The Prince's Bride, page 23
“No, not blindfolded,” Ryan told her, “but he did ask me to close my eyes. It’s a very great honor, I assure you, being invited to this camp. You should count yourself lucky.”
“Well, the journey from not knowing him at all, to his sporadic letters, to being a wedding guest has been a long one, indeed. But the real champion today is you, Lady Ryan. It’s no small thing to forsake all others and marry my brother, especially because he promises you so very little.”
Ryan chuckled sadly. “I’ve had my own journey with him, haven’t I? When I first met him, he told me Prince Gabriel d’Orleans was dead. He wouldn’t even tell me his name. And now he’s marrying me. So. He does things in his own time.”
“That is a very gracious view for someone who is—I hope you don’t mind me saying—obviously very fond of him. It has been clear to all of us that you share some affection.”
Ryan smiled. “It’s an open secret that we are not enemies, I suppose. Matters were not helped by these last weeks together at Mayapple. You are terrible chaperones, which I suspect was by design. It was sweet, your subtle encouragement.”
“Not enemies, indeed,” said Elise. “But he refuses to claim you as his actual wife in every way. This could be seen as short-sighted at best. At worst? Selfish. If I’m being honest.”
“Our faux union is not a rejection of me, it is a safeguard of his own freedom.”
“Yes but will that freedom keep him warm at night?” asked Elise.
Ryan cleared her throat but made no reply. The caravan of horses had turned eastward, bearing into the steadily rising sun. Dappled sunbeams illuminated the canopy overhead. All around them, autumn leaves twirled from the treetops. They dropped to the forest floor and created a patchwork of orange, and yellow, and brown. It was so beautiful, it made Ryan’s heart ache. Or perhaps Ryan’s heart ached because Elise was right. Gabriel had chosen his freedom over her. She did not begrudge him this, but there was sadness to sacrifice.
“Lady Ryan?” Elise asked, “if my brother asked you, would you leave your family and live in the forest with him and raise a family?”
Ryan closed her eyes, shutting out the beauty of the forest. This was a painful question. The answer—yes—floated into her mind like a falling leaf. But living in Savernake with Gabriel—which, it should be remembered, he’d not asked her to do—would steal her purpose as caregiver and steward to her own family. The real answer was more like, maybe. Someday. After her father’s health improved or he passed on. After Diana and Charlotte were married and the estate was self-sufficient. When everyone could get on without her. If, after the great many years it might take to achieve these, he still wanted her—of course she would come. If he hadn’t met someone more convenient or beautiful or bold. She hadn’t lied when she’d said he was starved for a woman’s touch. Another truth: Any woman would want him. He was beautiful, and passionate, and capable, and—even if he fought it—regal in his own, rustic way. Reuniting with his sister was only one of many returns to civilization that he would make. Next, Pewsey. After that, Marlborough. The women would come.
But Elise had asked her a question. After a long moment, Ryan said, “Maybe.” The truth. Maybe if fifty things could be accomplished and the stars aligned and if he still wanted her. But she’d learned long ago not to pin her hopes and dreams on some man. She was invisible to most men and a sacrifice that Gabriel could not make. She had been remarkably unchosen for as long as she could remember. She could allow the reality of this to make her bitter and resentful or she could choose herself.
“I’ll take your maybe,” said Elise, “and I’ll not let anyone in Wiltshire forget it. You have my word.”
Ryan smiled. “You have been so very kind to me. Everyone in your family has been lovely. I will miss you terribly when I go.”
“Well, let’s not think of that yet. We have the wedding, we have the dinner party tonight, next comes Mr. Soames. I did not mean to dampen the festive mood of the wedding by pressing you on these serious topics. Forgive me.”
“No forgiveness is necessary. Oh, but look, we’re almost to the camp. I remember this bit. Here the trail will disappear and we’ll weave through this copse of trees. Gabriel takes a different route every time to conceal the way. When we emerge on the other side, we’ll round a hillside and then you’ll see it. I was so very impressed the first time. I know we tried to describe it, but he lives in a sort of modified cave beneath a hill. He has an underground waterfall next to his bedroom.”
