The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [110]
“Do you have any witnesses?” he asked. “Guests?”
“Could you provide witnesses? In this weather our guests could be another half-hour.”
“No,” I exclaimed. “Nell would never forgive us if she missed our wedding.” Turning to Mr. Muir, I asked if we could wait a few minutes.
“Of course,” he said. “We’ve no one else coming, and it’s a dreich day.”
He retreated to his office, the secretary returned to her typing, and Hugh began to measure out the small hall with his impatient stride. “The old women of Hoy say it’s bad luck to delay a wedding,” he said. “Please, Gemma, let’s go ahead.”
For five more minutes I stood firm. Then, reluctantly, I took off my coat, and we summoned Mr. Muir; the secretary and a woman from the next office would be our witnesses. Mr. Muir had just begun to speak—“Good morning. We are gathered here”—when the door opened. Seamus barged into the room, followed by Vicky and Nell. I turned to give Nell a quick smile. When I turned back, Seamus, in his battered jacket and muddy trousers, was standing in front of us, beside Mr. Muir. Like Miriam’s father years ago he carried with him the smell of the farmyard.
“If I can’t have what I want,” he said, his eyes fixed on Mr. Sinclair, “I don’t see why you should have what you want.”
I felt Mr. Sinclair—the name “Hugh” had fled—grip my hand. “Keep going,” he said to Mr. Muir.
Seamus turned his metallic eyes on me. “Do you know who you’re marrying?”
“Hugh Sinclair of Blackbird Hall.”
Seamus put his hand on his chest and gave a little bow. “At your service. It suits him now to be laird of the manor, but there was a time when it didn’t, and I was the one who answered to the name Hugh Sinclair.”
I knew I shouldn’t ask and also that not asking would make no difference. Seamus was the giant striding towards us now. “What do you mean?”
“Gemma, I’ll explain everything later. Keep going.”
He might not have spoken; Seamus stared at me steadily. Vicky cleared her throat. From her raised eyebrows and parted lips I guessed that she was not entirely surprised at the turn events had taken. All along she had harboured some secret dread about our marriage, beyond mere disapproval of the differences in age and class. I let go of Mr. Sinclair’s arm and stepped back so that I could study the two men, him in his suit and Seamus in his farming clothes, side by side. I saw then what should have been obvious from my second meeting with Mr. Sinclair. Seamus was a little heavier, his hair was lighter and finer, but especially now that Mr. Sinclair was tanned from the harvesting, their colouring was very similar. They were of an age and a height, they had the same square shoulders, the same low foreheads; they were distant cousins, but they might have been brothers.
“Keep going,” Mr. Sinclair said again to Mr. Muir.
But before the registrar could answer I spoke up. “If we can be married today,” I said, “then we can be married tomorrow. Tell me what he means.”
“This is most irregular,” said Mr. Muir. “Mr. Sinclair, with all due respect, I think we should reschedule. Please consult me when you’re ready.”
Without further ado, he turned on his heel and retreated to his inner office. The secretary, who had come out from behind her desk to be our witness, returned to her seat and lit a cigarette.
“Are you married?” Nell asked. “Does this mean you’re married?”
In the vestibule, awkwardly crowded by our little party, Seamus and Mr. Sinclair faced each other, each in the grip of emotions that had existed long before my arrival at Blackbird Hall but that my presence there had sharply exacerbated.
“Will you tell her,” Seamus said, “or will I?”
Mr. Sinclair flung down his own gauntlet. “Where were you the night