“At the time,” Arch said, “I had not yet informed myself.”
“You had best hope she is agreeable, Archibald.”
Arch allowed himself the smallest hint of a smile.
“I could not be more pleased for you both.”
EPILOGUE
The banns were called the very next Sunday, and by the following week—despite Lady Upton’s repeated observations that civilization itself might not survive such haste—the date of the wedding was fixed.
In the wake of events which had so nearly placed Francesca’s name in proximity to treason, it had been universally agreed—by those whose opinions carried weight, and by several whose opinions did not—that the most efficient means of securing her reputation was to place it immediately under the protection of a name that required no defence.
The name of the Upton family, it appeared, would answer admirably.
“It is not,” Lady Upton had declared, upon receiving the intelligence, “that I object to Francesca.”
Francesca, who had been summoned to hear this pronouncement in person, inclined her head with what she hoped was appropriate humility.
“Of course not,” Arch murmured beside her, with a composure that suggested long familiarity with such declarations.
Lady Upton cast him a look of mild reproof. “It is the timing I object to,” she continued. “One does not, as a rule, conduct a wedding in the shadow of a national scandal. It suggests a want of proper planning.”
Francesca could not help herself. “Next time we will be certain to consult the conspirators before arranging our next engagement, will we not, Arch?”
Arch made a sound which might, under charitable interpretation, have been a cough.
Lady Upton regarded her for a moment, as though reassessing the opposition.
“Well, you are not without spirit,” she said at last.
“She is not,” Arch agreed.
“You might, however, remember that spirit is not always an advantage in a wife,” she scolded.
“I find it preferable to its absence,” he responded.
Francesca glanced at him. He did not appear to regret the remark.
Lady Upton sighed, as though accepting a defeat she had anticipated from the first.
“Very well, if it must be done, it must be done, but I shall insist upon at least some degree of propriety.” She sighed as though she felt much put upon. The degree, thankfully, was limited.
During the monthbetween the engagement and the wedding, Arch and his troop had travelled to Devon to assist in something clandestine to do with one of their number, called Chum. The details, when Francesca had pressed him for them, had been conveyed with admirable vagueness and a degree of charm that did not quite disguise the fact that he intended to tell her nothing at all.
“This is to be my life, is it not?” she said one evening, as she folded a letter he had sent her from Devonshire.
“It will be only a part of it,” he replied in his next letter.
She smiled at that, though she could not entirely deny the truth of her earlier thought. This was what it would mean to marry him: absences without explanation, dangers hinted at but never fully disclosed, and a loyalty to duties which would, at times, take him far from her. She considered it carefully. Then, with a reasonableness that surprised even herself, she determined that having him when she could was infinitely preferable to having him not at all.
The wedding was a small,private affair, but not nearly so solemn as might have been expected. The small church had been chosen precisely because it discouraged spectacle; nevertheless, it was not empty. Sir Percival stood ready, composed though watchful, his arm offered to his niece with a familiarity that conveyed more than any speech might have done. Nelly hovered, her eyes suspiciously bright. Lord and Lady Upton, along with Lord Dandridge and Arch’s younger sister, Lucy, who had been sent for from school for the occasion, took their places on one side of the church.
Then there were Arch’s friends, who took up the other side. Francesca had been introduced to them only in fragments before, under circumstances that allowed little leisure for observation; now, gathered together in the mild chill of the church, they presented a very different impression—no less formidable, perhaps, but undeniably more human.
The ceremony began before any further commentary could be offered.
Sir Percival led her forward. For a brief moment, as they approached the altar, Francesca felt again the weight of all thathad preceded this day—the uncertainty, the danger, the choices made in haste and necessity—and yet, as she glanced towards Arch and saw him standing there with that same composed steadiness she had come to recognize, she found that the weight did not oppress her as she might once have feared.
