Ester grabbed at her hand. “Please, Mama. Fix it.”
She nodded and undid the chignon, then made a quick new braid and pinned it up again. “A little better, but not what I wanted. This isn’t what I wanted for you at all.”
Sighing as if she could barely contain her emotions, Mama placed the wrinkled shawl on Ester’s arm. “It’s not the beautiful beaded silk gown I had planned for you, but it will do. Now you are ready to wed. Come along, Mr. Bex. My husband and I will take you both to Gretna Green.”
He scooped up Ester’s hand. “Right behind you, ma’am.”
She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but it was hard to have a cohesive thought with her mother now forcing her to marry Bex. “We don’t have to do this, Mama. If you want me to say I made a mistake, I will.”
“You’ll not shame the family any more, Ester. I’m going to watch you marry the man you chose above the Croomes.”
Ester had always wanted to see her mother get angry, but to be furious at Papa, not her. The determination she heard in the woman’s voice was resolute, chilling.
“Run off now, Ester, if you can.” Bex said in a whisper. “Your father won’t shoot you, and your mother doesn’t have a gun to your head.”
But she did. The weight of ruining the Croome name was as good as a flintlock, and the look of disappointment on her mother’s face was enough to break any resistance in Ester’s spirit.
“Stop buzzing, you two.” Mama held her head high as she pushed them out the door. “Remember, this is what you wanted.”
They walked past Mr. Smythe and the grandson—both staring with mouths open. Mama tossed a guinea to them but never stopped.
“Mr. Bex, Miss Croome, you’ll have time to say everything after we see the blacksmith at Gretna Green.”
This marriage was about to happen. It wasn’t going to be stopped. Not by Papa, not by Bex, or by Ester’s doubts. Little Mama was the power. She drove things now, and Ester could only nod and agree.
They climbed into the carriage, the three of them joining her brooding father. The silence in the cabin made her pulse loud within her ears.
What a curious group they made. Ester beside her stoic mother, Bex with a coat half draping his bandaged arm, sitting next to her sulking father. Five miles of no talking, the rumbling of the big carriage’s wheels, the pounding hooves of the two pairs of horses sounded loud, definite. The trip was five miles too short.
The carriage stopped. Bex didn’t wait for the footman and jumped out. He stuck his hand back inside and helped Ester down. “So, we are going to do this.” His tone teased her ear, but he moved her forward, not waiting for a reply.
Then she realized it wasn’t a question. He was committed.
An older fellow stood at the anvil. “I assume…” He stared, and Ester wondered if he’d ever seen so many dark faces together in his establishment. “I assume ye want to be married. It’s late. Come back tomorrow. I have a suite of rooms next door for the ceremonies—”
“It must be tonight,” Mama said and put coins into his hand. “They must wed tonight.”
“Very well. I’m Mr. Elliot, the blacksmith and the anvil priest who will marry thehappy couple. I need the parties’ names and places of abode.”
“I am Arthur Bex. I stay in London.”
“I am Ester Croome, I stay near Cheapside.”
“Are you both single persons?”
“Yes,” Ester said.
“Yes. I’m single.” Bex took her hand in his and gave it a little squeeze.
“Did you come here, Miss Croome of your own free will?”
Sort of yes, and sort of no, but the anvil priest didn’t need the particulars. “Yes.”
The man leaned forward and stared in Bex’s direction. “Did you come here, Mr. Bex, of your own free will?”
“Yes. I’m pleased to marry Miss Croome.”
Mr. Elliot turned and started jotting in a book. “How do you spell Bex?”
