Emily French - Illusion

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 are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in the bonds of holy matrimony....”

Seth was conscious of the slight figure standing at his side. Whoever heard of a bride wearing mourning black—and red roses? Not exactly proper. In fact, downright unconventional! Like a reflection on water, his first impressions of Sophy were beginning to waver.

That sort of picture did tend to ignore the small irregularities. A dangerous mistake. Although it was only a tiny error in the mental image of her that he had fashioned, it bothered Seth.

A seasoned campaigner, he knew little mistakes, small pieces missing in the puzzle, could lead to much bigger and more dangerous miscalculations. There were still too many unknowns in the mystery that was Sophy van Houten.

No. Sophy Weston. He made a quick adjustment in his mental construct of his bride. His bride. Hell, what on earth was he doing here? It was too late now to get out of it, but he had a feeling that someone had set a trap for him and he had fallen into it.

“Wilt thou take this man to be thy wedded husband... for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer... in sickness and in health... to love, honor and obey... ?”

Confusion and a strange kind of fear thudded with Sophy’s heart, which was pumping in quite an uncertain manner. As Seth’s fingers closed over hers, her insides churned and she felt a deep throbbing wave of excitement. It was startling and disturbing to react as strongly as this to his touch.

I shouldn’t be here, she thought, staring blindly at the preacher. She knew nothing of love, so it wasn’t so bad that they didn’t love each other. Seth was marryring for security and she was making a respectable bargain, the kind many women in her position struck. It was just that she felt uneasy. Besides, it was too late now to change her mind.

Sophy felt a moment of panic, and her throat was so tight that the “I will” demanded of her would hardly come out.

There! It was done! She was married to Seth Weston.

Seth Weston...

He stood beside her, in stiff military style, a soldier girded for battle. She heard his responses, firm, strong and, in some way, completely impersonal.

Somehow, that bothered her. An unaccountable tension gripped her. She felt as though she were standing on the brink of a very wide, very deep chasm.

“—what God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

Lost in thought, Sophy scarcely realized the ceremony had concluded. Seth, too, stood as if made of stone, not moving, staring into space. The silence was awkward.

Finally, Cousin Pieter, who had acted as groomsman, gestured toward Sophy. “Go ahead and kiss the bride, Seth.”

Sophy was overwhelmingly conscious of the tall, powerful figure at her side. Face aflame, she forced herself to meet her husband’s eyes. A quickening shivered through her middle. She attempted a smile, but her mouth felt soft, tremulous.

The deep glow in his eyes was suddenly so intense that she was forced to look away or be scorched by the heat. Why was he looking at her that way? It was vaguely unnerving, and it took a great deal of courage not to step back. Instead, her small, pointed chin rose in challenge.

Seth paled considerably. He drew in his breath sharply, and his eyes blazed with the sizzling heat of a lightning bolt. Then he appeared to reach a decision. Sophy had the feeling that he always made decisions that way, quickly and surely.

What would it be like to be kissed by him? Sophy’s eyes widened. She knew he was going to kiss her, and she knew she wanted him to.

Yet, at the same time, she felt trapped, unnerved by the strange feelings coursing through her. The quickening rippled outward from her belly, into her limbs.

I can’t, she thought in panic. She sucked in a quick breath, and turned her head sideways. Seth’s breath was soft and warm in her ear and she felt chills on her arms as his moist lips landed just above her earlobe.

Sophy could see the sudden flush on his cheekbones, and his blue eyes seemed to see right through her head. Crystal eyes, frost eyes. And they were filled with a brilliance that subtly invaded her being, causing her to shiver, to remember that her first impression of him had told her that he could be a dangerous man.

She watched Seth’s mouth draw downward, his weight shift to one hip, heard his intake of breath, which mocked her.

“I beg your forgiveness, Mrs. Weston. My aim is not what it was.” There was something slightly contemptuous, or was it scorn, in his tone? She looked up at him and saw in his eyes an almost blazing anger that was quite unmistakable.