The Makeshift Marriage by Sandra Heath Page A

me and drank some water!”
    “Alas, Fraulein, that is often the case, a rally before the end. I have seen it too often to take false hope. I knew when the valet came to me that your hopes had been raised, but I cannot encourage you at all.”
    The chaplain agreed. “I fear the doctor speaks the unfortunate truth, Miss —?”
    “Milbanke.”
    “Miss Milbanke. From what I hear of today’s regrettable incident, and from what I now see of poor Sir Nicholas’s condition, I think that all we can do now is pray for his soul.”
    “No!” she cried. “No! He’s isn’t dead!” Praying would be to tempt Providence…or to give up a race before it was fully run.
    The chaplain’s gray-wigged head nodded gravely. “I understand how you feel, dear lady, but truly there is nothing more to be done. He is in the gentle hands of the Almighty now.”
    “I will not accept that statement until his heart no longer beats, sir. Dr. Meyer may be the finest practitioner of his skills in the whole world, but even he cannot know for certain what will happen. I will not give up yet, I swear that I will not.”
    Nicholas’s faint voice broke into the ensuing silence. “Why are you here, Chaplain?”
    Laura turned sharply, reaching out instinctively to take his hand again. He was looking at the Reverend Smythe. “I don’t need you, my friend,” he murmured.
    The bulky chaplain leaned over him. “I fear that you do, Sir Nicholas.”
    “Not yet. Not yet.”
    “I admire your brave words, Sir Nicholas, but I think you know in your heart that they are indeed just words.”
    The hollow eyes moved to Laura’s anxious face. “Do I need him, Laura?”
    She couldn’t speak. Just when she needed her own strength most, it deserted her. She should deny it now, she should give him encouragement, but her resolve evaporated and she could only bow her head to hide the tears that sprang to her eyes when she wanted them least.
    “My poor Laura,” he whispered, “You came to Venice to be happy and instead I have made you weep. You must forgive me for everything.”
    “ I forgive you!” She was almost overcome with emotion. “There is nothing to forgive,” she said at last. “Nothing at all. Maybe you should be forgiving me.”
    He smiled a little. “You need not be a church mouse, Laura, there need not be any Lady Mountfort.”
    “What do you mean?”
    He looked at the waiting chaplain. “Your visit shall not be wasted,” he said, pausing a while because the effort of speaking exhausted him.
    The Reverend Smythe leaned closer. “How may I serve you, sir?”
    “By making Laura my wife.”
    Laura stared at Nicholas, her eyes wide as she was taken completely unawares. “You can’t,” she breathed. “You can’t possibly do that!”
    “Why?” he asked.
    “Because of Miss Townsend. You love her, not me.”
    “Only a miracle can make her my wife now. Look at me, Laura. I would die happier knowing that I had helped you. As my widow you will be amply provided for and you would not have to go to Lady Mountfort. Please, Laura.”
    She turned to search the others’ faces. Henderson was weeping openly and the doctor looked compassionately at Nicholas. The chaplain’s eyes were sadly downcast, but there was no shocked condemnation on his face. Nicholas spoke again. “Do this for me, Laura.”
    Slowly she nodded her consent. “I will marry you,” she said softly. For I love you, I love you with all my heart … .
    Dr. Meyer and Major Bergmann were witnesses to the brief ceremony that took place a little later when a special license had been procured from the British consulate. The passage outside the room was thronged with people; it seemed that everyone in the Hotel Contarini had come to see the strange wedding.
    She could hardly say the words, speaking haltingly and clutching the little posy of pink and white wild cyclamen Major Bergmann had managed to find somewhere for her. The flowers were the only bridal token she carried.