Set in "In the Company of Strangers" verse. A companion piece to "Fathers and Sons". Own nothing. Love it all. :)
He stands in silence, gazing at a reflection that hits him hard, trying to straighten his rebellious bow tie for what seems like the hundredth time in ten minutes.
"Here. Let me."
Slender fingers slide around his neck, doing in seconds what he could not.
"Thank you," he murmurs into her hair, rich ebony sprinkled with strands of silver he adores but she detests. He clasps hands cherished for years to his chest, reveling in this familiar connection as life takes yet another turn.
"Are you alright?" she asks, brushing her fingers through peppered locks still abundantly thick and course.
"How can I not be?" he answers, kissing her temple as he has more times than either of them can count. "It's not every day that one is privileged enough to be father of the bride."
A flicker passes over her eyes, and he gazes in wonder at this woman who grows more beautiful with each year that passes.
"This wedding is more difficult than the others."
Her words are whispered, but he hears every one of them, feeling her misgivings reverberate down to his gut.
"She's our baby," he muses, stroking her cheek, choking back tears. "But she's strong and fierce, just like someone else I know and love madly."
A smile paints her lips, the sheen over her eyes nearly knocking him over.
"I'm so proud of her," she states, leaning into his embrace, and he drinks her in with a thirst that hits him soundly. "But I worry."
"She loves him, Mary," he reasons, watching her nod in agreement as she toys with her pearls. "And he worships the ground on which she treads. Trust me. I have experience in that realm."
A moment passes, a breath of acceptance at time's marked passing.
"I know that," she tosses back. "It's just—"
The words stick in her throat, and he notes the slight tremor in her hands.
"America is an ocean away," he finishes for her.
"And I won't be there," she concludes. "We won't be there for her. What if she needs us, Charles? I know she's lived in London over the past two years, but New York…"
"Edith is there," he assures her, earning himself a look he knows all too well. "And so is your Uncle Harold." He strokes her back, still lithe and graceful. "And Grant will watch out for her, Mary, I'm certain of it. If she'll let him, that is."
He nudges her chin towards his own, watching a tentative smile attempt to steady itself, reliving a lifetime of memories from his daughter's birth to this life-altering moment.
The moment he would have to give her to someone else.
"You've been a brilliant mother to all of our children," he breathes. "But you've been extraordinary for her. And it's because of your determination that we're standing here now about to see her embark on this incredible new life she sometimes doubted would be possible."
The lines around her eyes quiver as she draws a fortifying breath.
"You played a hand in this, as well," she hums, clasping his lapels gently. "She's had you completely under her spell since the moment she first drew breath."
"That's because she looks so much like her mother," he smiles, envisioning the tiny pink bundle with a mess of black hair and potent lungs. His heart aches as he remembers the feel of her squirming in his arms, dark eyes so alert and observant from the moment they fluttered open, delicate fingers displaying her need to touch the world around her beginning with his nose, just as George had done the first time he held him on that train.
But George is now a husband and father. And baby Catherine is a bride.
Cat, George had deemed her the first time he saw her in her mother's arms. Cat Mary had questioned, staring up at him in a breathless wonder as the baby nuzzled in close to her breast. Cat he had affirmed, choking back tears at the reemergence of a name long treasured yet abandoned over time.
And Cat she had remained.
"She'll be waiting for you," Mary interrupts, touching his face, sharing this sacred moment for another fleeting breath. "And you know she doesn't like to be kept waiting."
"I wonder from whom she inherited that trait?" he grins, earning himself the inevitable brow toss that won his heart within minutes.
"Don't be smart," she retorts with a half-cocked smile. Her eyes then narrow, and she looks back at him for assurance.
"America will be better for her, won't it?" Her shoulders drop with her exhale. "Things are less restrictive there, opportunities more abundant for a woman with her ambitions."
"Yes," he affirms, holding her shoulders steady. "You've traveled with me on several occasions. You even commented once how Cat would flourish in a city like New York."
"Did I?" she asks. "Or are you making that up to make me feel better?"
"Why Lady Mary," he goads. "Would I ever do such a thing?"
"Yes," she returns without hesitation. "And you would gloat about it for at least a week afterwards."
His chuckle is shared with the same comfort as their embrace.
"I should go and help with Arthur and Matthew," she states. "I don't want Nanny trying to talk their mothers out of taking them to the church."
"So you won that fight?" he asks with a grin.
"Absolutely," she throws back. "Our grandsons need to be in attendance for their aunt's wedding. The family is incomplete without them, and Cat would be terribly disappointed if they weren't there."
"I'm certain they'll cherish every minute of the ceremony," he teases. "At the ripe old ages of three and one."
"That's enough of that," she returns, smiling against his mouth as his lips claim hers gently. "And Arthur may remember this one day. He is such a clever boy, you know."
Her eyes grow wistful at the mention of their grandsons, one dark-headed and black-eyed, the other fair in every respect, so much like his namesake it sometimes makes Mary stare in wonder.
"I'll see you at the church," he assures her with a final squeeze of her hands, knowing memories still lurk at that particular altar, smoothed over by time's weathering hand yet present all the same.
She kisses his cheek, the feel of her in his arms both grounding and ethereal. Releasing her is difficult, but he does it, following her upright sway with his gaze as she leaves their bedroom, sighing into a now empty space as he looks upon his reflection once more.
Here he stands—the father of the bride. A man given much in the wake of devastating loss. A man not ready to release his youngest child into a world he knows to be a harsh task-master.
But she is ready to soar, and to hold her back would be unjust. Life has beckoned, and she has answered, embracing it with a passion and stubbornness he recognizes all too well.
It is time.
He moves to her bedroom door, finding it half-open. He waves through the crack, awaiting her response as he holds his breath in anticipation. Then the door opens fully, and she stares up at him with the same eyes into which he has just gazed, looking so much like her mother that it nearly snatches his breath.
You look beautiful, he tells her, watching her eyes brim over in spite of the brilliant smile beaming across her face.
Thank you, Papa, she answers, beckoning him inside, giving him a full view of her in her wedding gown. The sight of her hits him with the same force as did that of her mother when they met at a different church in London. Vows spoken that day carved a path that led them here, a place he could have never envisioned while slugging through the thick marshes of grief.
How I am supposed to do this, Cat? he gestures haltingly. How am I supposed to let you go?
Her chin quivers, and she drops her face briefly.
You'll always be the first man in my life, she motions fluidly, her hands moving with Mary's innate grace and precision. No one can ever take your place, Papa. Not even Grant McKinney.
No one can ever take your place, Cat, he replies, staring at his child who never feared thunder, who learned to play piano by studying his hands and mimicking what she saw, who mastered the art of reading lips with a precision he cannot help but admire. His child who tunneled her heightened sense of sight through the lens of a camera, becoming a gifted photographer who caught the attention of an American war correspondent she would marry in less than one hour.
I know, she grins, wiping her cheeks and tossing him a look of reprimand before her eyes soften yet again. I love him.
I know, he signs, smiling with her through tears now falling freely. And that makes me happy.
She moves into his arms, and he pulls her as close as he can, knowing he can shelter her no longer, certain she would hate it if he tried. Mary had worked tirelessly on Cat's behalf, educating herself and all of them, defying standing edicts and instructing her daughter in both sign and through the oral method. It had all been for this—to give Cat Blake the life she deserved, to equip her to choose her own path.
How proud of this child Aunt Catherine would be.
I love you, Cat, he tells her, moving back just enough so she can see the sincerity of his words.
I love you, Papa, she answers, sliding her arm through his as they step together into a new life lived apart.