Ten days passed in the blink of an eye.
The moss-covered gravestone was cool beneath Sophia’s trembling fingers as she traced the letters carved into it, feeling the worn contours of a name long since ceased to be spoken. It wasn’t one she recognised, but something in the shape of the grand cross-shaped stone reminded her of another grave she had once visited regularly, over twenty-five miles away now, but never to be forgotten. She stood alone in the morning sunshine, not another soul to be seen stirring in the village or on the rough road between the squat old houses, and she cut a solitary figure who might have been the last person left living on earth.
Oh, Papa. How I wish you were still here, today of all days. I might take courage in having you beside me as I walk down the aisle.
Woodford’s quaint little church stood proudly before her, but her legs felt too weak to take the final few steps inside. Somewhere behind the old oak doors Fell waited for her, tall and silent beside the rector who would finally bind her to the blacksmith for the rest of her life—and save her from the fate she would run to the ends of the earth to avoid. In less than an hour all those worries would be over and she would be Fell’s wife, leaving her with an entirely different set of problems to find answers to.
If Papa was still alive, though, I would never have needed to flee in the first place. Mother wouldn’t have married Lord Thruxton and my life wouldn’t have been blighted by the prospect of Septimus as a husband.
The harsh truth was unavoidable and Sophia squared her shoulders to bear the wave of grief and shame that rose to claim her. There was no getting away from it: she was to blame for all that had happened, as Mother had always said, and the price to pay was a lifetime of guilt slung around her neck.
He should be here. But he’s not and it’s my fault—and will continue to be my fault whether I loiter here or no.
She took a deep breath, feeling the air fill her burning lungs and press her ribs against the bodice of her dress. It was nothing like the gown she’d always assumed she would wear for her wedding; in her girlish dreams Sophia had been draped in gauzy white, a veil shimmering from her hair and expensive silk gleaming as it caught the light. Instead she was in fresh blue muslin with no headdress to speak of, only a few cornflowers scattered among her black tresses in simple beauty as though she was a country maid born and bred and not a lady desperate to escape a hopeless past.
No giggling bridesmaids accompanied her up the church steps nor proud father escorted her on his arm. It would be a wedding like no gentlewoman had before and yet Sophia couldn’t bring herself to regret its lack of glamour. Luxury and wealth had done nothing to bring her happiness, she thought as she gathered all her courage to grasp hold of the heavy iron handle and cast open the door—perhaps by some miracle she might find some here, in occupying the arms of a good man even if not his heart.
Come, then. Take a final glance at the outside world as Miss Sophia Somerlock. I pray as Mrs Barden life might be kinder—and I must endeavour to deserve it.
Fell’s back was turned to her as she stepped into the quiet peace of the empty church, the calm silence a soothing contrast to the wild thrum of her pulse. Over two hundred years of whispered prayers and murmured blessings filled the space with a feeling of serenity Sophia clung to like a child might its mother, drawing strength from the stillness as she paused just inside the door. The distance from the porch to the altar seemed suddenly so much more vast than it had the previous Sundays at the reading of the banns, when each week eyes flicked in her direction and lips muttered who knew what gossip at her retreating back. Now it stretched out before her, with no father beside her a lonely journey she had no choice but to undertake all alone. None of the villagers had gathered for the simple service, only the rector’s wife and a man Sophia vaguely recognised as a church deacon quietly sitting in the front pew to act as witnesses. It wouldn’t have mattered if every seat had been filled, however, for all the notice Sophia took. That long walk and the man waiting at the end of it were the only things she could think of, all else falling by the wayside as anxiety swirled inside her like a crashing tide.
He’d heard her enter, she knew from the hardly perceptible stiffening of Fell’s shoulders as he waited for her approach—a subtle movement that caught her eye at once, so attuned was she to every shift of his intriguing frame. It was something she was powerless to control, the instinctive reaction of her body to Fell’s presence; a more poetic soul might have described it as a dance of desire, the way she felt herself curve towards him with helpless longing she could hardly restrain. As his wife that longing might finally find an outlet, but still the danger to her heart warned her to stay on her guard.
