Author's Note: This is a companion piece to "Victoria(s)." Victoria might have written something like this in her journal at the end of that story. This was a fun challenge, a double-fanfiction, if you will. How would Victoria want the story to have gone? What would appeal to her sensibilities and desires? And what would put Victoria and Emily more at the story's center? I hope I've done a satisfactory job with those questions. As ever, criticism welcome! -PlayerPiano

The Wedding Band

1

When Victoria Everglot's parents announced that they had arranged her marriage, she grieved as though someone had died. Something had died, at any rate. Her dreams of romance. Of courtship and a deep love, one that would last her lifetime. What if they didn't like each other, let alone love one another? She'd be trapped for life. An unhappy union that only brought the cold comfort of knowing her parents would not be destitute. In the brief weeks before she was to marry a young man she'd never even spoken to, Victoria vacillated between sadness, anger, fear, and dreary resignation. Most of the time she felt all of these at once, and more besides.

But then Victoria met Victor Van Dort. That music. Those eyes. Her immediate comfort with him.

Yes, Victoria knew from the first time they spoke that Victor was meant for her. That he needed her, and she needed him. That her life was an incomplete picture without him in it. She felt drawn to him. Linked. Every time their eyes met the charge she felt reinforced her certainty. Victoria was likely just being romantic. Perhaps he did not feel the same. Perhaps it was only wishful thinking.

And yet...Victor's eyes when he looked at her. That very tiny smile. How he'd taken the flower she'd offered him and tucked it into his pocket. She'd seen him do it. It seemed to her that they had entire conversations with only their eyes during the wedding rehearsal.

Which was a disaster.

Poor Victor fumbled and was awkward and simply could not pull himself together. Victoria hoped it was only the pressure of the moment, and not because he didn't like her. Oh, she would be devastated if he did not like her.

So when Victor fled, humiliated, after setting her mother's skirts on fire, Victoria followed him. To her it was as natural as taking a breath—to ignore her mother, to brush right by the pastor, to not heed the calls for her to return. How strange, after a lifetime of quietly taking orders! The promise of a life with Victor, of the sort of lifelong romance she'd always dreamed of, the desire to offer him comfort, made her brave.

He had a bit of a head start, owing to his panic and long legs, and she found the front doors closing behind him just as she passed the piano. She picked up her pace, her footsteps echoing along with the distant shouts of her parents back in the drawing room.

"Victor!" Victoria called as she opened the door. He'd just reached the bottom of the steps. The hang of his head and the sag of his shoulders tugged at her heart. He flinched at the sound of his name, and he turned around slowly. However, his expression brightened when he saw that it was her. Victoria felt warm all over. No one had ever, ever, lit up that way at the sight of her.

"Victoria!" he said, sounding more relieved than anything else. Perhaps he'd thought it was his mother chasing after him. After pulling the door closed, Victoria lifted her skirts and trotted down to meet him just as Victor loped up to meet her. They met in the middle of the front steps.

The air was turning colder as the evening drew in. Earlier there had been warmth and the faint promise of spring in the air. Snow still blanketed much of the ground outside the village walls. Now, as the sky slowly turned from gray to purple, it felt like winter again.

But there was a steady warmth between the two of them. Surely Victoria wasn't the only one to feel it. She looked up into Victor's face. His eyes were so sad. Humiliation still clung. All she wanted to do was to pull him close and hold him until he was comforted and glad again.

Of course she could not do such a thing in public, despite how her arms fairly ached to do so. Instead she asked, "Are you all right?"

It was a silly question and she regretted it as soon as it was spoken. Obviously he was not all right. Of course he was not, not after the past three hours. Victor heaved a gusty sigh and scratched at the back of his head, a tic of his she was already beginning to recognize.

"I'm so, so sorry," he told her, his voice low and ashamed. He was looking mostly at his feet. "You must think I'm a fool. I am a fool. I'm sorry. For ruining the rehearsal. For setting your mother on fire. I was so nervous and I didn't bother practicing and all of our parents and the pressure and I really didn't eat any lunch so I-"

Victoria reached out and slipped each of her hands into each of his, and held them as comfortingly as she could. At her touch he stopped short. Victor looked down at their joined hands, fitted so well together between them, then slowly met her eyes. His face relaxed and softened. His fingers squeezed hers.

