Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

WITH PATIENCE

T wice, they stopped on their way to Scotland to change horses, stretch their legs and have a quick meal. Their coachman knew precisely where to go, and at every stop, it seemed that they had been awaited, everything prepared for them. Charles smiled, thinking of his mother, amazed by her thoroughness.

By the time they finally arrived in Gretna Green, it was already dark outside. The night was frosty and still as the carriage rattled its way into the village. The moon glowed in the night sky, illuminating their path and casting a gentle silver light over the countryside. The sound of an owl hooting in the distance filled the air, its ancient call echoing through the trees.

Gretna Green was nestled in a valley, surrounded by soft rolling hills and lush forests. The cottages and farmhouses were scattered irregularly, but it was still clear that the village was designed around a central square. As they drew closer, Charles could see many of the shutters were closed and smoke rose from some of the chimneys.

The horses slowed to a trot as they approached the village square, stirring up a cloud of dust in their wake. In front of the blacksmith's shop, the coachman drew their carriage to a halt before he jumped down to open the door for them.

Charles gazed across at his future wife, her face still, her eyes unblinking as she stared out the window. "Are you ready?" Charles asked gently.

Swallowing hard, Beatrice nodded. Then she met his gaze, the corners of her mouth curled upward in a brave smile. Her hands shook as she brushed them over her skirts, clearly seeking something to occupy them.

Charles could not deny that his own pulse had quickened, and he knew that lingering here would do neither of them any good. No, they had made their choice, and now, they needed to see it through. Without another moment of hesitation, he disembarked from the carriage and then held out his hand to Beatrice, an encouraging smile upon his face.

Beatrice followed him outside, turning her head to take in the peaceful atmosphere of the small village. Looking over his shoulder, Charles spotted the inn, laughter echoing out the door whenever it opened to allow another visitor in. Later , Charles thought. First, they needed to be married.

Stepping into the blacksmith's shop, Charles was not surprised to find the man ready for them. Everything was cast in shadow, a fire burning nearby, as the man gestured them forward, a heavy leather apron still tied around his neck. "Ye be Charles Beaumont and Beatrice Hartley?"

Charles nodded, and he felt Beatrice's hand tense upon his arm. He barely dared look at her, afraid that at the last moment she might change her mind.

The blacksmith wasted no time, words pouring from his mouth. Charles barely managed to follow them, catching one here and there, his thoughts taken in by the quietly trembling woman by his side. Was he making a mistake? Was he all but forcing her into this marriage? Yet what would be the alternative?

"I do."

Beatrice's softly spoken words startled Charles, and before he had a moment to comprehend them, the very same question was put to him. His own I do followed swiftly, and then the blacksmith proclaimed them husband and wife.

Charles was overwhelmed and from the look of it, so was his bride. Everything had happened so fast that neither their minds nor their hearts had any chance of catching up. Perhaps that was the true purpose of rituals and ceremonies, to ease into change and not be dropped headlong into it. To make it feel real and true.

The blacksmith pointed them toward the inn, and Charles noticed that Beatrice seemed a bit uneasy as they went. Her fingers clutched hold of his sleeve, her grip never loosening. "Are you all right?"

She cast a tentative smile at him. "I suppose so."

"It is the strangest feeling, is it not?" He frowned, shaking his head. "I am now a husband." He scoffed, grinning at her. "Does it feel real to you?"

Another tentative smile appeared upon her face. "Not quite. I cannot help but feel as though… this is a play, and I am merely acting out a part."

Charles nodded. "That is indeed a fitting description," he remarked with a chuckle. He sighed. "I'm famished. What of you?"

Beatrice nodded, the hand that rested upon his arm no longer gripping it tightly. "I suppose I could eat." She smiled at him.

Stepping into the inn together, Charles approached the proprietor and quickly learned that the grandest room in this modest establishment had been reserved for them. He could not deny a tingle of nervousness when he thought of his wedding night. Certainly, it would not be a true wedding night. It was much too soon for that. Yet the implications of a true wedding night lingered. Charles could see it Beatrice's gaze. Perhaps they ought to speak about what would happen next, yet it was an awkward topic, and he did not quite know how to broach it.

Without speaking a word, they followed a maid up the stairs and down the corridor toward their chamber. When the door swung open, Charles breathed a sigh of relief to see that it had two beds. Indeed, he saw the same relief upon his wife's face as she looked at him with questioning eyes.

"Do you mind sharing a room with me?" Charles asked quietly as the maid bustled about the chamber, filling the water pitcher and righting the beds.

Beatrice cast him a shy smile. "I do not," she replied, and he knew she was relieved to have a bed to herself this night. How his mother sometimes knew precisely what was needed was beyond Charles. Indeed, it had been the right gesture, saving him from an awkward conversation.

Still, he wished to put all Beatrice's concerns to bed, and as she made to step farther into the chamber, he held out his arm, his fingers touching her hand. She turned back to look at him, and he met her gaze, his voice once more dropping to a whisper. "This is a marriage of equals," he murmured, leaning a little closer, "and it shall always be. My wishes are no more important than yours, and hopefully together, we shall find some middle ground. Do you agree?"

In that moment, Beatrice's blue eyes glowed, the smile upon her face utterly overwhelming. "Yes, I agree," she breathed, her voice only a whisper.

"Yet, this is our wedding night," Charles added with a grin, "and it's supposed to be memorable, is it not?"

Beatrice stilled, uncertainty again in her gaze. Yet there was trust there as well, and Charles was glad for it.

"Stay here and wash up if you wish," Charles said to her, following the maid out the door. "I shall procure us a feast worthy of this day." He winked at her, delighting in the smile that came to her face, and then closed the door behind him. Yes, he loved her smile, and he promised himself that one day it would be the kind of smile that spoke of unadulterated happiness.

While Charles could not deny that he was curious to hold her and kiss her, he could wait. They had their whole lives ahead of them, and more than anything, he wanted to conquer her heart. He wanted what his parents had. He wanted his wife's heart to belong to him, just as she possessed his. He wanted a great many things, and the only way to be granted them was through patience as well as respect and kindness.

As he ventured downstairs, Charles chuckled. After all, if there was one thing Charles knew how to do, it was how to be patient. Indeed, this challenge had been made for him.