Page 32 of The Heart’s Choice (Cotton Cops Mysteries #1)
Chapter 31
Holy Trinity
O n the eve of the wedding, Lucinda insisted Bea stay overnight in Philippa’s old room at Sandiford Manor. In her opinion, it was out of the question for a bride to travel all the way to Holy Trinity from the moor. Bea agreed, provided Glenda was allowed to accompany her. She sensed the maid would be terribly hurt if denied the opportunity to help prepare Bea for her wedding.
Lucinda decreed Roger and Bea not see each other that evening, but Roger sent a message that he was waiting in his study and wanted to kiss her goodnight.
He rose from his chair by the hearth when she entered. They clung together for long minutes. She tensed, sensing he had something on his mind.
“Come, sit by the fire,” he said, taking her hand. “I have a confession to make.”
Her legs suddenly felt like jelly, but she managed to walk to the chair. He stood in front of the fireplace, legs braced.
“You’re making me nervous,” she admitted.
“It’s not my intention, but there are things you should know about me before we marry.”
A thousand replies came to mind, but she deemed it preferable to remain silent and listen.
“I grew up in the slums of Bolton,” he said. “In a cellar dwelling like the Mann family.”
The news took her aback, but a dreadful start in life only made his success that much more impressive. “All the more justification for my admiration of what you’ve achieved.”
“That’s not all. I didn’t know my father. It’s likely I’m a bastard, though only Lucinda knows for sure. It has taken years of ruthless wheeling and dealing to get where I am. I will never be a gentleman.”
To her shame, Bea realized the toll her snobbishness had taken on him. He thought he wasn’t worthy of her. She rose and took his warm hands. “You have behaved in a gentlemanly manner since the first day I met you. I, on the other hand, judged you harshly because you were a tradesman, but I’ve learned a person’s worth has nothing to do with birth or rank. I am the one who must strive hard to be your equal.”
Shaking his head, he swallowed hard and put his arms around her. “I love you, Beatrice,” he sighed.
“As I love you, Roger.”
“Until tomorrow, my beautiful bride.”
They shared a loving kiss before she took her leave.
* * *
Bea was pleased when, shortly after dawn, her maid was part of the giddy contingent that brought her breakfast in bed. The other maids seemed happy to have Glenda as part of their teasing group.
Having enjoyed her lightly boiled eggs and toast, she had to admit that being pampered in the boudoir was a great pleasure. Moving to Sandiford Manor had its advantages. She suspected it wouldn’t be long before Lucinda made sure Belmont Grange had a fully functioning boudoir. Glenda would be pleased to be relieved of the responsibility of emptying pails of night soil. In Bolton itself, town council carts went round daily to pick up the pails, but on the moor, there was no such service.
Lucinda would have to get used to doing without the daily delivery of milk by the first-class milkman. At Sandiford Manor, the bowler-hatted milkman dispensed milk into a quart can hung near the tradesman’s entrance. Even the third-class milkman wouldn’t venture onto the moor.
On the other hand, Belmont Grange wouldn’t be bothered by the door-to-door hawkers—the rabbit seller with furry, dripping carcasses hanging from a pole over his shoulder; the muffin man with a green basket on his head; the fish hawker with his barrow and hopeful retinue of cats. Bea had all that to look forward to.
Luxuriating in the bath, she pondered Roger’s remark about his mother’s motives. She regretted the unfortunate scene her students had witnessed. They must have gleaned the impression she and Roger were fighting, especially when she blushed angrily and shoved him away. It wasn’t a memory to carry into the church. But what had he meant? Did he suspect his mother of having amorous intentions toward her father? Did Lucinda harbor ambitions of becoming a baroness?
Perhaps it was the soothing warmth of the bath or the chatter of the maids that brought her to the sudden realization she had no right to begrudge her father anything. If he wanted to take a second wife, who was she to deny him?
Lucinda’s abrupt arrival gave rise to second thoughts. Roger’s mother chivvied the maids, apparently determined to remain in the boudoir while an uncomfortably naked Bea was scrubbed dry. She supervised the seamstresses who came to help with the beautiful gown, chastising them for the least thing she deemed amiss with the frock. Poor Glenda couldn’t do a thing right when it came to styling Bea’s hair.
