The Handfasting Read online

  The church had held up better than the rest of the abbey. When the abbey had been disbanded in the mid fifteen hundreds, the church had continued to be used as the parish church for another two centuries. The walls were mostly complete, and the stone floor was still in place. A roof and windows were all that would be needed to make the building serviceable again.

  Katherine switched on a penlight when they entered the church, confident that it would not be seen by a passing motorist. Walking through the nave and the choir, they approached the high altar—the altar itself was gone, but the raised platform, on which it had stood, remained.

  To one side, a yellow rosebush was in full bloom. The fact that it could survive in the abbey was amazing on its own, that it bloomed each year in August, even more so. It was said that a sixteenth-century abbot had removed stones from the floor in order to plant the bush and that it bloomed once each year, on the anniversary of the last mass said by the monks. Its water source was a mystery. The yellow rose had been adopted as the symbol of the abbey, and later as the symbol of the town itself.

  Together, they knelt in front of the space where the high altar had stood. Katherine unfolded a sheet of paper, placing it on the ground. Steven held the light as they joined their right hands and Katherine wrapped a purple cord around them. She picked up the paper, and Steven began to read.

  “I, Steven Andrew Richardson, take thee, Katherine Lee Jackson, to be my betrothed wife, as the law of the holy Kirk shows, and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

  Katherine looked into his eyes. “I, Katherine Lee Jackson, take thee, Steven Andrew Richardson, to be my betrothed husband, as the law of the holy Kirk shows, and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

  A smile spread across Katherine’s face. She wanted to jump and shout, but she remembered that they were not supposed to be in the abbey. She put her arms around Steven and squeezed as hard as she could.

  He hugged and kissed her in return. “We are engaged now?” he whispered.

  “According to Celtic custom we are. I am bound to you forever, unless you release me. You are bound to me.”

  They knelt in silence and she whispered a prayer, asking that they would be able to carry out the plans they had made. When she had finished, she raised her head and looked at Steven. Her eyes followed his toward the rosebush. The moon had risen behind the abbey and its light streamed through one of the small round windows on the side of the nave, falling on a single rose at the end of an especially long cane.

  He reached out and pulled the rose toward them. The fragrance was sweet, reminding Katherine of a perfume that had once been her favorite.

  “Whenever you see a yellow rose, Katie, think of me.” He said quietly. “Every time you see one, remember that I love you.”

  Steven released the rose and took her hand in his. “Everything will work out. You’ll see.”

  After another minute, he helped her to her feet and they retraced their steps to the entrance. A light raked across the door just before they reached it, and he peered around the wall.

  Two police officers stood at the chain, shining lights around the ruins.

  “They couldn’t have seen my light,” she whispered.

  “Just a routine check. If they had seen the light, they would have come in.”

  After several minutes, the officers drove away. Katherine and Steven hurried down the road and returned to town.

  The police car was in the plaza as they turned onto High Street.

  “Good evening, Officer,” Katherine said as they passed.

  “Good evening, ma’am. It’s a bit late for a stroll.”

  “We’re going in now, Officer. Good night.”

  “Good night, ma’am.”

  Reaching the hotel, Katherine looked back down the street. The officer was still watching them. She inserted the key, opened the door, and carefully, they climbed the stairs.

  Reaching their room, they changed clothes and kissed good night. Then, as they had for the past two weeks, Katherine lay under the covers, Steven on top. He put his arm around her and they slept.

  Dinner

  As she finished, Katherine looked down at her hands and felt her lip begin to tremble. “I’ve never told anyone about this. I think I was happier then, more than any other time in my life.”

  Sara was starting to cry, too. She put her arm around Katherine and hugged her.

  “That’s really sweet,” Becky said softly as she reached over and squeezed Katherine’s arm.

  “We had sense enough to know that we couldn’t get married then. We both had plans. I was going to UVA, then med school. He was going to Italy. He didn’t know what next—finish college, grad school maybe. We agreed that in ten years, we’d be finished with school and all, and he promised to find me, so we could be married.”

  Sara sighed. “How romantic!”

  “Now wait a minute,” Becky said. “You haven’t seen this guy in ten years, you know nothing about him—what he’s been doing, what he does, even what he looks like now—and you’re going to marry him? Come on!”

  Katherine stood and walked around the room, still holding the rose she had taken from the vase. Finally, she turned back to Becky. “Yes, if we’re still in love.”

  “How will you know?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Are you going to dinner with him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I wonder what he’s like,” Sara said.

  “I don’t know!”

  “You’re saying that a lot.”

  “What do you want me to say? I always hoped he would track me down, but I had begun to doubt that he really could. I don’t know what to expect. He was going to be a painter…I’ll have to think about it. I’m going to bed.”

  “Maybe he’s your Prince Charming!”

  “Maybe he’s a starving artist looking for a rich doctor to support him. There’s this one guy who paints portraits in the park. He’s about your age—”

  “Becky, you’re so cynical.”