Elise cleared her throat. “Does he?”
Ryan felt herself blush. “And the stables and horses are incredible. He’s a kitchen garden, a cellar for grain and winter storage, a smokehouse, chickens, of course; and—oh, look . . .”
They cleared the grove of trees and rounded the hill and Gabriel’s camp came into view—rough-hewn but tidy, just as she remembered it. Beside the cottage, in front of the kitchen garden, an arbor had been erected, the arch adorned with leaves of every shade of burgundy, and crimson, and aubergine, and pink. Coral-colored ribbon had been twined between the branches and streamed out, flapping in the breeze. Before the arch, a collection of chairs, mismatched except for their unsanded knobbiness, had been arranged in short rows. Stoneware vases containing bouquets of wildflowers—harebell, rockrose, wild parsnip, and others Ryan didn’t know—had been positioned beside the innermost chairs, creating an aisle. It was like a beautiful little outdoor cathedral, with the grassy hill on one side, the garden behind, and the forest in gleaming autumn color all around.
Ryan blinked back tears, taking in the simple beauty and natural splendor of the scene.
“Someone’s been busy,” said Elise, kneeing her horse forward. “Can I assume the outdoor vignette is not a permanent installment.”
Ryan, unable to speak, shook her head.
“Well, I knew he’d been gone from Mayapple for two days. What an effort he’s made. Good for him. I dare say, this is rustic,” she added, looking around. “I cannot believe my brother lives in a cave.”
“Please don’t remark upon it,” Ryan said, recovering quickly. Elise looked at her, cocking an eyebrow.
“That is,” Ryan added, “he believes that outsiders will not see it as he does. He is anxious for you, in particular, to accept it, I believe.”
“Oh, I accept it,” said Elise, reining around. “I’ll accept anything to be a part of his life, even saying goodbye to you, which is the most difficult part of accepting him. But you did say you might consider returning. Perhaps what I mean is: How could you possibly live in a cave? If you did come back? Life in the forest is no small request.”
“Yes, well, no one has made this request, have they?” said Ryan.
“No,” mused Elise softly, “I don’t suppose they have.”
Two hours later, Gabriel stood beneath the arbor he’d built, sweating in the only waistcoat he owned, waiting for Ryan Daventry to emerge from his front door and be escorted to him by his nieces.
His sister Elise and her husband smiled at him from the chairs he’d arranged in rows. His two grooms, Smith and Tucker, sat behind them, looking uncomfortable in their only waistcoats—and also a little confused. The nun Marie hovered on the periphery, checking the trees for anyone who might have followed them. Killian’s nephew Bartholomew stood to the side, tuning up a mandolin. Gabriel had not asked for music, but Bart had insisted and Gabriel had thought, why not?
From the moment he lit upon the idea of marrying Ryan in his garden, his plan for the ceremony had mushroomed from an exchange of vows to a proper wedding. Instead of thinking about the meaning of getting married, he’d occupied himself with guessing how a proper wedding might look and what Ryan might enjoy. Gabriel had not attended a wedding since he was a child; and even then, he hadn’t been a guest. He’d been a page boy who trailed behind his cousin when she walked the aisle at Notre Dame. After that, he’d been swept away by nannies so he did not fidget during the hours-long Mass. But he’d read about weddings in books and newspapers, and he knew the beauty of his own garden, and he knew that if he could extract Ryan from her existing life and install her in his own, he would seal the union just like this. They would marry in the beauty of the forest, with only his family and grooms, secluded from the world.
He could not extract Ryan from her life—he knew this—and she’d refused to commit to any preference for the wedding whatsoever, so he’d simply done what he wanted. One thing led to another and, in hindsight, maybe the little stage was a test for all of them. Would a rudimentary, outdoor ceremony be enough for Ryan when it came to something so important as a wedding? She’d been very comfortable at Mayapple and her own home was very grand indeed. If, in another life, at another time, she was able to leave Guernsey and consider life with him, would Christmases and May Days celebrated at outdoor parties be sufficient?