Recall why this wedding is taking place. Even if Fell seems to tolerate me better than Mother would have thought, that doesn’t mean he feels anything for me beyond friendship and pity for a woman in need.
Rector Birch had peered up from his lectern at her entrance and now regarded her impatiently from beneath his heavy brows. Evidently he wished to begin the ceremony as quickly as possible, but there was no chance of that while the bride loitered so fearfully at the end of the yawningly empty aisle. He frowned slightly and Sophia tried to spur her stubborn legs into stirring, but they wouldn’t obey and for a horrible moment she wondered if she would ever move again. The passage through the church was just so long, so barren in its friendless length—how could anybody be expected to traverse it alone, she thought with desperation, with nobody there to offer a steadying hand—?
Fell looked over his shoulder and took in the set pallor of her frightened face in one swift glance. Apparently that was all it took to make up his mind for him, as with only the briefest of hesitations he strode the length of the church and held out his arm.
Sophia glanced from the straining sleeve in front of her—crisp, white and scarcely containing the muscle beneath—to the rector’s frown and back again, her voice a hiss of alarm in the silent church. ‘What are you doing?’
‘You’ve no father here to give you away, so I’ll do it myself.’
‘You intend to give me away...to yourself?’ She peered up at him, the mention of Papa a brief sting as she fought the urge to seize hold of the burly forearm and hold it tight. ‘Is that not a little unorthodox?’
Fell shrugged, his heart-stopping smile of wry amusement suddenly the only thing Sophia could see in the sunlit space between them.
‘Isn’t everything to do with this wedding?’
He was right. Nothing in what was about to happen was something either of them could have foretold and yet there they were, about to step out into the unknown and take whatever future might be destined for them. All she could say for certain was that with Fell’s help she would escape Septimus’s wrath and would in turn strive to be the best wife she could—unorthodox, but necessary, and a slim escape from the misery she knew she deserved.
With tentative fingers she took his arm and felt her face flush rosy as she settled her hand over the swell of muscle. Very soon she would be able to reach for that bicep as often as she chose, if she were only brave enough to do so, and the thought was one that stayed with her as together the lady and the blacksmith marched forward to meet their fate.
Fell hardly heard Rector Birch as he tonelessly ambled through the service, as usual more interested in his own voice than anyone else’s. All Fell could truly concentrate on was the pale face of the woman beside him, her eyes demurely cast down and her pretty lips barely moving as she all but mouthed her vows—giving the name Somerlock, not Thruxton, both to honour her father and escape those with evil intent. Both sounded just as sweet to Fell, although she could have been saying anything for all the words were able to penetrate his wonder.
He hadn’t seen her all morning, deliberately keeping out of the way as she performed the female mysteries of a bride on her wedding day, and now she was before him the most curious lump seemed to have risen in his throat.
If I thought she was lovely before, she’s managed to surpass herself today.
The blue dress wasn’t one he could recall having seen Ma wear, perhaps hidden at the very bottom of the trunk of folded gowns. It fitted across the shoulders and bodice as if it had been made with Sophia in mind, dropping from beneath her ribs to form an azure puddle at her little slippered feet. Cornflowers winked at him from among her shining hair, the only ornamentation she wore and yet needing nothing else to enhance the raven waves. She didn’t look high-born and haughty. Instead, she suddenly struck Fell as something he’d seen in one of Rector Frost’s books many years ago now, but a picture that had lodged itself immovably into his mind. It had been an illustration of an angel with wings outstretched, her clothing simple and her serene face lit by light that seemed to come from within herself. Sophia’s face wasn’t quite as tranquil, small white teeth occasionally worrying at her lower lip as if in anxious thought, but her porcelain beauty was the same and it made Fell swallow to realise she, too, seemed bathed in some unearthly glow. Perhaps it was the sun streaming through the windows above—or perhaps it was something else, the beauty of her face and the equally good heart he knew beat inside her, lending radiance to the woman only moments away from becoming his wife.
I never thought the day would come when I’d stand up and pledge myself to another, not since Charity slipped through my fingers like water. It’s a shame Ma isn’t here to see this miracle—I don’t think she’d believe it, either.
