Page 58 of When She Was a Governess
They followed him to the vestry in a daze, Charlotte and Thomas coming with them as witnesses. Sophia signed her maiden name for the last time—Sophia Catherine Ashford—in the parish register. Then Henry signed beside her: Henry George Montrose.
“Congratulations, Lord and Lady Montrose,” the vicar said warmly.
Lady Montrose. She was Lady Montrose now.
They walked back through the church together. As husband and wife. The small congregation stood, smiling, as they passed. Amelia broke free from Lucy again and ran to them.
“Mama and Papa.” She jumped up and down. “You married.’
Henry scooped her up with his free arm, settling her on his hip. “Yes, we did. Are you happy?”
“Yes.” Amelia threw her arms around his neck, then reached for Sophia too, trying to hug them both at once. “Family now.”
“Yes, love.” Sophia fought tears. Joyful ones. “We’re a family now.”
They walked out of the church together—Henry, Sophia, and Amelia—into the gray March morning. The villagers erupted in cheers, tossing seeds and rice that fell like blessings on their heads.
Sophia looked up at Henry, at her husband, and found him already looking down at her. For one perfect moment, standing there with Amelia between them and the villagers cheering and the rice falling like snow, she let herself believe that maybe, someday, this could be real. That maybe he could love her the way she loved him. That maybe their fairy tale could have a happy ending after all.
Chapter Thirteen
In the carriageride home from the wedding ceremony, Henry glanced over at his bride. She sat quietly, her hands clasped in her lap. Was he correct in thinking she seemed sad? Did she regret the marriage already? He had to know how she felt about him before they stepped out of the carriage and into the celebration.
Henry reached into his coat pocket. “Before we arrive, I have a wedding gift for you.”
He pulled out a small leather-bound volume, its cover tooled in gold.
She drew in a deep breath. “Shakespeare’s Sonnets. Henry, it is the perfect wedding gift. Thank you.”
“It’s a first edition, 1609.” He watched her fingers trace the gold lettering reverently. “The sonnets seemed appropriate for our wedding day. I’ve bookmarked one for our ride home.”
She opened it carefully to the sonnet he’d chosen. “Sonnet 116. My favorite. How did you know?”
His chest warmed. “I didn’t. But it is mine as well.”
She handed him the book. “Read it to me, please.”
He read it as best he could, fighting to keep his emotions from spilling all over the page.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments; Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
