Chapter 3: The Wedding Night

So, the two families exchanged birth date cards and finished the engagement.

It happened fast after that. There were phone calls, visits, and a flurry of invitations. My sisters fussed over my hair, and my brothers teased me about moving up in the world.

Mrs. Whitmore handled everything in style. She didn’t look down on me for coming from a modest background; all the engagement gifts were top-notch—even the wild geese were alive, honking up a storm in our backyard.

I’d never seen so many fancy boxes stacked in our living room. It looked like Christmas, only fancier. There were chocolates from New York, linens from Boston, and a pair of geese that honked all night until Dad finally moved them to the barn.

On the wedding day, the Whitmore house was decked out in white and gold, full of flowers, with relatives and friends everywhere. After all, it was the only son’s wedding—they couldn’t do it halfway.

There were tulips on every table, a jazz quartet in the corner, and the smell of roast beef drifting from the kitchen. Folks came from all over the county, dressed in their Sunday best. I’d never felt so important—or so nervous.

That night, at the magic hour for the wedding suite, Nathaniel was actually pushed in, hands tied behind his back.

He stumbled through the doorway, cheeks flushed, muttering curses under his breath. Honestly, he looked like a hostage.

"Let me go! You crazy people! Let me go!"

His voice carried down the hallway, and I heard someone snicker behind the door.

"I told you, I won’t get married! I don’t want to get married! How dare you shove me! Just wait!"

He sounded like a kid who’d been forced to eat his vegetables. I almost felt sorry for him—almost.

All the staff kept their heads down, pretending not to hear Nathaniel’s shouting.

They moved around us quietly, setting out champagne and pastries as if nothing unusual was happening. I caught the eye of one maid, who gave me a sympathetic smile before slipping out.

Even the wedding attendant tactfully lifted my veil for Nathaniel and made him drink a cup of champagne.

She did it with a practiced hand, like she’d done this a hundred times before. Nathaniel glared at her, but she only patted his shoulder and whispered something I couldn’t hear.

"Mmm, I won’t drink! Let go of me! Ugh!"

He tried to turn his head, but the attendant held firm. I had to bite my lip to keep from giggling. Poor guy.

Well, the champagne was down.

He coughed and sputtered, but in the end, he swallowed it all. The attendant gave me a little wink as she handed me my glass.

Once we’d both had our drinks, the wedding attendant bowed, gave me a meaningful look, and left.

The room felt strangely quiet after she was gone, the only sound the ticking of the antique clock on the mantel.

I thought I’d heard they slipped something into the champagne.

The kind that makes a man eager to start a family.

It was one of those old wives’ tales you hear at bridal showers—something about honey and herbs. I wasn’t sure I believed it, but the way Nathaniel’s cheeks flushed made me wonder.

Poor Nathaniel—he really was getting the short end of the stick.

I almost felt bad for him, but then again, I hadn’t exactly volunteered for this either.

Once everyone left, it was just my husband and me, staring at each other.

The silence stretched between us, thick and awkward. I could hear my own heartbeat, loud in my ears.

And only then did I see my husband clearly for the first time.