A fortnight later,Uncle Atti replied.
Sebastian, with a sense of impending doom, knew even before he broke the seal what the letter would say.
Uncle Atti refused to annul the marriage.
The deed was done; it had been done properly, in the presence of family and witnesses, and there was no reason to undo it. Nana had entrusted him with seeing her goddaughter safely wed, and he had fulfilled that duty, honouring the final wishes of his dying sister. Since there was no harm in Sebastian being married, he saw no reason why they should not remain wed to each other. Besides, even if he wanted to, it was impossible to annul the marriage. As he very well knew, neither the ecclesiastical nor the civil courts would allow it.
And neither would he, as Archbishop of York. In fact, he would vehemently oppose any such move.
Sebastian lowered the paper with a shaking hand.
Never mind that Viola was married to the wrong man.
Never mind that the wrong man was he.
Then, Uncle Atti had written something cryptic. “Chin up, my chap, you will see that in the end it will have been for the best. I know that is what your grandmother would have wanted.”
He stared at the letter for a full hour.
He was married. Legally, irrevocably married.
To her.
A sensation shot through him, a feeling so fierce, so intense, it threw him off guard. By the time he identified it as gladness, he shut it down with horror.
Guilt followed, weighing him down with leaden heaviness.
He rose from the desk, reeling with emotion.
Now he had to tell her.
He heardher weeping at night.
It was like the suppressed weeping of a child, quiet and hopeless.
It tore his heart.
He stood in front of her door, his hand raised to knock.
Of course, she was sad. About Nana, this muddle of a marriage, and, naturally, because of George, whom she must desperately miss.
And then there was only him.
A sense of deep hopelessness washed over him. He dropped his hand again.
He was not George. Why did he think he could comfort her?
What right did he have? What could he offer her at all?
She wanted George. Not him. Him, she detested. She’d made that clear, often enough.
He lifted his hand again, dropped it.
Took several steps back.
Hesitated. Pulled his hand through his hair.
Paused, turned back.
