“We missed you at supper, Drew” His Grace, the archbishop of Canterbury, greeted his godson as he entered Drew’s study a few minutes before ten o’clock. “Your friends, the St. Jacques and I.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Drew murmured, “but something came up to detain me.” Drew stood alongside Martin, Miss Allerton, and Kit. He was trying to contain his nervousness, but his palms were damp with perspiration and he was fighting a desperate urge to pace the width and breadth of his father’s study. The clock on the mantel was beginning to chime the hour and the bride had yet to make an appearance.
“Apology accepted.” The archbishop glanced around the study. Everyone seemed to be present except the bride. “Are you quite certain that you want the ceremony performed in here? I believe Swanslea Park has a perfectly charming chapel suitable for the occasion.”
Drew shook his head. “My late father’s companion, Miss O’Brien, is currently lying-in-state in the chapel. I didn’t think a wedding there would be appropriate under the circumstances…” He glanced at the door.
“Quite right,” the archbishop said to Drew. “The study is a more appropriate choice for a quiet solemnization of nuptials while the household is in a state of bereavement.”
“Am I late?”
Kathryn stood in the doorway, a vision of serene beauty, dressed in a black velvet dress and clutching a bouquet of hothouse lilies and roses. Her blond curls were fashioned into an elegant chignon and she wore a small black velvet hat without feathers or veil.
She had never been as beautiful to him as she was in that moment and Drew released a heartfelt sigh as he stepped forward to greet her. “No, of course not.” He led her forward to greet the archbishop. “Mrs. Bertrand Stafford, may I present you to His Grace, Lord Canterbury?”
The archbishop shook Kathryn’s hand. “An honor to meet you, my dear.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. The honor is mine once again.”
Lord Canterbury raised an eyebrow in query.
“We met six years ago,” Wren explained. “I was known to you then as Kathryn Markinson.”
“You’re the gel who…”
Wren bowed her head. “Yes, Your Grace. Your godson has a remarkable capacity for forgiveness.”
If the archbishop was dismayed by Drew’s choice of a bride, he showed no sign of it, beyond his initial outburst. “If you’re ready”—he glanced at Drew before he straightened his vestments and opened his Bible—“shall we begin?”
Drew nodded his assent and Martin stepped forward. The solicitor stood at Wren’s side and offered her his arm. “May I have the honor to stand in your father’s stead, my dear?”
Tears sparkled in her eyes. “Thank you, Martin.”
The archbishop cleared his throat and began the service. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of these witnesses, to join together this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony, which is an honorable estate, invented by God in the time of man’s innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his church; which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence, and first miracle that he wrought in Cana of Galilee…”
He stared first at Wren and then at Drew. “I require and charge you both as you will answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why you may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it…”
Although he’d first cursed his father for not marrying her, Drew looked heavenward and said a silent prayer of thanks to his father for his extraordinary forethought and wisdom. He remembered the words his father had written in the letter folded in the breast pocket of his jacket: I can only say that no matter what you believe of me at this moment, know that I loved you and only tried to watch out for the one you loved. For if his father had married her, then he would not be able to marry Kathryn now.
“Andrew Ramsey, sixteenth marquess of Templeston, twenty-eighth earl of Ramsey, Viscount Birmingham, and Baron Selby, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
“I will.” Drew’s answer was strong and firm.
He smiled at her and Wren saw the conviction in the depths of his brown eyes. Drew had promised to love her. Even if he could not bring himself to tell her, he had given himself to her before God and witnesses. He was hers for the keeping.
“Kathryn Markinson Stafford, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
Wren returned Drew’s smile with one of her own. “I will.”
The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur of tears for Wren as she listened to Drew repeat his vows and she repeated hers in kind. She stared up at his face and knew that she would love him until the day she died and beyond.
“With this Ring, I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” Drew slipped a heavy gold and sapphire band onto the fourth finger of her hand.
Wren gazed at it as she bowed her head for prayer.
“Kathryn?”
She looked up from her woolgathering to find Drew looking down at her, a tender expression of concern on his face. “It’s time to sign the register.” He signed his name with a flourish and then watched as she followed suit: Kathryn Markinson Ramsey. She halted the pen in mid-motion and Drew leaned close and said, “Marchioness of Templeston, countess of Ramsey, Viscountess Birmingham, and Baroness Selby.” She gave him a grateful smile.
“At last,” Drew pronounced.