  ***

  Steven Richardson poured another cup of tea. Evening tea was a tradition he’d adopted while at Oxford, pursuing his degree in art history. The degree, followed by two years as a lecturer at Oxford, had led to his appointment as a curator in the Near Eastern Gallery, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  Steven had pretty much given up any hope of finding Katie. He had written to her, and to her mother, simply addressing the letters to Hamilton, Virginia—the only address he’d had. They had not been returned, so he’d supposed that they had been delivered, but there had never been any response. He had tried the UVA alumni association knowing that Katie had planned to enroll there, but the association had not provided any useful information. He had not been sure what else to do. Driving to Hamilton and knocking on doors had seemed a bit extreme.

  It was for the best, he had decided. He could not imagine that a girl like Katie would still be single after ten years. Then, too, she might have changed. He might not find her as beautiful, as interesting, as funny as he had a decade ago. Locating her after ten years had seemed such a good idea at the time. Probably not, though. He had stopped searching.

  But about a month after he had mailed the last letters, Steven had been asked to consult with the Richmond Museum on an exhibit that was opening in late October. It would mirror one they were opening in New York and he had talked several times with Emma Middleton, one of the board members.

  Early that same week, when Emma and her husband, John, were in New York on a short holiday, they had stopped to see Steven, who had invited them to lunch. As they had talked, he had learned that Emma lived in Hamilton. Their conversation after that was now indelibly etched on Steven’s memory.

  “Emma, I once knew a girl from Hamilton,” Steven had told her. “I wonder if you know her, Katie Lee Jackson.”

  They’d been alone in a small Italian restaurant near the Museum, Emma’s husband having gone to use the telephone.

&
nbsp; Her response had been more than Steven could have hoped for.

  “She’s my niece—of course I know Katie. Although we’ve never been allowed to call her that. She’s always preferred Katherine.”

  Steven’s heart had pounded in his chest and he’d had to clench his fist to stop his hand from shaking.

  “I was a Jackson before I married. Still am, if you want to know the truth. How do you know Katherine?” A look of concern had crossed Emma’s face. She’d reached out and patted his arm. “Steven, are you all right? You look pale all of a sudden.”

  After a deep breath to steady himself, he’d replied.

  “Yes. Oh, yes, I’m all right.” His voice had been shaking. “Uh, Katie and I, we met in England, in the summer, about ten years ago. How is she getting along? Married, I guess. Children?”

  Again, Emma had spurred his hopes with her reply.

  “No children. Not married. Not engaged—not dating seriously, as far as I know. She went to UVA, you know. Graduated with honors. Emory Med School. Internship and residency in Atlanta. You know Katherine—focused, goal directed, no time for anything except school, and then work.”

  “Does she live in Richmond now?” he’d asked.

  “Oh, no. Wanted to be completely independent. Lives here in New York, actually. Works in the emergency room at one of the hospitals. I’ll have to ask John which one.”

  In spite of his excitement, he had tried to appear calm, casual. “That’s terrific. I’d love to call her sometime. Get reacquainted.”

  That was when Emma had looked at Steven, as if the pieces of a puzzle were falling into place. “You spent a lot of time with her in England?”

  “Well, off and on, I’d guess about five or six weeks.”

  “Her final two weeks?”

  “Uh, yes, about two weeks, right before she met her parents in Edinburgh.”

  “Katherine told me about a young man who’d helped her a great deal during those last two weeks. A place to stay, food to eat.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Emma had reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “You were very good to her. She was quite fond of you. Told me you were going to get married, that you were going to track her down in ten years.”

  It had sounded silly when Emma said it aloud, and Steven had admitted as much.

  “I’ve heard sillier things.” She’d pulled a piece of paper from her purse and had written Katie’s telephone number and address. “As I recall her story, you’re to find her before her birthday.”

  Shaking his head now, he still couldn’t believe he’d been so lucky. Steven looked at his watch. The flowers should have been delivered about three hours ago. He had given his office number in case she couldn’t make dinner. It was her birthday, after all, and she likely had plans. Or maybe she would not be interested. In any case, he’d been able to keep his promise.

  ***

  Katherine lay in bed, unable to sleep, wondering what she should do.

  They had promised to meet again, if they weren’t engaged or married. Actually, they had never really said if. They were handfasted, engaged, so, of course, the possibility of engagement or marriage to someone else would not have been issues. Steven had promised to find her—come hell or high water, as her father would say—in ten years.

  She wondered how he had located her, how he had found her address. How would you do that? That was sort of scary itself. Maybe he was in the CIA.

  She considered what he might look like, whether he was Becky’s “painter in the park.”

  She rolled over on her back and stared at the ceiling. “Oh, what should I do?”

  Often, when she had found herself unable to sleep, she would imagine what Steven might be doing. In her favorite scenario, she would picture him at his easel, painting a portrait of her.

  “What might he be doing right now?”

