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Show Page 253 I told him and some others we would meet them there a few minutes hence. If you do not give me your promise at once I shall be forced to march next door and ask the Widow Emerson to wed with me instead, else I shall not be able to hold up my head amongst my fellows." At that my shyness vanished and I threw myself into his arms, laughter bubbling out of me, for the Widow Emerson was a wizened, toothless old woman who looked like naught but a shrivelled pumpkin. "Oh yes. I shall be your wife," I laughed, my happiness lifting me up in waves. John gave me a sound kiss before setting me back upon my feet. "I fear I shall make a rather tattered bridegroom," he said, looking mournfully down at his ragged shirt and breeches, his threadbare coat, the crutch under his arm. "Then we shall be the perfect match," I reassured him, for my gown was nigh as tattered as his shirt. I thought with longing of the red velvet dress I was to have been married in but that had burned in the massacre. Then I dismissed the thought. That dress had belonged to another life, another time I would rather wed with John wearing rags than have been married to Richard Kean dressed in the finest gown of satin or silk. I scolded myself for thinking so unkindly of a dead man, but unhappy thoughts did not stay long in my mind. |