When Glenda finally suggested in plain Dorset terms that Mrs. Sandiford should leave off , Lucinda huffed and turned her attention to Bea’s shoes, which she insisted weren’t quite the correct shade of white to match the gown. “It’s all very well for brides nowadays to copy our dear Queen’s white wedding gown,” she sighed. “White isn’t a color that suits everyone.”
As a redhead, Bea knew very well which colors suited her, and white was one of them. Nobody was going to see her shoes in any case. “White is virginal,” she replied, embarrassed by the heat rising in her face when she thought of her wedding night—naked in a bed with Roger.
After much primping and pampering, Bea was finally declared ready by her future mother-in-law, who had by now changed into an elegant jacket and matching skirt of gray linen. It was tempting to remark on the welcome change from the unrelenting black bombazine, but Bea held her tongue.
Glenda assisted her to navigate the stairs down to the foyer where her father waited.
“You’re a vision, dear girl,” he said, as he offered his arm. “Be happy.”
* * *
Roger and Miles Smethurst stepped down from the brougham outside Holy Trinity. The driver understood without being told that his next duty was to return to Sandiford Manor and pick up Beatrice. Grinning broadly, he doffed his hat before directing the plumed grays to turn the festooned vehicle.
Roger looked up at the Gothic-style church tower, thankful for a cloudless sky.
Among the congratulatory crowd gathered by the entrance, he recognized many of his workers. He sensed their reluctance to enter. Most Lancashire working-class folk weren’t adherents of the Anglican faith, so he encouraged them to follow him into the church. “I’ll wager most will choose to sit on the bride’s side of the aisle,” he told Miles.
“Aye, think the world of Miss Parker, they do,” his best man agreed.
The pews seemed disappointingly empty, but Miles was right that they’d arrived early.
They went first to the vestry to assure the vicar all was proceeding as planned, then took their seats in the front pew.
“I suppose I should be nervous,” Roger confided. “Strangely, I’m not.”
“It’s a sign tha’s weddin’ the right woman, Master,” Miles replied. “And I’m honored to be tha best man.”
“There was a time I was jealous of you,” Roger confessed. “I thought you had feelings for Miss Parker.”
“Me?” Miles exclaimed, swiveling his head. “Nay. Anybody could see reet off she were meant fer thee.”
As the first subdued notes of organ music drifted to his ears, Roger pondered his overseer’s words. As soon as he set eyes on Beatrice Parker at Great Moor Street station, not too far from this very church, his heart and his body had told him she was the one. Preoccupied with business woes and the murder investigation, he just hadn’t listened well enough.
* * *
When she emerged from Sandiford Manor, Bea was greeted by rousing cheers from people she recognized as Roger’s workers, among them Bridget’s sister and father, as well as several of her young students. She’d come to respect these hard-working men and women. Often enduring intolerable living conditions, they were the life blood of Lancashire’s prosperity, and she was humbled by their affection for her.
After she was settled in the brougham, Glenda and her father assisted with stuffing the long train of her gown into the carriage. She’d have preferred a much simpler style, but Lucinda had insisted on the ostentatious design. Cocooned in yards of satin, Bea, her father, and Glenda set off for the church. Bea was pleased her lifelong maid was accompanying her to the most important event of her life. In many ways, Glenda had been more of a mother to her than Abigail Parker.
At Holy Trinity, getting her out of the carriage proved to be even more of a challenge for her companions. She’d wanted to appoint Glenda as her maid of honor, but Lucinda protested that choosing a servant was out of the question and Philippa was the obvious choice. Gowned in a bejeweled frock more suitable for a ball, Philippa stood in the doorway of the church, sporting her usual pout. She remained rooted to the spot, clearly having no intention of assisting her future sister-in-law. Frustrated, Bea’s spirits lifted when Meg Mann appeared to help Glenda. They kept Bea’s train from trailing on the mucky pathway. Tempted to ask them to carry the train all the way up the aisle, Bea nevertheless refrained. Philippa might cry off in a fit of pique and she’d never hear the end of it from Lucinda. This was Roger’s day as well as hers, so for his sake, she wouldn’t cause an uproar. But the experience confirmed what she’d learned during her time in Lancashire. Class and wealth didn’t determine a person’s worth.