Yes, she thought, finally. For better or for worse, they were husband and wife—as they should have been for the past six years.
Newberry arrived with a trolley bearing a tea tray and a small bride’s cake as the ceremony ended. There was no wedding breakfast or celebration. Indeed, there was to be no change in the household routine at all while guests were present—except that Wren would sleep in the master chamber with Drew and stand with him at the funerals. Once the funerals were over, Drew planned to post an announcement to the Times and to take Kathryn on a wedding trip, but until then, things would continue unchanged.
Neither the Church nor the State prohibited marriage between a man and a woman in deep mourning, but it was considered poor form to announce it until sufficient time had passed. For the next few weeks, news of their marriage would be kept quiet, known only to a select few and the household staff.
Wren and Drew stood side by side as Martin and Ally and Lord Canterbury offered them congratulations and good wishes. Ally leaned down and whispered something in Kit’s ear and the little boy walked over to Drew.
Drew sat on his heels in order to put himself at Kit’s level.
“Ally says to wish you happy ’cause you married my mama.”
“Thank you, Kit,” Drew answered.
“What’s ‘married’ mean?”
Drew grinned. “It means that you and your mama will live with me for always. From now on, I’ll be your papa and you’ll be my son and heir. If you’ve no objections.”
“My papa’s dead,” Kit told him. “Are you dead, too?”
“No, Kit,” Drew said. “I’m very much alive.”
Kit seemed to digest that information. “Will I get to see you more than my other papa?”
Wren’s heart seemed to catch in her throat. She had always suspected Kit hungered for George’s company. Now, his innocent questions confirmed it.
“You’ll get to see me all the time,” Drew promised. “Because we’re going to live in the same house.?
??
“Are we going to live in Swanslea Park or in the cottage?”
Drew ruffled Kit’s soft hair. “We’re going to live at Swanslea Park and keep the cottage for your mama’s work and sometimes we’ll live in my houses in London and Scotland.”
“Will Lancelot and Jem live there too?”
The fact that Kit’s primary concern about the wedding was whether or not his pony and the young groom who’d become the boy’s mentor would be able to live with him made Drew laugh. “I think that can be arranged.”
Kit was satisfied. “Okay.” He glanced over at his mother. “Can I have some cake now? Ally said if I was good I could have cake.”
“May I have some cake?” Wren corrected automatically. “Yes, you may.” She turned to Drew. “How does it feel to know that your new son only came to our wedding for the cake?”
“I was worried that he wouldn’t accept the idea, so you can imagine my relief at knowing he can be bribed so easily.”
Wren laughed. “The last time you bribed him it cost you a pony.”
“Seven ponies,” Drew reminded her. “But I’m learning to pace myself.”
“I have something that belongs to you,” Drew said much later when he and Wren sat alone in the cottage sharing afternoon tea.
“Another wedding present?” she teased.
He’d already made love with her and presented her with the marchioness of Templeston’s extensive collection of heirloom jewelry. And she had given him an enticing view of her latest private artwork—white doves with olive branches in their beaks that graced the tops of her stockings—her father’s gold watch, and an original watercolor she had painted of him astride Abelard.
“No,” he answered. “Something contained in a package Martin gave me after the reading of my father’s will.” He pulled the locket from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “He said it was yours.”
“Drew!” she breathed. “It’s lovely.” She turned the gold and diamond locket over in her hand, then opened it and gazed at the miniature portrait of George. “But Martin was mistaken. This doesn’t belong to me. I’ve never seen it before.”
“Not Martin.” Drew frowned. “My father. He said he gave it to Kit’s mother.”
“Perhaps he meant to give it to me,” she suggested.
“No,” Drew insisted. “He said that I should also know that all of the ladies with whom he had been intimately acquainted had a locket like this one.”
Wren gasped. “I had no idea.”
“He said that the locket accompanying his letter to me—this locket—was the one he gave to Kit’s mother. It has to be yours.”
She met Drew’s gaze and slowly shook her head. “It isn’t.”
Drew looked at her. “You must have one like it then.”
“No.”
All of the ladies with whom I’ve shared a bed and pillow—including Kit’s mother—have something else in common—a trait you cannot fail to notice should they decide to present themselves to you.
“Oh, Christ!” His father’s words flooded his brain like a fever and suddenly all of the disparate pieces of the puzzle of his father’s relationship with Kathryn made sense. Drew reached for Wren’s hand. “Come with me.”
