Sapphire

Sapphire glanced down at the pale blue gown she wore. Avena’s fiancé’s mother had sewn it for her, finishing it just in time for the wedding. Made of satin and lace, it was of the most elegant French fashion with a neckline that bared her shoulders and demi-gigot sleeves that made her feel as if she were a princess.

Trumpets blasted, startling Sapphire out of her reverie, and she stared up at the marble columns that stretched high into the ceiling above her. She looked to Angelique, who smiled.

“This is it, what you’ve always wanted, what you’ve waited for your whole life. True love,” Angelique murmured. “Now, stop looking so frightened. It’s Blake.” She swept her hand in his direction. “He’s waiting for you.”

Sapphire looked down the aisle she would soon walk, and at the very end, standing beside the rector, she saw Blake. He was dressed exquisitely in black and he was waiting for her.

Angelique gave Sapphire a little nudge, and closing her eyes, sending a silent prayer heavenward, Sapphire began the long walk down the aisle of Westminster Abbey.

The next hour was a blur of faces, voices, music, the low rumble of the rector’s voice, and the warmth and comfort of Blake’s hand. All of London truly had come out to see Lord Wessex wed a girl who a year ago had been scandalized by rumor. The Dowager Lady Wessex was there with her pinch-faced daughters, Lord and Lady Morrow and the Baron and Baroness Wells and even Lord and Lady Carlisle who, a year before, had put Sapphire out of their house. Somehow, the past was all forgotten and the well-wishers who gathered were all smiling, whispering to one another how beautiful the bride was and what a gentleman the American had turned out to be.

Sapphire felt as if she were floating on a cloud of blue silk when, at last, the rector pronounced them wed and Blake lowered his head over hers to kiss her. Their lips met and he whispered to her, “With this kiss, I thee wed.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and he drew her closer, deepening the kiss.

The trumpets sounded again, echoing off the flying buttresses high overhead.

At last, breathless, Blake lifted his head and offered her his arm. Side by side, they walked back down the aisle of Westminster Abbey, now scattered with white rose petals, their gazes for no one but each other. The wedding party and guests followed behind them and back in the vestibule, everyone gathered around to wish them well.

“Countess Wessex, my love, congratulations,” Aunt Lucia cried, pushing her way through the crowd to throw her arms first around Sapphire, then Blake. “My Jessup has a gift for you.”

“Perhaps once we arrive at Lord Morrow’s,” Blake suggested, putting his arm around Sapphire in an attempt to protect her from everyone crowding around.

“No,” Aunt Lucia insisted. “Here. Now.” She looped her arm through Sapphire’s and dragged her toward a small alcove near a life-size statue of St. Francis.

Blake had no choice but to follow.

I’m sorry, Sapphire mouthed over her shoulder to Blake.

Blake only laughed.

“Our bride, the new Countess Wessex, will meet you at Lord and Lady Morrow’s,” Aunt Lucia called to the guests, waving a handkerchief over her shoulder. “Jessup, love, come at once,” she called.

In the alcove, Sapphire turned to Aunt Lucia. “Please, our guests. The coach waits for us.”

“A coach and eight,” Blake teased, adjusting his silk top hat. “I’m not certain I can afford to pay them to wait much longer.”

“Please, Aunt Lucia.”

“This will take only a moment,” Aunt Lucia insisted. “Here he comes now.”

Sapphire looked up to see Mr. Stowe, hustling toward them, an elderly frail man in tow. “Congratulations,” he declared, red faced and laughing as he kissed Sapphire on both cheeks and pumped Blake’s hand. “My lord.”

“Jessup, please, do get on with it,” Aunt Lucia sang. “They have a coach and eight waiting to take them to the reception.”

“Yes, yes of course.” Jessup grinned. “Well, I would like to introduce you to Father Paul Seton.”

Sapphire dipped a quick curtsy and Blake offered his hand. “Father.”

“Tell them, Jessup,” Aunt Lucia urged, sounding as if she were about to burst with excitement.

“Father Paul was the rector in a small church in Shemingsbury Cross for many years and there he married many couples. Mostly poor couples, but not all.”

The elderly man in a collar bobbed his head, grinning, as pleased with himself as Lucia seemed to be with him.

“Father Paul remembers one marriage in particular, though, more than twenty years ago, a wedding he performed between a distinguished gentleman and a village girl.”

Sapphire gasped and she reached for Blake’s hand.