"I'm sorry, as well," she said. When she saw his surprised expression, she added, "That you were so nervous. I felt just terrible for you. For how embarrassed you must have been. I wish I'd done more to help."

"Unless you'd written the vows on my hand, I'm not sure what else you could have done," Victor said. She wasn't sure whether he was joking or not. He wasn't quite smiling. "Actually, that doesn't seem like a bad idea at this point..."

There was a silence. A not unpleasant sort of tension thrummed in the air between them. Uncertain of what to say or do next, only positive that she could stand like this forever, Victoria shyly studied Victor's face for what felt like the thousandth time that afternoon. He was looking at their hands again, so she felt a bit more bold. She let her eyes move almost like a caress over his forehead, his narrow chin, the lines under his eyes. Not for the first time, she felt an urge to run her hand through his hair. It was so thick and dark, and his bangs were so unruly...

When he suddenly met her eyes she started, embarrassed, certain her unladylike thoughts were visible on her face. But he just smiled that soft smile at her again.

She was only able to hold his gaze for a moment before she had to look away. The feeling between them was far too intense. Like looking full-on at the sun. Her cheeks got warm. She could feel Victor's eyes on her. They took a step closer. Her skirts were brushing his trousers. Her heart was thudding and her blood felt hot, and swallowing was difficult.

"I do not think that you're a fool," she told him. It felt important to reassure him of this. "And you have not ruined anything for me. This was only the rehearsal, after all."

"I'm worried the actual w-w-wedding will be worse," he replied, misery in every word.

Victoria closed yet more of what little distance remained between them. Without thinking twice she let their joined hands press against the front of her skirts, just lightly. Victor gasped a little, but not in a scandalized way. Propriety seemed incredibly unimportant just now. As though it belonged to a different world. Her world, in this moment, was just here.

"It won't be," she assured him. She held his gaze steadily, but her pulse was fluttering in her wrists and throat. "I think—I know—that it will be beautiful. You'll say your vows perfectly, I am sure of it."

Now, that was not entirely true. But oh, she could hope. She could have faith in him. She would have faith in him. And tonight she would make out notecards to slip to him at the altar if she had to. All that mattered was that Victor believed her. Then, perhaps, he'd believe it himself.

"I should go practice, then," he said slowly. He sounded a little breathless. But he did not move a muscle. Except to hold her hands a bit more tightly. "If I'm to do it perfectly."

They were going to kiss, Victoria realized with a jolt. It was obvious. It was inevitable. Somehow she knew it in her bones. Her heart thudded once and then dropped into her stomach, sending waves first warm and then cold through her. Victor's breathing sounded a little strange, and she wondered if he'd had the same thought. She heard him swallow, they were standing that close.

A short blast of winter breeze caught her in the face just then, not a moment too soon. It brought her back to her senses. Victoria had often dreamed of what her first kiss would be like. Her fantasies did not include being watched by Mr. Mayhew and the town crier.

Reluctantly, she took two small steps backward, letting another gust of icy breeze blow between them. Victor looked bereft. But they would have another chance, surely. By this time tomorrow, they would be wed. The thought sent another thrill through her blood.

"You'll come back inside with me?" she asked, embarrassed by how tight and wavery her voice sounded. Victor made a face that was almost a wince.

"I think...I think I'll think better not near...uh, well," Victor gestured toward the drawing room window. "I thought perhaps some fresh air, and...well...distance. A walk in the woods. Just to be alone and think."

"Oh," was all she could say. She was disappointed, but she understood. Of course he needed some time to lick his wounds a bit. And it was important that he do whatever he needed to in order to learn his vows. But still...the idea of parting was almost painful.

"Would you...would you like...to come?" Victor asked her. His ears were turning a little pink, perhaps not entirely from the chilly evening air. "On a walk? With me?"

"I would love to, and thank you, but didn't you say you'd like to be alone?" Victoria asked in return.

