“Gifford, I love you more than knitting, though to be honest, I love a lot of things more than I love knitting.
“I also love you more than being queen, which admittedly, I didn’t love a lot.
“I know I’m not inspiring much confidence at this point, but there’s something else I thought I’d bring up.” She lifted her eyes to him. “I love you more than I love books.”
Gifford laughed and leaned down to kiss her, but the priest cleared his throat. “Ring. Then more vows. Kissing comes last.”
Gifford heaved a melodramatic sigh and offered his hand. “Very well.”
Jane pulled a ring from the pocket sewn into her gown—the same ring she’d put on his finger during their first wedding, stashed in a drawer since that night. Now, she slipped it onto his finger and held her hand over his. “I give myself to you.”
“I receive you,” he whispered. And then, louder: “I know I said this last time, but this time, I mean it with my whole heart. I, Gifford Dudley, hereby declare my devotion to you. I swear to love you, protect you, be faithful to you, and make you the happiest woman in the world. My love for you is as deep as the ocean and as bright as the sun. I will protect you from every danger. I am blind to every woman but you. Your happiness is paramount in my heart.” He retrieved the matching ring and pushed it onto her finger. “I give myself to you, my Lady Jane.”
“I receive you.” Jane didn’t wait for instructions to kiss. She stood on her toes and wrapped her arms around her husband’s shoulders and kissed him as the guests clapped and clapped.
THIRTY
Gifford
What’s a wedding without the wedding night? Considering that their first wedding night ended with a heap of horse dung in the corner of their room, it wasn’t difficult to hope for something better this time.
And better it was, for G loved his lady, and his lady loved him.
And there were no secrets between them anymore, save one. G wanted to confess it to his lady before they commenced with the very special hug.
He asked Jane to sit next to him on the bed. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Go on,” Jane said.
G took her hand in his and traced his finger over the delicate skin of her arm. What she didn’t realize was that he was scrawling the words of a poem he had recently written. It was inspired by his lady and he had spent many long hours trying to find the words that adequately conveyed the feelings of his heart.
There were many false starts, because at first he tried to capture the moment a horse fell in love with a ferret.
Shall I compare thee to a barrel of apples?
Thou art more hairy, but sweeter inside.
Rough winds couldn’t keep me from taking you to chapel,
Where finally a horse would take a bride. . . .
And then he tried to wax poetic about the ferret alone. . . .
Shall I compare thee to a really large rat?
Thou art more longer, with less disease.
One would never mistake you for a listless cat . . .
Nor a filthy dog, because my dog has fleas.
He could never confess his passion for poetry with those paltry examples.
And then, at the second wedding, as G basked in the glow of Jane’s radiant smile, inspiration finally hit him, and after the feast he put quill to paper and wrote and wrote until he had it right.
“Tell me, my love.”
“You remember how I had a reputation? With . . . ladies?”
“Yes,” she said, eyeing him warily.
“The truth is, there were never any ladies, nor late night romps at houses of ill repute.”
His Jane looked confused. “Then where did all the stories come from?”
“There were late nights, but those nights consisted of . . .” His voice trailed off as his heart raced.
“Of what?” Jane said, her mind racing to all sorts of unsavory conclusions.
“P—” He started to say the word, but paused.
“Perversion?” Jane said.
“No.”
“Peculiar habits?”
“No. Well, one.”
“If you don’t tell me right away what it is, I will knit all of your clothes from now on,” she said, and she fully intended to follow through on her threat.
“Poetry,” G blurted out.
“Pardon me?” Jane said.
G climbed out of bed and stood at the foot. He pulled out the paper and began his recitation.