Camera flashes go off like crazy. I’ve just unintentionally given The Firm its banner pre-wedding publicity moment, and almost laugh at the irony of providing the very best headline right before the very worst. As Stout pulls me away, I pause to take in the immensity of this, that rare species of mob that is entirely loving and positive. I’m so sorry, I say silently, before waving what might be my final good-bye and riding the swell of their good cheer through the doors.
Westminster Abbey is a transcendent, transporting place, all soaring stone arches and marble columns, capped with fan vaulting a distant hundred feet above our heads (which is, somehow, still only a fraction of the aisle that I’ll walk). Right now, men in bright yellow work vests lug flowering shrubs inside, which will be blessed and replanted in public parks on Sunday, and the juxtaposition is so unexpected that it looks like a movie set. The greenery was Nick’s suggestion. In fact, his return had given the entire creative team a jolt of inspiration, like finally finding the missing piece to our jigsaw puzzle and tapping it in place with glee. After a desperate and lonely year, the last four months passed in a giddy breeze.
Until this morning.
I hear a loud sniffle. Gaz is walking toward me, blotting his face with a hanky.
“Just a little emotional. Nothing I can’t handle tomorrow,” he says, patting my arm in a fatherly way, as if getting into the spirit of his role. “You look lovely, Future Duchess, but no offense, you cannot hold a candle to your sexy matron of honor.”
“I reckon the words sexy and matron don’t get paired up often,” Cilla says from behind me, taking Adelaide’s freesias and giving her husband a peck.
“They will now,” he says. “Can’t I be called man of honor in the program, if I’m giving away the bride and married to the matron?”
“We printed it up in Garamond, isn’t that enough?” she teases.
Suddenly, the roar of the crowd trickles in again as the Abbey doors open.
“Right, everyone’s here, let’s get on with it,” Marj says.
I swivel around to see her and Nick and Freddie. We are only rehearsing our part, as the rest of our families have roles that mostly come down to their drivers and styling teams staying on schedule. Nick looks flushed and self-conscious, even tense, as he always does after the dog-and-pony-show part of his job. He’s in rolled-up shirtsleeves and navy pants—his frequent uniform, approachably debonair—and after all these years, even knowing that I’m going to have a catastrophic conversation with him later, the sight of Nick still makes my heart swell against my ribs. Slipping back into our cozy trio with Freddie has been both easier and harder than I thought—easier because Freddie and I love Nick, and don’t love each other; harder because we feel the burden of proving, even to an unknowing Nick, that everything is normal.
“The bride and groom! What an honor,” says the Dean of Westminster, approaching in my periphery. As he crosses the nave, he and Nick reach me simultaneously.
“Hi,” I whisper.
Nick gives me what can only be described as a perfunctory bump that involves less lip than it does his own cheek grazing mine. When we break away, he is staring elsewhere, and a glance behind me shows that Freddie’s own jaw is clenched and his gaze is locked straight ahead of him. I realize with a sinking feeling that I have misread Nick’s expression. He is not tense from the crowd, nor his shyness, nor nerves.
He knows.
Chapter Two
Your Highness, sir, are you in place at the altar?” the Dean of Westminster shouts.
We hear Nick’s faint call of assent.
“Need a walkie-talkie in this old heap, eh?” the dean says, winking and clapping merrily. “Right! Let’s get cracking. Rebecca, you’ll be greeted here by me and the Archbishop of Canterbury for a little chitchat, how’d you sleep, did you eat your brekkie, while everyone gets your skirts in order. The archbish loves a spot of marmalade in the a.m. so file that away for easy small talk. And then you and your, er…”
He cocks his head at Gaz.
“Her man of honor,” Gaz says hopefully.
“Her distinguished escort,” Cilla corrects him.
“Quite right. The distinguished Mr. Bates will take Miss Porter around the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, like so, careful not to molest the poppies, and then bang on up the aisle for a bit past the cheap seats. Steady, that’s right. We’ll be at this for about five minutes so I hope you wear your trainers tomorrow, eh?”
He chuckles, thrilling to this. We stare at the dean’s back, following diligently and practicing the walking cadence, as he drones on about the history of the Abbey and the “O Rare Ben Jonson” stone on the floor. (Legend has it that when the poet qualified for burial there, he couldn’t afford the square footage of a proper plot, so he bought one tile and had himself interred standing up.) After a minute of holding our joined hands at chest height, Gaz’s arm trembles.
“A bit achy on the muscles, this,” he says. “I should make man of honor exercise routines. I’ll make a fortune.”
“Right,” I say absently.
“Oi, what’s the matter?” he whispers. “Nick was as grim as a reaper when he came in.”
“I messed up, Gaz.”
“How bad?”
“Really bad.”
“Cancel-the-wedding bad?” he asks jovially. “Shag-the-groom’s-brother bad?”
I stiffen. Gaz grips my hand so tight I want to yelp. “I will neuter that git,” he hisses as we reach the gilded, semi-enclosed Quire.
“Children’s voices raised in song, the swell of anticipation of seeing His Highness, magical feelings, you get the idea,” the dean calls to us, waving his hands as if he’s conducting the choir himself.
“No! No shagging,” I insist. “But it’s complicated.”
I can see Nick ahead, over the dean’s shoulder, and feel my throat threatening to close.
“Just please don’t hate me later,” I plead. “And, please, do not trust Clive.”
Gaz side-eyes me with surprise. The rest of the way, I try that old trick of floating above myself to take in as much of this as possible, in case the dry run is the only run. But fear and dread root me to the ground, small and scared in this towering place where countless reigns and love stories have begun and ended. Gaz deposits me next to Nick. The air is thick.
“Right, then the archbish and I get to go all scold-y on you about marriage being a Holy Estate, don’t be wanton, blah blah blah,” the dean says, turning to face me and Nick with a dramatic swoosh. “Then we dish out some pressure to sprog up with some heirs, and then it’s my favorite bit, ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, where we look jolly mean and ask if anyone thinks you should call it off, and everyone hopes nobody’s exes had a tipple before the ceremony.”
When Nick and I don’t laugh immediately, Gaz offers a loud guffaw, which kicks everyone else into gear. The dean looks elated, until he spies the tear escaping down my cheek.
“That’s right, dear, let yourself be moved, that’s why we rehearse,” he says kindly.
Nick does not even look at me.
*