He stole another glance at Sophia out of the corner of his eye, drinking in the clear line of her profile and solemn crease of her brow with something like wonder. Now the moment was upon them it seemed like a dream. Surely the idea of a woman like Sophia joining with him for ever was something too strange to be true—but it was she who had suggested it, he thought again with frank disbelief, and she who had chosen him as her future. Together they would start a family based in truth, without secrets and shame lurking in the shadows, a prospect that made his insides twist sharply and without warning. Sophia would never love him or feel the dangerous stirrings that taunted Fell whenever he saw her smile or watched as she gently stroked Lash’s ears, but she was prepared to give him the most precious gift and one thing he had always wanted: legitimate children and people he could call his own.
Her sacrifice might drive away the tension Ma’s visits brought with the reminder that he was neither fully Roma nor otherwise, the question of his heritage perhaps somewhat soothed, and for that he resolved to repay Sophia time and again with the kindness she’d apparently never known. If his feelings for her were blossoming from regard to something more, he would make sure she never knew it—only unhappiness for both of them the reward if he were to let his disloyal weakness slip.
Rector Birch nodded at Sophia’s whispered vows and turned to Fell, only half-listening to the words that would unite two people from completely different worlds to try to make a new path together. It was a service the rector had performed more times than he could count, although Fell had no doubt the older man’s attention would be more acute if he knew how unusual a couple stood before him. Sophia’s humble disguise had served her well, however, as there was no trace of recognition that all was not as it seemed as Rector Birch gestured for Fell to produce the ring.
A flicker of self-conscious apprehension passed over him as Fell retrieved the band from the pocket of his waistcoat and weighed it in his palm, not for the first time wishing it was more elaborate.
She must be used to wearing jewels I’ve never seen the like of, he thought as he looked down at her flushed face, even now a little uncertain at his hesitation.
Sophia’s eyes followed every movement, sea-glass–green stretched wide as he straightened his fingers and allowed her to see what nestled in his palm.
Her darkened brows rose in surprise and her mouth formed a perfect circle at the gleaming gold ring sitting in his warm hand. For a moment she simply stared, before that emerald gaze fixed on his and he saw a hundred unspoken questions flit through it like wind-tossed leaves. If his heart hadn’t abruptly leapt up into his throat at the disbelieving appreciation he saw in her face, he might have smiled. Instead he was unable to move as much as a muscle made rigid by the shy delight stealing in to replace her uncertainty. Whatever she’d been expecting it evidently wasn’t this: a perfect, dainty ring forged by his own hand from pure gold, the most exquisite thing he had ever made for the most deserving woman he could imagine. The precious metal had been costly to buy, it was true, and infuriatingly fiddly to shape, but every second of frustration was washed away when he took Sophia’s slender hand in his own and slipped the ring on to the third finger as if she had been born to be its mistress.
He heard a tiny sound escape her at the touch of his hand and felt a corresponding rush of confusion at the expression that skittered across her face, half-pleased and half-shocked, as though somehow disturbed by the feel of his skin against hers. He wanted to ask her what it meant, that glimmer of something nameless but tangible that now hung in the air between them, but the next moment to his shame he realised he didn’t dare. Sophia’s reaction might be nothing at all, a gleaming haze like a mirage and just as deceptive, and he shouldn’t try to coax something from her that would only disappoint his foolish hopes. Perhaps he’d been wrong to pour so much of his heart and soul into her wedding band, yet no reward could be greater than the quiet pleasure with which she moved her finger back and forth to catch the light, the ring a glittering ornament on a woman with no need for such gilding, so brightly did she already glow.
A sensation like fire fled through Fell’s nerves to thrill in each sinew, making it all the more difficult to fight the growing desire to seize hold of her tiny hand again and pull her closer. Soon he would be able to do just that if he chose—but the idea of alarming his bride filled his mouth with a sour taste he tried to swallow back down.
That would frighten her for certain—and I will not have my wife regard me with fear.
All the same, the longing to capture her in his arms called to him insistently, wheedling and whispering his name—until Rector Birch muttered the words that sang in his ears and Sophia turned to him with determination that sparked a fresh blaze in the depths of his chest.