"Oh, you don't count as another person," Victor assured her. Then he winced. "That came out wrong. You're a person. But I can be alone with you. Hold on. That doesn't make any sense..."

Victoria suppressed a smile, not wanting him to think she was mocking him. "I know what you mean," she assured him, and was gratified by the thankful smile on his face. "All right. Let me fetch my cape."

"And a fountain pen for writing on my hand," Victor said. Or rather, joked. She grinned widely. She liked his joking tone, and looked forward to hearing a lot more of it.

2

Not wanting to be waylaid by Mother, Victoria slipped through the front door as quietly as she could. Quickly she fetched her cape from the hall tree beneath the grand staircase, and trotted quickly as she could back to the door. She saw someone approaching out of the corner of her eye. She pretended she'd not seen and quickened her pace, wrapping her cape about her shoulders as she went.

Victor waited for her just outside. Gallantly he offered her his arm. She took it happily. They'd not quite taken a step together when they heard an ahem! from behind them.

It was Emil. "Miss Victoria, your mother has requested your presence in the drawing room," he said. Victoria was certain that those had not been Mother's precise words. She looked up at Victor, meeting those eyes she thought she would never get tired of looking into. Then she tightened her hold on his arm.

"Emil," Victoria said, "Please tell Mother and Father that Victor and I are going for a walk. We will be back shortly. Before dark."

She was going for Mother's imperiousness, but there was an unsure wobble in her voice and a catch in her throat. Her own daring made her nervous. Emil's mustache twitched in surprise.

"Unchaperoned?" he asked. "Miss Victoria, I hardly think your mother would approve of that. Nor his," he added, barely sparing Victor a nod.

"Well, we are engaged," Victor tried to put in, but Emil ignored him.

"Lady Everglot insists you come back inside," he repeated, with the air of one just following orders.

Suddenly, a loud series of hacking coughs broke the evening stillness. They all turned to see Mayhew standing by the front steps. He'd come over from where he'd been waiting with the Van Dorts' carriage, and was puffing on his pipe.

"I'll chaperone," he offered, a wreath of smoke around his head. He hacked again, and Victoria couldn't suppress a wince when he discreetly spit off to one side. "Happy to. Won't let them stay out long."

"Thank you, Mayhew," Victor said, after a beat. He grinned widely down at Victoria and she smiled back. Arm in arm they walked down the front steps to join Mayhew.

"Can you keep an eye on the horse?" Mayhew asked Emil, who was still standing in the open doorway. "If it's not too much trouble."

Emil sniffed, clearly insulted, but nodded. Satisfied, Mayhew tapped out his pipe and stowed it in his pocket.

"Lead on, then," he said to Victor. "I'll follow you."

They started off toward the village gates, Mayhew trailing along behind them. The early night air was still and cool as they passed through the gates and walked along the narrow road. The crows were beginning to come back to the forest to roost. Victoria could see them, dark shapes in the trees and against the deep blue of the sky.

"Where are we going?" Victoria asked as they crossed the bridge.

"There's a little clearing next to the cemetery," he told her. "There's an oak tree. It's nice in summer. Too bad it's still winter. I'll...I-I'll have to bring you back. In the summer."

"That sounds lovely," Victoria said, even as she eyed the dark trees and the still-clinging snow on the ground. Crows cawed softly overhead, sitting in small groups among the branches.

"I should've brought the snowshoes, eh?" Mayhew said with a laugh, as though reading her mind. His laugh brought on a series of painful-sounding coughs. "I'm fine," he wheezed, once he was done.

"We should be practicing," Victoria remarked at length. They were passing by the church now, coming to the end of what passed for the road away from the village. "Shouldn't we?"

"Practicing what?" Victor asked, genuinely puzzled. Then he remembered. "Oh! Oh. Yes, of course. Heh. Silly of me. I'd almost forgotten."

"'With this hand,'" Victoria began softly, encouragingly. Dearly she wanted to look at his profile in the moonlight, but she had to watch her step on the snowy ground as they entered the woods. "'I will lift your sorrows...'"

Victor laid his cool hand over hers in the crook of his arm. "'With this hand,'" he repeated, "'I will lift your sorrows...'"