And what of Elise and Killian? His sister had never not been a princess. She’d exiled in St. James’s Palace and now lived on a lavish estate. Her husband literally referred to her as “Highness.” After the ceremony, she would leave this forest glen and host a dinner party for esteemed guests. Likewise, her husband’s stables boasted every modernization. Killian managed Mayapple, his nephew’s estate near Hampton, and various other properties throughout Britain. Compared to these, Gabriel’s camp was so very modest. He didn’t mean to test their acceptance so much as show them the reality of his life. They’d been asking to be let in for years. They’d opened their home to him, and now he would open his home to them. Could Elise reconcile her memories of him, also her future hopes for him, with the man he’d become?
So far, they’d been lovely. Killian had marveled at his horses and stables. Elise and the girls had seemed charmed by his cottage and waterfall. And Ryan had been—
Well, Ryan had not regarded him beyond quick glances and questions about where she might change clothes. It had been this way since they’d kissed beneath the wagon. She’d become single-mindedly focused on the logistics of returning home. Her only interest in the wedding had been the time and place and the procurement of the priest. Her only interest in their faux courtship had been how they would present themselves to the solicitor, and for how long, and how soon she could depart when it was over. Her attitude was, in every way, what they needed and also nothing like he wanted.
It was unfair and painful to confuse things. She would return to Winscombe—she was already there in her mind—and he would return to the anonymous life he wanted as Gabriel Rein. They’d said everything there was to say—each conversation ended in a small fight and a riot of nearly making love. They’d come so very close beneath the wagon. He would not dishonor her by taking her virginity and then sending her into the wide world alone.
Going forward, he would have a sister and nieces, but he would not have a wife. Ironically, that didn’t mean he could not have a wedding. He would give this to her, if nothing else—a proper wedding that hopefully she could remember with fondness.
“Ah, here she is,” said the priest, inching his pointed hat back on his head.
Gabriel looked at the man, confused, and realized he meant the bride had emerged. He would promise himself to her; he would rescue her and then desert her. In his gut, the pinch of a sharp thorn began to throb. Gabriel looked at the priest and looked at the sky. From somewhere to the side, Bartholomew began to strum the mandolin.
What am I doing? he thought.
Little girl laughter and snatches of conversation could be heard from the direction of the cottage.
“Come, come, Lady Ryan . . .”
“Bartholomew has begun the music . . .”
“No, Agnes, she wants her hair loose . . .”
Gabriel turned to the sound of the voices. Coming around the corner of the house, each hand pulled by one of his nieces, Ryan Daventry floated toward him. She wore a dress of deep magenta, the color of a stalk of foxglove. Her hair was long and flowing, with a crown of ivy and wildflowers ringing her head and streaming down her back. She looked to the girls, smiling and laughing, and Gabriel thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful in all his life. The pinch in his gut dug deeper.
She looked up and around, raising her eyebrows at Bartholomew and his instrument; she nodded to the grooms who’d staggered to stand, staring at her wide-eyed, clutching their hats to their chests. She smiled to Killian and Elise.
When, finally, she looked to him, she stumbled a little, pulled off balance by the girls—but locked onto him with a gaze so intense. It was her first time to look at him, to really look at him, since he’d held her beneath the wagon.
I’m sorry, he wanted to say.
I want you.
I did this for you.
I want you.
Stay.
These were the vows he wanted to make. This was what he wanted to tell her. When she reached his side and the little girls fluttered and spun to their parents, the priest began. Gabriel repeated the words after the priest, only changing one thing. His name.
“I, Gabriel Phillipe d’Orleans . . .” he said. Not Gabriel Rein.
It seemed less like a lie that way, and he did not want it to be a lie. He wanted it to be a wish. How long, he wondered, listening to her repeat her vows to him, had it been since he’d made some sort of wish? He’d stopped being afraid when he moved to the forest; started living on his own terms. But he’d also stopped hoping and dreaming and wishing. He existed.