‘...and so I pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.’
The rector sounded mildly disapproving, not entirely convinced of the propriety of allowing a Roma bastard to kiss his equally questionable bride in the sanctity of a church, but Fell had no attention to waste on anything other than Sophia’s flushed face. The rector, the witnesses, the empty pews and the peaceful stillness of the ancient church were nothing but indistinct shadows as Fell took Sophia’s peach-soft cheek in his hand, bent down—and settled his mouth on hers.
It was a relief to touch her, to feel her warmth against him again as he had that night in the moonlit forge when she had come to him and set in motion the events that would change his life for ever. He brought his arms around her without even realising he had moved. Of course the changes had begun before that, he realised distantly somewhere in the back of his mind, too intent on drinking in every second of contact between his lips and hers to allow for any distractions. He hadn’t known it at the time, but surely the real beginning was the moment he found Sophia in the forest, her eyes wide with fear and the wan beauty of her face piercing his defences like an arrow. How could he have guessed that same woman would become his wife, now bound to him until parted only by death?
Sophia swayed slightly in his arms but didn’t pull away, accepting the gentle questing of his lips with a tiny sigh that dropped dynamite into Fell’s chest. The relief of kissing her again should have helped quench the flames that leapt inside him yet that breath only stoked them higher, not enough cool water in the world to douse the conflagration that raged while she stood within the circle of his arms.
He felt the creep of one tentative little hand on the flat muscle of his back and couldn’t suppress a shudder of sensation at the exploring fingers roaming a landscape left bereft of touch for more years than he could count. The last woman he had held against him and breathed in her scent had been Charity, who returned his kisses with robust enthusiasm; Sophia was more hesitant, still so inexperienced and unsure, but there was a curious spark beneath her innocence that made her go on, finally surrendering entirely to Fell’s clever mouth and half-swooning in his firm embrace. The little hand explored higher, ghosting over lean ribs and tracing the stacked column of Fell’s spine while he held her close, the secret lines of her slender body separated from him by only the flimsiest of blue muslin and smouldering beneath his fingertips.
Something inside him stirred like a wild animal waking from its winter sleep, raising its head and blinking in the first sun of spring as he summoned his courage to drop a hand to her waist and feel its heated span with a burning palm. Still Sophia didn’t flinch from him, a realisation as startling as it was welcome—wasn’t she shocked to find him so ardent, her high-born sensibilities offended by his commoner’s advance? Perhaps he ought to break the kiss before he strayed too far and discovered the limits of his new wife’s tolerance, before the working of his tender lips prompted a frown rather than green eyes closed in something akin to enjoyment—
But no action on Fell’s part was necessary.
‘I imagine that’s quite enough, Mr Barden.’
At the sound of the rector’s affronted voice Sophia froze in Fell’s arms, her languid posture straightening at once and eyes snapping open to stare up at him with mortification that couldn’t have been more clear. Her face flooded scarlet and she took an unsteady step back, shattering the connection between them and pressing one hand to the front of her heaving bodice to lay flat against where her heart—if it was anything like Fell’s own—must have been bounding in a rhythm all its own. With her lips still parted, pink and petal-soft, and her breath coming quickly she looked so irresistible Fell could have elbowed the rector aside and taken her face in his hands once again.
But I won’t.
Fell swallowed down what felt like a lump of broken glass trapped in his dry throat and tried to force a smile for the brand-new Mrs Barden.
Whatever just happened was surely a result of the moment and one I took too far.
Sophia might not have pushed him away, but that didn’t mean she’d appreciate a repeat of his actions, straying as they had dangerously close to uncovering the forbidden desires of Fell’s heart. Now they were man and wife and would have to live together it was more vital than ever he kept his true feelings towards her hidden, the unveiling of sentiment Sophia would never return only making living together unbearable for both.
She’s my wife now and I am her husband, but I can never forget how little I deserve her—or hope she might ever come to truly care for a fatherless blacksmith with nothing to offer but the safety of a wedding vow.
