A Bride for the Prizefighter - Alice Coldbreath Page 0,11
spun around in confusion, until someone caught her elbow.
“This way,” a gruff voice said and strangely enough, Mina felt herself relax for she recognized who this was. It was quite unmistakable. Nye marched her up to the front of the church, not relinquishing his firm hold of her elbow for an instant.
“’Old up Will Nye,” Mina heard Effie cry out. “She ain’t got nuffink new!”
“Give her a shiny sixpence for her shoe!” someone else suggested. Mina heard the chinking of people checking their pockets. “I’d better get it back,” she heard someone grumble. “Here!”
“Take off your shoe,” Nye rumbled impatiently, close to her ear.
Mina stood up straighter. “I can’t—”
He swore and the next thing she knew, his large hand had seized her ankle and was forcibly removing her shoe. Mina let out a small yelp as he then forced her foot, none too gently back into it. She could now feel the intrusive sixpence against the ball of her foot. Indignation swelled in her breast and rather imprudently she drew in a large breath, only to be overwhelmed by the scent from the scarf.
Lifting the edge of the veil, she had the presence of mind to bring the fresh wildflower posy under her nose and take a large gulp of that to dispel the fug.
Someone in front of them cleared their throat. “I will require your full names, please and the place of your birth,” requested a ponderous voice Mina guessed must be that of the clergyman.
“William James Nye of this parish.”
He squeezed her elbow and Mina lowered the flowers to speak, “Minerva Walters of Castle Combe in Wiltshire,” she choked out, then sneezed.
Mina heard a pen scratch over paper as their dates of birth were duly recorded and the names of their parents.
“Do you solemnly swear there exists no just impediment to your marriage?”
They both swore and then the vicar’s voice rose querulously. “Whoso giveth away this woman in holy matrimony?”
“I do,” her half-brother’s voice rang out with self-importance and Mina heard his hasty step approach. “Let the record show Jeremy Vance, fifth Viscount Faris,” he proclaimed.
The ceremony proceeded and Mina concentrated on surreptitiously lifting her veil to get a gasp of fresh air when she could. The church was lit only by a few candles and added to the overall impression of murky gloom. Afterward, she could not have described the interior of the little church, not for a hundred pound. She could see though that it was a far more rural affair than the austere limestone one she was used to attending in Bath. St Stephens had painted ceilings, a wide chancel, and an extensive vestry whereas this poky church seemed more like a cave. With a start, she realized their vows had ended.
“Give ‘er a kiss then, Nye!” called out a raucous voice.
“Fuck off, Jeb,” came her new husband’s surly reply, as he turned away and stalked back down the aisle, leaving her open-mouthed and deeply shocked at his profanity in a sacred place. The congregation, such as it was erupted into hilarity, as though for all the world he had uttered some grand jest. Mina turned back toward the vicar with flaming cheeks, but Reverend Ryland was feigning a deaf ear as he fussily moved his bookmark and closed his Bible.
“Good luck to you, madam,” he said with pursed lips, casting his eyes heavenward.
“She’ll need more than luck,” Jeremy predicted with a short laugh. The place was rapidly emptying now as people jostled and bustled out of the pews, almost falling over each other in their haste to follow the bridegroom back out of the church.
Mina whirled around, glared at her half-brother, and then started hastily back up the aisle. What was she supposed to do? Where was she supposed to go? She only knew one certainty and that was that she was being left behind. She had only managed a few steps when she stumbled over her own unfastened shoe, as her stockinged foot came out of it. She had to grab at the back of a nearby wooden pew to stop herself from tumbling into a heap on the floor.
Suppressing a sob, Mina cast down her posy of flowers and tore the shabby veil from her head. She would not cry, not in front of this ill-bred rabble. Sinking down onto the floor, she made a grab for her shoe and pulled it on, as the silver sixpence fell out.
“Come now,” came Lord Faris’s mocking voice. “Don’t tell me the erstwhile schoolmistress is