"Last night," Ian repeated, and the echo of his voice sent a fresh wave of pain rumbling through his head. He could recall attending the Governor's Ball, but then his memories grew faint. He struggled to bring them into focus, and then felt even worse.
"My God, did we get married?"
"Have you come to regret our marriage so soon?"
Ian leaned forward and propped his head in his hands. "Where did you get that peach wine? I fear it's lethal."
Melissa had not sipped more than a few drops and didn't share his pain. "It was a gift from a neighboring plantation. You seemed to enjoy it last night."
"I must have." Ian was positive marriage was one of the most significant events in a man's life, but he'd not realized how easily a few glasses of wine would wipe the memories from his mind. "Would you please bring me my pants?"
Melissa plucked them from the chair where she had placed them that morning. She handed them to him and then returned to her chair by the window, to provide him with the necessary privacy to dress. From that safe distance, she took refuge in practical matters. "There are so many things we need to discuss. Where are we going to live?"
Ian rolled out of bed, nearly fell, but caught himself and hurriedly pulled on his pants. Expecting some evidence of their passion, he glanced back toward the bed, but when the wrinkled sheets bore no trace of their union, he was in too much pain to care. He pulled the spread up in a hasty attempt to make the bed and then sat down on it.
"I don't know," he replied. "I'll try and rent us a house in town until we can build one, but I don't feel up to discussing real estate today. I'd rather just go back to sleep, but I can't leave you to face your parents alone."
Melissa rose and went to him. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't have suggested we toast each other last night, had I known how badly you'd feel today."
Ian took her hands and pulled her close. "You needn't fear you've married a drunkard. I'll not make this great a fool of myself ever again."
Melissa had to bite her lower lip to prevent her ravaged emotions from betraying her. "You're no fool. Don't even think that."
Ian had not expected her to take his remark so seriously. "Thank you, but I know just how wretched I feel."
"We often have guests during Publick Times. Fortunately for us, this is one of the few springs that we haven't, but these bedrooms are always kept ready. There's shaving soap, a razor, water, although I'm sorry it's cold."
Taking her remarks as a gentle prod, Ian slid off the bed. "Yes, my dear, I'll make myself presentable."
"Don't wear your wig. Your hair is really too beautiful to hide."
"Do you really mean that? I've always thought it was hideous."
Melissa's pretty blue eyes widened in surprise. "No, it's certainly unusual, although not for a Scotsman I don't suppose, but it's a very attractive shade." She reached up to kiss his cheek. "I like your freckles, too."
"My God, woman, you've become absolutely shameless with your flattery."
"I think every woman ought to flatter her husband," Melissa protested, "and I intend to keep right on flattering you."
Despite the pain of his headache, Ian longed to take her back to bed, but knew he would have to face her parents first. "I shall strive to deserve it then," he responded with a mock bow.
He walked over to the washstand, and she returned to the window. He poured himself a drink first to rid his mouth of the awful taste of peach wine, and then added water to the bowl. As he scooped it up in his hands to wash his face, he had a startling recollection of tears, and his heart fell. He couldn't remember much of the night, but now recalling Melissa's heartbreaking sobs, he glanced toward her.
She was gazing out the window, smiling slightly, and from the affectionate way she had greeted him that morning—or afternoon, if that were the case—she wasn't displeased with him. He debated with himself a minute, and then decided there were some questions that were better left unasked. If his wife wished to pretend their wedding night had gone well, when all he could remember was wine and tears, then he would not challenge her on it. He was touched that she would try so hard to make the day seem like any other, when in truth they would probably never face a more difficult conversation than the one they would soon have with her parents.
That he had seldom felt worse wouldn't help any either, and he forced himself to concentrate on shaving, but he laughed to himself as he recalled Melissa's comment about his freckles. He was twenty-six years old, and he had more freckles than most ten-year-old children, and Melissa liked them! He would thank God every day of his life for sending him a wife whose love was truly blind.
* * *
Neither John nor Rachel Barclay had felt up to attending church services that morning, but they had gone anyway and insisted Alanna accompany them. They left while the last notes of the recessional hymn were still echoing through the nave and, without lingering to speak with friends, rode home in the same sullen silence with which they had arrived. When they walked through their front door and found Melissa and Ian waiti
ng in the parlor, Rachel again burst into tears, while John fought to control his temper. Alanna saw the protective way Ian's arm encircled her cousin's waist, and envied the newly married couple their love.
They had been downstairs only a few minutes, and Ian had scarcely had enough time to prepare, but he seized the initiative and spoke first. "I want to apologize to you both for any anxiety we may have caused you last night. I know what we've done must seem selfish, and perhaps it was, but we had been discussing marriage for several weeks, and felt we were ready to take that step. I love your daughter dearly, and you have my word that I'll give her the best of lives."
John Barclay's vision was clouded with a scarlet mist exactly matching the coat of Ian's uniform. "Anxiety?" he repeated in a hoarse croak. Ignoring his new son-in-law, he addressed his remarks to his daughter. "Anxiety does not begin to describe the suffering you've brought your mother and me. Barmaids and scullery maids elope, but the well-bred daughters of respectable families, which ours most certainly is, do not elope! Now I want both of you to sit down, and we'll try our best to undo the terrible mess you've made."
"Our marriage is no mess," Melissa argued.