Ella
It’s been two months since I told Alasdair I didn’t want to wait to be married. Two months was the best he could do to push things along without offending my mother. If we had waited for her, we would still have to wait another month, possibly more. But we didn’t, and here I sit as Lady Ella Stewart, wife of Captain Alasdair Stewart.
Beatrice should be here any minute to help calm my nerves. I can’t thank her enough for coming with me to Alasdair’s London townhouse. As lovely and spacious as it is, it’s not the home I am accustomed to. Having her here makes it seem like everything will be all right now that I am married.
There it is again. That swirl in the middle of my stomach every time I think about walking down the aisle toward Alasdair. He was so striking I had to remind myself to breathe. There he was, a regal air about him, standing proudly before the many that came to witness our union, regardless of how it was forced upon us.
He chose to wear the formal attire of his homeland instead of his captain’s dress uniform. For whatever reason, that struck me as poignant, though I can’t say for certain why. Perhaps it is because I had never seen him wear a kilt, only the stylish breeches or pantaloons worn by every man in England, and I suppose the Lowlands of Scotland, as well. Or maybe it was because it reminded me of the vicious cut I left him with when we first met. Was that his way of letting me know he has not forgotten? Or was he showing everyone, especially me, that he is proud of his heritage, of his name, and that neither history nor prejudice will sway his true loyalty? Whatever his reason, he was more stunning than I had ever seen him before, and I must admit, his kilt—patterned in the red tartan of Clan Stewart—was a powerful statement that gave me an unexpected sense of pride.
His cravat and shirt were whiter than freshly fallen snow. They contrasted sharply against the pure black of his tailored vest and jacket that complimented the black thread crosshatching the bright red of the tartan. His hair was neatly pulled to the nape of his neck, eyes glowing against the warm darkness that is his coloring. I felt a jolt of girlish excitement just seeing him standing there, waiting for me.
Before my father and I had started the long, slow walk down the aisle—that poignant transition of leaving the only life I knew to a new one that is completely unknown—he held my hands and told me that he loved me, that he is proud of me, that he knew Alasdair will be a good husband, and that he will miss me more than words can say. We both cried—not so hard that it would be obvious to the crowd that had gathered beyond the ornate doors that kept us hidden, but more than we were able to hide from each other. He wiped away my tears, and I wiped away his. As the music changed, we took our deep breaths and followed the cue to make our way to the altar.
When my father offered my hand to Alasdair, he took it graciously, thanking him with a humble shyness. He stopped then, not caring that we had an audience, and said, “Ella, ye are a bride so lovely, I fear my heart will never be the same. I am a lucky man, and I will’na ever forget it.”
After the preacher delivered the numerous prayers and had us repeat our vows, committing ourselves to one another till death do us part, Alasdair asked for permission to say his own vows before family, friends, and God. He turned toward me with a slow smile spreading across his face.
My heartbeat fluttered as he began.
“Handfasting is an age-old tradition in Scotland. ’Tis a simple but meaningful ceremony where a man and woman stand before a holy man, hands held together, wrapped in a sacred cloth, and declare their intention to be wed in exactly one year and a day. When the time finally came, and they found themselves in front o’ the preacher again, he would give them a choice: did they want to marry, or did they want to call it off? After all, the couple may have found during that year that they could’na stand each other.” Soft laughter echoed around the massive hall. “Since you and I will’na have that choice, I am making a commitment to ye, here in front of God and witnesses.” He stops then to get down on one knee, taking both my hands in his, that beautiful face so striking in masculine perfection, eyes blazing with sincerity. “I vow to ye, Ella, that when a year and a day has passed from this day, ye will be happy, and ye will know we’ve made the right choice. And if I fail ye, an’ the sun does’na shine bright in yer heart fer the overbearing Scot ye find yerself married to, yer free to go, an’ I will’na stop ye.”
