Chapter Five
Lucas stared into the depths of Beatrice's irises. His own reflection gazed back, and he lost and found himself in her.
A burst of rose-laden giddiness leapt into Lucas' lap, and her glow further warmed him as his arms curled around her.
"Yes!"
The singular, simple word seemed the answer to all of Lucas' problems, the balm for his every open wound. The past folded into itself in the present, erasing, and the future opened to the endless possibilities of an infinite night sky.
"Did- Did you say yes?" he stammered.
Her answer was a kiss. Her sweetness pressed into him, and he surrendered every ounce of logic or practicality his parents had taught and embraced only emotional drunkenness, all wrapped with a perfect bow in a package called Beatrice.
Too perfect.
Weeks later, Lucas would ruminate on what too perfect meant. In fact, "perfect" became a mortal enemy, an illusion that teased, then taunted, then twisted…until it emptied and bled him dry.
But at eighteen, on the verge of impossible dreams, Lucas made a vow to this young woman, and she returned the favor. They would elope, no ring, no plans, no idea what they were doing.
We love each other, Lucas reasoned. That's all that matters.
In the end, that was all that mattered.
When they found a minister who was willing to marry them, they made plans for the following weekend for their wedding. In the interim, Lucas used the money on his person to purchase a ring, then a used suit, and paid for a second-hand wedding dress for Beatrice.
He didn't care that he hadn't packed clothes beyond one night for this trip, nor that he hadn't brought a better suit from home, but he did have reservations on settling for the less-than-ideal where Beatrice was concerned.
It was the Friday evening before they were to wed, and Lucas and Beatrice strolled under a clear night sky through the campus.
"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Lucas asked.
Their clasped hands swung loosely between them.
Beatrice squeezed his hand, then raised her free hand, admiring her ring. It was a plain band. "I'm tired of doing things by the books. To be honest, I'm more shocked you aren't doing things by the expected formula." She giggled. "Given books and all with you."
Lucas smiled slightly. "I was tired of living under others' expectations as well. Call me a restless spirit, but everything seemed to be lining up, falling into place. About the ring, I promise to get you a better one."
Beatrice grinned. "Oh, I have no doubt you will."
"And the dress? Are you sure you don't mind?"
"If I minded, would we be getting married tomorrow?" She stopped and, through her thick lashes, surveyed him.
"No, I suppose not. You just struck me as the type who would want the best of everything for a wedding."
"I've lived with excess my whole life, Lucas. All that matters, all I want, is to marry you. We'll figure out the rest later."
Lucas kissed her. Afterward, they lingered, nose to nose. Then he laid a kiss to her hand and made a promise he would walk beside her and would make her the happiest of women.
Yet that evening, after Beatrice had returned to her dormitory and he lay wide awake in bed in the hotel, sleep eluded Lucas. Arms crossed behind his head on the pillow, he stared at the ceiling. The moonlight cascaded in through a parting in the drapes and illuminated a sliver of the room, including his face. Lucas blinked against the unexpected brightness, sighed, stood, and went to the window to close the drapes. Looking out on the street at this late hour, the human, horse and carriage, and automobile traffic was nearly nonexistent.
A movement to the left caught his attention. Lucas refocused his gaze and landed on a stooped older couple dressed in nothing more than rags. The man held whom Lucas presumed was the wife up, but she looked ready to drop at any moment.
Lucas frowned and opened the window enough to listen.
"It's all right, dear," the old man wheezed. "St. Joseph's is supposed to be open."
Were they seeking shelter? Lucas considered the chill in the air that meant winter lurked right around the corner. Before the woman could reply, if she even did, Lucas silently eased the window shut and withdrew to his bed.
Am I going to be able to provide for Beatrice? She says we'll figure it out as we go along, but what do we know but what we're lived? All our lives have been with our parents, even if they weren't always present. Still, what will my parents think? Hers?
He shuddered. A chill that had nothing to do with the window being open a moment ago went down Lucas' spine. He pulled the covers up higher, rolled onto his side, and closed his eyes.
Concern that he hadn't thought through the full ramifications of his hasty decision, Lucas knew he couldn't change his mind now.
Doing so would crush Beatrice.
And if there was one thing Lucas was certain about, it was he couldn't hurt her like that.
I'm a man of my word.
I just wish I knew what else I was a man of.
When morning dawned, Lucas sat up stiffly in bed. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to clear away the lingering tiredness from not enough sleep. When he realized what day it was, his heart sped up.
"I'm getting married," he said in awe.
Eyes enlarged, he bolted from bed with a burst of energy.
"I'm getting married!" A mixture of exhilaration and nerves hit him.
He dressed in the suit he'd purchased that week, trying not to frown that it was too short in the legs and arms. "Beggars can't be choosers" wasn't a phrase he was used to. He wondered how much longer he could go before calling his parents or writing at the very least. Had they telephoned home? Had a letter come from them? He assumed not, as he would have surely heard from the staff if they had.
Lucas went downstairs to have breakfast in the dining room, but he barely tasted the food. Consuming three cups of coffee only heightened his nerves, and he was jittery the rest of the morning. He walked the streets to burn off his excessive energy and checked his pocket watch every ten minutes or so. Although usually even-tempered, his impatience grew.
Why does time seem to slow down when all I want is for it to hurry up? He neared the church, a small affair with a plain front, half-shrouded behind a grander building.
When the bells rang from the cathedral across the street, Lucas knew noon had finally, blessedly, struck. He stood on the threshold of the entrance, the doorway to a new beginning. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, gripped the handle, and yanked. He stepped into a darkened nave and gazed ahead.
There she stood, like a beckon on the horizon to welcome the weary traveler home. Her white contrasted all around her, and Lucas saw only her as he glided down the aisle.
The pastor, a middle-aged man who had introduced himself as Pastor Thomas Eddington the other day, greeted him. "Good day, Mr. Bouchard. If you're both ready, shall we get started?"
But Lucas only half heard the man's words. Captivated by Beatrice, he tried to grasp what he was doing.
Beatrice beamed at him, then giggled. "Yes, Pastor, I believe we are."
"Wonderful. Now, holy matrimony is not something to be entered into lightly," the pastor cautioned. "I trust you both have thought this through."
Suddenly, Lucas was pulled back to reality. He blinked and looked at Pastor Eddington. Not to be entered into lightly. Lucas' gaze fell to his hands, where his too-short sleeves exposed his wrists. He considered his empty hands, too-that he had no wedding band to give Beatrice, and she had none for him. Was this right? Lucas swallowed any fears or questions, then took Beatrice's hands in his.
"Yes, Pastor," he said. "We're ready."
With a nod, the pastor didn't ask any questions and began. The church secretary and janitor acted as witnesses. Throughout the ceremony, words Lucas had heard many times at weddings drifted in one ear, passed through his preoccupied mind, and carried on down the aisle before they were married. Those words and promises went before them, but would they follow? Would they even understand, at eighteen, what marriage meant?
Like a man drunk on good wine, Lucas drank her in as they kissed and sealed their fate. He was a married man.
But a man of what?