He pulled her out of her chair and headed for the front door.
“Drew, we’re not dressed!”
He glanced down and realized that he was shirtless and barefoot and that Kathryn was wearing only stockings and a chemise. He closed the front door and went in search of their garments. Drew returned to the bedroom and grabbed his shirt and coat from where he’d hung them on the bedpost and tossed Kathryn’s black velvet dress and slippers to her. When they were dressed, he reached for her hand once again.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“The chapel.”
Drew lifted the lid on Mary Claire’s coffin, slid it aside, and stared down at her face. The pain was so sharp and intense that he felt as if a huge fist were squeezing his heart. Suddenly, he was seventeen again, staring down at the pale, lifeless face of his mother. Drew pulled the coffin lid back into place and dropped to his knees on the chapel floor and began to shake.
Have you seen her, Drew? Did you look at her? She has long auburn hair and I’ll bet her eyes are the same chocolate brown color as yours and Kit’s.
It was true. Drew would have recognized Mary Claire O’Brien anywhere. He wouldn’t have known her name, but he would have recognized her. He would have recognized the porcelain skin, the perfect oval of her face, the bone structure, the color of her hair, the shape of her nose and mouth. He carried an almost identical image in his mind and in his heart. For Mary Claire O’Brien was a younger, Irish version of his mother.
Wren dropped to her knees beside Drew and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “What’s wrong, Drew? Are you all right?”
“All of the ladies with whom I’ve shared a bed and pillow—including Kit’s mother—have something else in common—a trait you cannot fail to notice should they decide to present themselves to you.” Drew quoted that portion of his father’s letter aloud, then turned and looked at Kathryn. “Looking in that coffin was like looking at the dead face of my mother once again. Father’s mistresses will all resemble my mother. You don’t. You are not Kit’s mother.”
Wren sat down on the stone floor and pulled her knees to her chest. She rested her chin on her knees and sighed. “I am his mother,” she insisted. “The only mother he’s ever known.”
“But you’re not the one who gave birth to him.” Drew waited for her to contradict him and when she didn’t, he felt free to continue. “You lied to me. You led me to believe that you were my father’s mistress, but you were never intimate with him. You never shared his bed.”
“No,” she admitted.
“Yet you allowed yourself to be branded as his mistress. Why?” Drew demanded.
“I wanted Kit,” she said simply. “And that was the only way to ensure that no one would ever question my right to him—until George could make it legal.”
“Was Mary Claire his mother?” Drew asked.
“I don’t know,” Wren answered. “George never told me. He appeared at my house late one night three months after Ian died and—”
“Ian?”
“Ian Wesley Stafford,” Wren said, softly, reverently. “My baby.”
“Stafford’s son?” Drew squeezed his eyes shut to hold back the tears burning his eyes. “How? Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Ian was born while you were in France. He was a beautiful baby but frail. He looked robust and healthy, but he bruised so easily. Sometimes just holding him was enough to bruise him. He was almost five months old when Bertrand died. And then—” She choked on her words and had to start again. “Three months later, I lost Ian. He was crawling about, pulling up on the furniture trying to learn to walk. One day he bumped his chin on a table. It shouldn’t have been serious. Babies bump their heads and chins every day. But Ian began to bleed—from his mouth and his nose and ears. The doctor couldn’t stop it.” Her voice broke again. “He died two days later. In the space of two years, I lost you and Bertrand and Ian and I didn’t think I could go on. I stopped eating and willed myself to die and I nearly succeeded, but one night three months after Ian died, George showed up on my doorstep with Kit in his arms.”
She smiled. “It was love at first sight. George gave him to me. He told me that we were made for one another because Kit needed a mother as much as I needed a son. He placed him in my arms and told me that the best thing he could do as Kit’s father was to give him to me to love. George saved my life that night and the only thing he asked in return was that I live at Swanslea Park and become Kit’s mother. Everyone assumed I was George’s mistress and I pretended it was true in order to keep Kit. I left Bertrand’s house and came to Swanslea Park and moved into the dowager cottage with Papa. George made sure that no one here has any idea that Kit isn’t my natural son.”
“And you’ve no id
ea who Kit’s mother was?”
“None.” She looked at Drew.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said softly. “My father was right. You are his mother.”
Chapter Thirty
The waters were his winding sheet,
the sea was made his tomb;
yet for his fame the ocean sea,
was not sufficient room.
Richard Barnfield, 1574—1627