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other things. Does that not show he is a man of character?”
    He would not meet her eye, but finally, he spoke in so low a voice, she had to lean closer to hear.
    “I am simply loath to trust you to him. Your high spirits and pursuit of …” He would not permit himself to say the word she longed to hear. He would never acknowledge the truth of her assertions—she ought to be able to live her life as independently as any man. It was simply anathema to his view of the world. “Your temperament calls for a firm hand from a husband. You should have a man who is more than your equal, who can command your respect.”
    She knew he spoke from fear and love, a father’s love for his daughter, but she could not abide it when he began to use words like command and respect. It meant he was working himself up to his usual lecture about conforming herself to the“natural abilities” of women and forgetting her “unnatural inclinations” for study and independence.
    And she would get so frustrated and so angry, she would say truthful but imprudent things, or simply walk out the door, and they would still have no agreements, no marriage settlements, and no wedding.
    “Papa.” She endeavored to speak with the deep conviction she felt. “You must understand. Jamie is worthy of my respect and my trust. Indeed, he has both. I have never been able to even contemplate any other offer of marriage. You must know, I truly think this is what is best for me.”
    When he made a sound of objection, she cut him off.
    “Papa, do my feelings count for nothing?” she asked quietly. “I want to marry him. He is the only man I ever have, or will ever, consider marrying.” It was as close to an admission of her private feelings and true emotions as she was ever likely to come with her father.
    Thankfully, it had the required effect. He passed his hand over his face and stared into the cold grate of the fireplace for an uncomfortably long time before he finally spoke.
    “I cannot give you my blessing, but if you must, you have my consent.”
    “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.” The Reverend Marlowe’s words echoed through the big, empty stone nave of St. Savior’s.
    Jamie was her husband, at least temporarily. Until God put them asunder.
    “By joining of hands, I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
    Might as well have said “Man and Chattel together” from her point of view, but all in all, it was for the best, though it had not been the prettiest or most auspicious of weddings.
    Gray skies had dripped with rain, and Jamie’s father, the Reverend Doctor Marlowe, had seemed uneasy, anxious almost. He repeatedly lost his place in the well-worn book of prayers he clutched in his knobby, arthritic fingers. He kept darting nervous glances at her, as if he expected her to take flight or bolt down the aisle for the door.
    For heaven’s sake. It wasn’t as if she was the one who’d bolted.
    Indeed she had been as nervous as a chicken waiting for the ceremony to come. Contrary to her hopes, they’d not been allowed any further time together yesterday. Jamie had been sent away, and she’d been kept at home, busy with preparations, until this morning. Waiting to see if he would indeed come back again.
    But Jamie was here now. He had come back, to give her respectability and independence. Yes. She would concentrate on her independence and not think about the inconvenient little flip-flop her stomach made when Jamie turned his penetrating gray eyes to hers.
    Her giddy feeling was all due to the astonishing accomplishment of her goal—an independent life. It could have nothing to do with the large, masculine hand pressing warmly into the small of her back as he escorted her to the vestry to sign the registry. Nothing whatsoever.
    But all would be right. She knew he was leaving this time. It wouldn’t be as bad. She would be