Sophia barely lifted her eyes to his as they signed the register, her hand quaking a little as with a stroke of the pen she threw her life into his keeping. His own fingers were more steady, the bold signature Rector Frost had helped him to devise as a young lad standing out proudly in glossy black ink on the page that tied him to his refined new bride. The witnesses signed likewise and then it was done: in less than an hour Fell had gone from a single man to a husband with a whole world now opened up before him, the prospect of a family to call his own now within his grasp.
The woman to thank for his good fortune hovered at his side like a periwinkle ghost, her face pale but for two bright spots of colour that blazed on her cheeks. She glanced across at him, a swift cut of her jade eyes, and he could have sworn he caught a glimmer of relief pass over them as she saw his reassuring smile.
It’s my job to care for her now, starting from this moment—I could begin by helping her to stop looking like a rabbit caught in a snare.
If she felt a stab of regret for what she’d just done, there was no way back now, he thought as with a nod to the rector he held out his arm. Both he and Sophia had signed their existence into the hands of the other and they had no choice but honour that commitment, regardless of any uncertainties and fears that might swirl inside two stomachs. The gentlewoman and the half-Roma would have to learn to deal together, and the look on Sophia’s countenance told Fell she had just reached the same conclusion.
‘May I escort you outside, Mrs Barden?’
Her blush deepened, but Sophia slipped her hand into the crook of Fell’s arm and allowed him to lead her back up the aisle he had guided her down not long before. She still limped a little on her injured leg, but her back was straight, her shoulders square with the perfect poise of a fine lady, and for the first time Fell felt a rush of pride suffuse him that caught him unawares. By what miracle did he have holding his arm an elegant woman with a kind heart, who might pass those qualities to his sons and daughters? Surely there was no man alive that could look at Sophia and not feel a pang of envy for her husband, a notion Fell had never considered. For the first time in his life his position might inspire jealousy, a realisation so novel he had to fight the desire to utter a dry laugh.
He pushed open the heavy door of the church with a flourish and drew Sophia out into the blinding summer sunshine. The light glanced off her silken hair and he stopped to admire it, wishing he could run his fingers through the sun-warmed strands when he heard his name called in earnest.
‘Barden! Barden, will you come with me to Down Farm? It’s a matter of urgency!’
Both he and Sophia turned to see a young man running towards them on the road that led out of the village to the fields beyond, kicking up clouds of dry dust as he hastened in their direction.
Fell drew his dark brows together, regarding the man as he drew alongside them with his face red and breath escaping in short pants.
Winters the farmhand? What does he want? Any simpleton can see this isn’t the moment.
‘I’ve just been wed, Winters. Surely you wouldn’t expect me to come on my wedding day.’
‘You have my sincerest congratulations—and you too, Missus—’ Winters nodded breathlessly at Sophia ‘—but it can’t wait. The Downs’ gelding has fallen and his leg looks a fright: the only person who might save it is you.’
Fell hesitated, suddenly caught. Any other villager wanting a favour would have fallen on deaf ears, but Winters was amiable enough and the idea of a suffering animal was something different altogether. Under normal circumstances he would have left at once, but with Sophia at his side he felt torn.
I can’t go running off on our wedding day, yet the life of the Downs’ gelding hangs in the balance...
If the young horse’s leg was irreparable he would be killed, a sad end to a life so full of promise and a prospect that clawed at Fell’s throat.
Sophia made his mind up for him. With a half-smile she disengaged herself from his arm, the place where her hand had been now curiously empty without her touch. ‘You go, Fell. It sounds as though you’re needed more at the farm than at the cottage.’
‘You’re certain?’
She nodded, the pretty colour flooding her cheeks only making her more beautiful in the hazy sunshine. ‘Of course. If anyone can help that poor creature, it’s you.’
There was no time to stop and enjoy Sophia’s words; all Fell knew was they filled the space behind his breastbone with heady warmth where once there had been nothing but an achingly lonely void. Her confidence and unquestioning belief in him took him by surprise in the very best of ways—as did that knowing smile—but with Winters waiting restlessly for Fell to follow him there was nothing to do but take Sophia’s hand and gently press a kiss on to her knuckles, that glow increasing until she was like a poppy in a garden.
‘I’ll return as soon as I can. I bid you good afternoon—Wife.’