Illusion. Emily French
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a thought into her brain.
Had she made a terrible miscalculation?
The silence was becoming more than a little frightening when he looked up suddenly, his decision made.
“Fair enough. I have no objection. If you accept that I reserve the right to try to influence your decisions, you have a deal,” he agreed easily.
The small victory banished Sophy’s apprehension. Once again she felt in charge of the situation. The notion was strangely satisfying. Sufficient for her to proceed recklessly.
“As my wedding gift, Mr. Weston, I intend handing over my father’s entire estate to you. It is not insubstantial and will make the payment of your debts infinitely easier and any plans for expansion less troublesome. Unless you have any objections, I shall retain only those assets and funds I have acquired through my own endeavours.”
Seth gritted his teeth, reached for the cane and started to get to his feet. And he had thought she was vulnerable, a target for fortune hunters like himself!
An uneasy shiver feathered his spine and he shook his head. He had a gut feeling she was not going to be the biddable, obedient wife Matt Tyson had promised.
“The idea of a wife who drives a hard bargain intrigues me, Sophy van Houten.” He slanted her a deliberate glance. “It’s going to be interesting being married to you.”
He had never envisaged that married life was going to be a pleasant experience, not by any stretch of the imagination. The point to recognize was that Sophy van Houten was only a woman, and an unseasoned little squab at that.
He had merely to show her who was in charge, and all would be well. Seth Weston was a man used to giving orders, and to seeing them obeyed.
Time enough after they were married to bring her to heel. He had other things to do today. He was going to visit Wall Street and give a certain banker a small but hopefully salutary piece of his mind.
Sophy’s eyes were bright and steady with exhilaration as the door closed behind him. Every hope she had ever held was blossoming afresh.
Her prayers were answered. All she had ever wanted was within her grasp. A small voice within her whispered, Be careful not to ask for what you want. You just might get it.
It spun through her mind that, if she were wise, she would leap up and run from this marriage as if the yawning pits of hell gaped at her feet. But Sophy knew how often the gamble was worth the risk.
The game was never lost till won.
The day of the wedding was one of October’s smiling ones, still and unseasonable, almost warm. There was the feel of a gentle determination in the air, of tenacious life, a movement, a subtle tremor of restless nature, beneath a shining sun. The curtains were pulled back from the bowshaped windows, letting the light spill into the dressing room.
Standing in front of the long mirror, Sophy gave her hair a final pat, and her delicately arched brows pulled together in a frown. Would she be a disappointment as a wife to Seth Weston? He had made it perfectly clear it was only her coin he wanted. It wouldn’t have mattered if she were a hunchback with four eyes, her wealth was attractive.
There was no reason for her to feel as strangely unhappy and uneasy as she did. After all, she had agreed to the wedding bargain. Her only doubts lay with the unknown quantity of Seth Weston and her growing awareness of him as a man. Sophy touched the tip of her tongue to her lower lip, suddenly nervous.
Her maid gave a knowing grin. “Now, don’t ye be fretting over something that hasn’t happened yet. Things have a way of working out.” Giving Sophy a caress on the cheek, Tessa adjusted Sophy’s cap.
Sophy had finally settled upon black silk and lace for her wedding attire and a small cap, black, embroidered, with just enough veil to suggest the bride.
“I guess you’re right, Tessa,” she conceded. She wished she had asked Aunt Ella about the intimacies of marriage, but she had not wanted to embarrass her straitlaced aunt.
“Have you never wished to marry, Tessa?”
“Nay, lass. My clan were poor. From the day I arrived in America, I belonged to Nicholas van Houten and his bonny lassie. They were all the kin I ever needed, just as yon man will be your life.”
Sophy stood helplessly. A thousand thoughts possessed her, none of them rational enough to voice.
Seth Weston...
She had not seen her fiancé at all during the two weeks preceding the wedding. Only a brief message with Matt Tyson to say the marriage contract had been drawn up, and, if it fulfilled all her conditions, would she please sign as necessary.
There had been other callers, including her two uncles and her cousin. Uncle Schuyler had seemed relieved that he would soon be able to discharge his final task as trustee. Her mother’s brother had never wanted such a responsibility in the first place. Sophy, with her independent ways, made him uncomfortable, but he was determined to do the right thing by his niece.
He had pompously declared Seth Weston to be a man of excellent character, who would safely see to Sophy’s welfare. He had also sadly reflected that it would have been more seemly if dear Sophy had respected the customary period of mourning before committing herself to marriage, and left.
Sophy had a sneaking suspicion that Uncle Schuyler was secretly impressed that Seth had survived the bloody battle of Gettysburg and still remained a respected textile manufacturer.
While Uncle Heinrich wished her well, he also considered the haste unseemly. Did she not feel the weight of remorse? he asked trenchantly. Did her conscience not trouble her?
A pained expression on his face, he closed his eyes, muttered a prayer for forgiveness, then made the caustic observation that Seth Weston would regret tying himself to such a willful baggage.
But Uncle Heinrich also felt under obligation to see that his brother’s daughter was married well, and pronounced Seth to be a man of honor who had fought bravely for the Union. Any man who could control a regiment of soldiers should be able to control one small woman.
It was left to Cousin Pieter to ask her bluntly if she loved Seth. Sophy flushed, unable to reply. Pieter believed in the cause of freedom, not only for black slaves, but for women. What could she say now?
That love was an illusion, cut to the measure of one’s own desire? That her desire was for independence, not love? That she was desperate for freedom? That Seth Weston was willing to give that freedom to her?
Pieter’s eyes had narrowed with suspicion. Sophy gulped, gnawed at her bottom lip, trying to figure out how she could distract Pieter’s thoughtful attention.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned since Father’s death, Pieter, it’s that I don’t want my life the way it was. I want more,” she ground out, her throat tight with tension. “I’ll make Seth a good wife if it kills me,” she vowed, “or if he doesn’t kill me first!”
The sound of church bells, ringing as clear and crisp as the autumn sky overhead, accompanied Sophy as she entered the sacristy of the old church at Sleepy Hollow.
Sophy had difficulty in concentrating on the service. She thought it might have something to do with the potion Aunt Ella had given her earlier to quell the butterflies in her stomach.
As she entered the church on her uncle’s arm, her whole being was concentrated on the man waiting at the altar.
Seth Weston...
It was quite remarkable; she knew without looking up the very moment he turned his head to look at her, and felt his start of surprise. At the last moment, she had impulsively plucked some late-blooming roses and pinned them to her cap. A novel touch. Incongruous. Defiant.
The wreath of vivid red roses lent a sweet, pungent scent to the air as she stood before the pastor and prayed for God’s blessing on the marriage. The minister opened his book and began to address the congregation.
“We