Page 34 of The Captain of Betrayal
"Heavens," Polly had nervously wiped perspiration from her top lip; why had nobody told her about this? Not even Olive, her closest confidant, had sat her down to explain the gore that would ensue once she said "I do".
"James is kind, though," Polly had protested in a feeble attempt to assuage her nerves. "I could not imagine that he would want to hurt anyone, he is a true gentle man, my Captain Black."
"He's a sailor?" Mrs Tarpy blessed herself several times, "Why they're the worst of the lot!"
"They are?"
"Aye," Mrs Tarpy's eye narrowed into a thoughtful frown. "Tell me this lass, have you a good fire-poker?"
That was how the conversation had ended and at Mrs Tarpy's insistence, Polly had packed the fire-poker from the drawing room into her trunk, so she would be well prepared for her scurrilous, sailor husband's demands on her wedding night.
Now, she was walking toward him, filled not with the joy she had anticipated, but rather a nervous dread that was threatening to overwhelm her. Polly focused on James' face, as she traversed the last few steps to the altar; his blue eyes were filled with kindness and love, his expression one of excitement.
He is your friend, Polly reminded herself sternly, not a salivating dog waiting to maul you.
When she reached James' side, she forced herself to take a deep breath, offering him a shy smile before turning to Mr Wilpole and waiting for him to begin the ceremony. As the vicar began to speak, she allowed his words to wash over her, his gentle, lilting voice a soothing balm to her frayed nerves.
It seemed to Polly, that almost as soon as he had started, Mr Wilpole was gesturing for the couple to face each other to exchange their vows. As they reached the part where they exchanged rings, James took out his mother's ring to place on Polly's finger, causing the vicar to let out a cry of excitement.
"Excuse me," Mr Wilpole blushed, as James turned to him questioningly. "Continue on..."
Under the watchful eyes of St Jarvis, Polly and James exchanged rings and promised to love and honour each other until parted by death. Polly could hear a few muffled sobs coming from the pews and from the corner of her eye, she was almost sure that she could see Mr Lawless loudly blowing his nose into a large handkerchief.
Then it was done, and Mr Wilpole was pronouncing them man and wife, and urging them forward to sign their names to the marriage register. It was during this moment of bureaucracy, while the congregation was chattering amongst themselves, their voices like a swarm of happy bees, that the vicar leaned forward to peer at the ring on Polly's finger.
"May I?" he asked and when Polly nodded her consent, he lifted her hand up so that he could examine the ring from a closer vantage point.
"Baroque," he said to himself with wonder, holding Polly's ring up so that it caught the light.
"It's not broken," James replied, looking at Polly in confusion, "Is it?"
"No, he meansbaroque," Polly explained patiently to her husband, "It's an artistic style which originated in the seventeenth century."
She fought back a giggle as James gave her a rather astonished look, but rather than divulging the source of her information, Polly turned back to the vicar, whose face was wreathed in a confused frown.
"Is something the matter, Mr Wilpole?" Polly asked, wishing to hurry him along, for the noise of the guests behind them had risen to a high crescendo. Polly had invited most of the village to the wedding breakfast to celebrate and she recognised the sound of hungry guests quickly growing impatient.
"It's just your ring, my dear," Mr Wilpole pushed his spectacles up his nose. His round face was rather flushed and he seemed very excited. "You see, I have seen this ring before. Just over thirty years ago, when I first arrived in St Jarvis, I married a young couple and the husband gave his new wife this exact ring."
"He did?"
Polly started at James' sharp tone; her new husband's eyes were narrowed and his mouth was a grim line at Mr Wilpole's observation.
"Yes; let me see if I can find their names," Mr Wilpole flicked through the pages of the marriage register quickly, letting out an exclamation as he found what he was looking for.
"Ah, here it is," the vicar proffered the register for James to read. "Flora Black and Horace Boris Livingstone; I remember wondering if perhaps the ring was stolen, for they were in such a rush to be wed. They were out the door almost the moment that I pronounced them joined."
James' mother had married the Earl of Ludlow? Polly felt rather faint and judging from the ghost-like pallor of her husband's skin, he was similarly affected by the news. His dazed expression was worrying and Polly could not quite understand it, until the penny dropped, and she realised what Mr Wilpole's revelation meant.
James Black was the rightful Earl of Ludlow.
Goodness, Polly thought, if he is an Earl, then that makes me a Countess. The idea was so ridiculous that she almost laughed, but she restrained herself somehow.
There had to be some kind of mistake, she reasoned, some reason why Flora Black had not spent her days living in luxury as Lady Livingstone. Perhaps the marriage had been invalid in some way, though what way that might be, she could not say. Mrs Black and the Earl had most certainly consummated their marriage, for if they had not, James would not be standing before her.
"Perhaps, vicar," James said, pulling Polly from the muddled thoughts which clouded her brain. "We can discuss this further, once everyone has left?"
Mr Wilpole looked up from the register, as though he had only remembered that there were other people gathered in the church with them.
