Still, he didn't turn. He couldn't bear to see the resignation that must surely be written across her face, a mirror of his own. Clara Whitmore had arrived in Silver Creek 3 years ago from Boston, a mystery wrapped in proper eastern manners and elegant speech. She was tall for a woman, nearly 5'8", with rich auburn hair she kept severely pinned and green eyes that seemed to see through people's pretenses. The town's folk had initially been charmed by her education and refinement, but as the months passed, without any suitors calling, whispers began.
"Too proud," they said, "too educated. What man wanted a wife who'd read more books than he had? Probably scared them all off with that sharp tongue of hers," Ethan had once heard Mrs. Patterson say at the general store. "He defended her then, oddly enough." Nothing wrong with a woman who speaks her mind," he'd said, thinking of Margaret, who'd never been afraid to tell him when he was being a fool. Now, as Clara's footsteps drew closer, he wondered if he'd live to regret those words.
The pastor, Reverend Mills, shifted uncomfortably at the altar. The old man's kind face was creased with concern as he watched the proceedings. This wasn't the first forced marriage he'd performed, but something about this one seemed to trouble him more than usual. Dearly beloved, he began, his voice lacking its usual warmth. We are gathered here today to witness the union of Ethan Walker and Clara Whitmore in holy matrimony.
The words fell into the church like stones into still water, sending ripples of discomfort through everyone present. This was no joyous occasion. It was a business transaction dressed in white lace and hollow vows. Finally, Ethan turned to face his bride. Clara stood beside him in a simple gray dress.
Not white, he noted with grim appreciation. At least she wasn't pretending this was something it wasn't. Her face was pale, but composed, her chin lifted with a dignity that made something in his chest tighten unexpectedly. She didn't look at him, keeping her gaze fixed on some point past the pastor's shoulder. Up close, he could see the dark circles under her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands as she clutched a small bouquet of wild flowers, probably picked hastily from the roadside on her way here.
She looked exactly like what she was, a woman backed into a corner with nowhere else to run, just like him. "Miss Whitmore," Reverend Mills said gently, "do you come here of your own free will." Clara's lips parted, and for a moment Ethan thought she might actually say no. The church held its collective breath. Then, in a voice steady as granite, she said, "I do." The lie hung in the air between them like smoke from a snuffed candle. And you, Mr. Walker?
Ethan's throat felt like he'd swallowed sand. I do. Another lie. They were building their marriage on a foundation of falsehoods, and everyone knew it. As Reverend Mills continued with the ceremony, Ethan found himself studying Clara from the corner of his eye.
She was handsome rather than pretty, with strong features that would age well. Her hands, he noticed, bore small scars and calluses. Not the soft, pampered hands he'd expected from a Boston lady. "There was a story there," he realized, one he'd never bothered to learn. "The rings," Reverend Mills prompted.
Ethan fumbled in his pocket for the simple gold band he'd bought that morning, the cheapest Henderson's general store had to offer. It was nothing like the ring he'd given Margaret, which he'd saved for months to afford. This one was thin, plain, and would probably turn Clara's finger green within a week. Clara had no ring for him. Of course she didn't.
She'd probably been informed of this marriage at the same time he had two days ago with no time to prepare, no time to run. As he slipped the ring onto her finger, their hands touched for the first time. Hers were ice cold despite the heat of the day. She flinched at the contact so slightly that only he noticed, but it was enough to make his stomach turn with self-loathing. "What kind of man had he become, forcing a woman to marry him?" You may kiss the bride," Reverend Mills said, though he looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else.