Was this a foolish, unnecessary notion, he wondered. To wish?
Chapter Twenty-Three
“But you cannot leave so soon, Lady Ryan,” said little Marie Crewes. “You’ve married Uncle Gabriel and he must stay with the horses. Oyster will have her baby soon.”
Ryan stood over her open trunk, packing with Agnes. Although the wedding had been this morning and the Crewes’s dinner party was tonight, Mr. Soames could come at any time. He could come tomorrow. She would depart as soon as she’d met with him, no stalling to pack. Marie and Sofie Crewes sat on the foot of her bed, fingering the lace and crystals on the three dresses splayed out for her perusal. After she packed, Ryan would choose a dress to wear to dinner.
“I am loathe to leave you all,” Ryan said, smiling sadly at the little girl, “but I’ve sisters and a very sick father back at my home in Guernsey, and they need me. If your sisters and father needed you, you would go to them, wouldn’t you?”
“Well, my mother and Nanny look after my sisters and our father,” reported Marie thoughtfully.
Ryan smiled at this. She’d had a mother who looked after things once upon a time, too. In hindsight, it was reckless to put all the caregiving into the lap of one person; not only did it restrict that person, but what if she died? What then?
“What’s happened to Nanny?” Ryan asked, trying to change the subject.
“She has leaned too close to the fire and singed her eyebrows,” reported Marie.
“Ah yes. Well, there is no Nanny and no mother at Winscombe, so I must go, I’m afraid.”
“But when will you come back?” Marie asked.
“I’m not leaving tonight, so never you fear,” Ryan told the girls. “You’re selecting my dress, remember? When I do go, I’ve suggested to your parents that you might visit me. I live on an island, as I’ve said. How would you like to travel across the English Channel to a little island, to swim in the sea or stand on a cliff and watch ships come and go? We can awaken while it’s still dark and see the sun rise from the water like a creature emerging from the depths. What do you say to that?”
Ryan tried to make it sound as magical as possible, hoping to compel the Creweses to visit. She’d grown so very fond of this family; and now that the wedding had come and gone, she couldn’t envision herself returning to Mayapple. Gabriel had broken her heart with the beauty of the ceremony, with vows and the heartfelt look on his face. Wiltshire was simply too close to him. Ryan wasn’t certain she could survive her current broken heart; certainly she’d not survive having it broken again and again.
Her sole consolation was this: life as she knew it—her home, the independence, the lives of her sisters—was being restored. She’d achieved her goal in coming to mainland England. The only new piece would be her newly broken heart. It was better, she supposed, than not achieving her goal and also having a broken heart.
“But have your parents said you may meet Bartholomew’s classmate?” Ryan asked. “This dinner for him and his family is meant to be quite the affair, I believe.”
“We may not meet him,” Marie recited. “We must remain with Nanny from supper until bedtime and there are no exceptions to this rule. Even if Nanny dies.”
“Well, I should hope we aren’t called to test this rule. But never you fear, I’ll come and tell you good-night so you may see my gown. Can I rely upon you to give me your honest opinion about which dress to wear? I wouldn’t want Bartholomew’s friends to think of me as a bumpkin.”
“We will help you, Lady Ryan!” declared little Sofie. “You will not look like a pumpkin.”
Ryan was less concerned about her appearance and more concerned about keeping away from the stables. Chatting over a formal dinner with strangers was hardly how she’d wanted to pass her wedding night, but it was as good an excuse as any. She would not, could not, see Gabriel—not an accidental encounter and certainly not (God forbid) a moment of weakness where she sought him out. Gabriel had rejected her for the last time. He’d married her in a beautiful show of natural splendor, and when Elise had suggested that the family return to Mayapple and Ryan remain in the forest for the night, he had refused. He’d gotten a strange look on his face, and said he didn’t think that would be prudent. He said he would help dismantle the wedding arch and put away chairs and return to Mayapple after dark.
