said, “most men look somewhat less like they’re preparing for armed combat on their wedding day.”
“I am perfectly composed.”
“You are standing like you’re expecting someone to attack you from the left flank.”
“That is simply how I stand.”
“It is not how you stand.” James glanced at him sideways. “It is how you stand when something is bothering you and you’ve decided to be extremely dignified about it.”
William said nothing. He adjusted his cuff. This was not, he told himself, anxiety. He did not indulge in anxiety. What he did was preparation—the careful management of a situation that had more variables than he preferred, conducted with the thoroughness of a man who understood that control was not something the world offered freely and had therefore learned to maintain it himself.
The church was very quiet and small. He had chosen it for that reason, a quiet parish on the respectable edge of the city and close to home, the kind of place that performed its function without fanfare, where the vicar was discreet, the register was maintained with professional indifference, and nobody who mattered was likely to be passing on a Thursday morning.
No announcement had been made. No guests had been invited. His sisters were at Blackmoor House with Mrs. Hatch, which he had managed by telling Isadora firmly that they weren’t allowed to attend.
“For what it is worth, you are doing the right thing,” James offered, the levity gone from his voice.
“I know.”
“She will be–”
“James.” William said it quietly, without an edge. “I know.”
James nodded. Let it rest.
The vicar emerged from the vestry with the expression of a man who had performed this particular service many times and had long since made his peace with the varying circumstances in which it was requested.
He exchanged a few words with William about the order of the ceremony, asked whether there would be music—there wouldnot be—and retreated to his position at the altar with the practised discretion of someone who understood that this was not a morning for elaboration.
William stood. Waited.
Twenty minutes,he told himself.Register. Signature. Done.
He listened to the churchyard silence outside, the creak of the building settling around him, and the very faint sound of James shifting his weight from one foot to the other with the barely concealed restlessness of a man who had not yet had his second cup of coffee.
And then the door at the far end of the church opened.