His words, the integrity with which he spoke them, and the unfeigned depth of his stare that left no doubt he spoke the truth made my stomach do flips inside me. I knew that Reverend Matthews and my parents were likely in a bit of shock at what Alasdair had just avowed in front of more than a hundred peers, but I could not stop the smile that spread across my own face. The sense of freedom overwhelmed me, but more than anything, I felt gratitude. He knew how much it meant to me to choose my own husband, a privilege stolen from me. But with that one noble statement, pronounced there, of all places, gave me back what I had believed would be mine for as long as I could remember. In doing so, Alasdair stole a little piece of my heart, right there at the altar, on the day we were wed.
“Thank you,” I whispered, too emotional to say more.
A light tap on the door startles me away from my thoughts.
“’Tis only me, dearie. How are you feeling?” The tenderness in Beatrice’s tone makes me nostalgic for a time far less complicated where I knew who I was and what was expected of me, and everything around me was familiar and comfortable.
“I’m fine. Well, as fine as can be expected,” I say with a huff of laughter.
“This is a nerve-wracking evening for all brides, but you’re one of the lucky ones. Not only is your husband as handsome as the day is long, but he’s also thoughtful of you and your needs, not just his own. The same can’t be said for most men.”
I smile because she speaks the truth, but also because my nervousness is based more on excitement than fear. “Is it improper of me to be looking forward to consummating my marriage?”
Beatrice’s plump form bounces with her laughter. “He is a fine specimen of a man, and after what you described finding in the conservatory, I can’t blame you for your eagerness. ’Tis going to be a special night, my dear.”
Even through the humor, I can sense the emotion she is experiencing as well. I’m like a daughter to her, and what I experience has an impact on her. The poignancy of it all has put a lump in my throat, but I refuse to let myself cry, especially tonight.
I jump up from my seat and twirl around to show off my nightgown and robe. Mother gave it to me a few days ago when she—very lamely—tried to educate me on my duties in the bedroom. It is the most luxurious silk I have ever felt, thin and smooth and soft like perfectly warm water without the wetness. The color is a soft white, and there is delicate lace trimming along the hem. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I wondered if my mother noticed it is somewhat transparent. The darkness of the tips of my breasts was provocatively apparent. Something about that made me feel more beautiful, the kind of beautiful I want to be tonight.
“You look lovely, Ella. Your husband is receiving a gift tonight, and this gown is a perfect reminder of its purity.” With that, she walks over and places her hands on my shoulders, eyes shining bright with emotion, “I love you more than words could ever justify, Ella dear. You have been the light of my life, and my heart is filled with joy and broken all at once. My sweet darling isn’t a child anymore, and though it is time to set you free to live as a woman and learn as a woman, it doesn’t mean I will not be here whenever and wherever you need me.”
“Beatrice! You sound as if you are leaving me. I thought you were going to stay with me as my lady’s maid” I grab onto her and hold her to me with all my strength. “Beatrice, are you staying? Please tell me you will stay.” My eyes are spilling over.
“Yes, dearie of course. I will always be here for you in whatever capacity you need. But everything changes for you today.” She stops to pull away and wipe away the fat tears she is all too familiar with. “You are the lady of your own house now. You have a husband who needs your attention and homes that need managing. I will be here, but you will be living a different life. And that is alright, it is wonderful—your duty—but it will never be the same as it was before. Your innocence will be gone, and our relationship will change with its passing. Yet, that does not mean I won’t miss that sweet little girl or that brazen adolescent or this anxious young woman.” Her hands squeeze harder on my arms. “All the stages of your life have made my life more joyful and meaningful than I could have ever wished for. I’ve had to adjust before, and I will adjust again as you enter this new stage, but for me, it represents a passing of time I wish I could slow down.”
Her smile forces the deepening of the wrinkles that fan out from her eyes, a visible reminder that her youth has long passed. “Well, now that I am married, there is a good chance I will be with child soon, and you get to start the whole process over again.”
Her eyes pop open, and her mouth forms a perfect circle in surprise. “Lord help me! Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.”
We both laugh, happy to shift to more jovial banter.
“Well, dearest, I should leave. Your husband has likely worn a path in his bedchamber floor by now.” My hand covers my mouth to hide a giggle. “I will stop there to let him know you are ready.”
I hug her tightly one more time, the girl in me not wanting to let go. “Thank you, Beatrice. I love you.”
“I love you more, Ella.” And she pats my face, her mouth quivering, and quickly turns to leave.