  She smiled. Unless he had changed, she decided he’d be doing the same thing she was—wondering about her, what she was like, what she was doing, if she will meet him for dinner. He’d be wondering if they’ll fall in love again.

  It’s just dinner, she finally decided. Just dinner!

  If I don’t like him, I’ll have spent an hour, maybe two. Big deal! If we like each other, she smiled at the thought, well…

  He’d asked her to call if she couldn’t make it, but she would call to let him know she would. Hear his voice. Letting him know that she was coming would be the nice thing to do.

  ***

  “Think about Prince Charming last night?” Becky was making coffee as Katherine stumbled into the kitchen the next morning.

  “Well, yes, once or twice.” Katherine smiled as she reached into the cupboard for a cup. “Thought about him. Dreamed about him.”

  “Dreamed about him? Tell! Tell!”

  “Roommates have no rights to dreams.”

  “That good?”

  “Leave her alone, Becky,” Sara mumbled, half asleep. “You’re just jealous.”

  “Jealous? I’m not jealous. Anthony sees to that.”

  “When was the last time he sent flowers?” Sara gestured toward the vase.

  “Are you going to dinner with him?” Becky asked, ignoring Sara’s teasing.

  “Yes, I am. It’s just dinner, after all. I mean, there won’t be a priest there. It’s dinner, not a wedding.”

  “You hope.”

  Katherine rolled her eyes. “If I don’t like him, I won’t see him again. Anyway, I need to go. I’ll meet your plane on Sunday night, Sara. Have a good trip, Becky.”

  ***

  It was chaos as Katherine walked into the ER. Patients lay in beds on both sides of the long hall. The sounds of voices, people moaning, people crying, filled the air.

  “Dr. Jackson! Dr. Jackson! We’ve been trying to find you.”

  “I’m here, Amelia. What happened?”

  “Pile up on the interstate. An eighteen-wheeler and a bunch of cars. We need all hands!”

  “Be right there!”

  Katherine stowed her tote bag and rushed back to the ER. She quickly got up to speed. The truck had plowed into a line of cars that had been stopped for another accident. At least fifty injured people lay in the ER and their relatives were beginning to arrive, filling the waiting room.

  At eleven thirty, over four hours later, she slumped into a chair in the break room. She felt as if she had been working for two days straight. The accident victims had been treated, most of them released, and the waiting room had begun to fill with “regular” patients.

  “Makes you long for private practice.” John Roberts, another doctor, sat down beside her. “I was supposed to leave over an hour ago.”

  “It’s never dull.” Katherine smiled.

  “I do need to go.” John stood and stretched. “Will you be all right?”

  “We’ll be fine, John. Get some sleep.”

  Katherine closed her eyes and savored the taste of her coffee. Not bad for break-room brew. An image of yellow roses passed through her mind and she remembered that she wanted to call Steven. Dr. Worth, the ER supervisor had left for lunch, so Katherine asked if she could use the telephone in his office. She found the card with Steven’s number.

  I wonder if he’ll recognize my voice.

  “Metropolitan Museum of Art. May I help you?”

  Katherine was suddenly confused. It was a woman with a foreign accent. The Museum? “Ah, I must have dialed the wrong, ah…” She quickly checked the number then recited it to the woman on the other end.

  “Yes, that is the right number. May I help you?”

  “Oh, well then, yes. I…that is, may I speak to Steven Richardson, please?”

  “Dr. Richardson is not available. May I take a message?”

  Doctor?

  “No. Well, yes. This is Katherine. Well, it’s Katie Jackson. Katie Lee Jackson. I was calling to tell Steven—to tell Dr. Richardson—to confirm that I’ll see him tomorrow night at six, at Villa Antonia.”

  Kath
erine sighed.

  I must sound like I’m crazy.

  There was a long pause.

  “So, the message is from Katie Lee Jackson?” The woman said her name slowly, as if she were making sure she had the correct version.

  “Yes, that’s right. Correct.”

  “I will give him the message, Ms. Jackson.”

  “Thank you. Oh, and I’m so sorry I seemed confused. I was just surprised. I mean I didn’t expect you to answer. I mean I didn’t know I was calling an office, and then I go by Katherine and Steven—Dr. Richardson—knew me as Katie, and…”

  She stopped talking—she was just making things worse.

  “That’s quite all right. I will give him the message.”

  “May I ask you something? What does Dr. Richardson do at the Museum?”

  There was another long silence and Katherine wondered if they had been disconnected.

  “Hello? Are you there?”

  She heard a sigh of exasperation.

  “Yes. I am here. Are you a friend of Dr. Richardson?”

  “An old friend. We haven’t seen each other in some time.”

  “Ah, I see. Dr. Richardson is an assistant curator in the Near Eastern Gallery.”

  “Oh.” Katherine winced and shook her head. Was that seriously the best response she could come up with? She usually considered herself an articulate woman.

  “Have a nice dinner, Ms. Jackson.”

  “Yes. You too—that is, have a nice day.” She rolled her eyes and hung up before she could say another word.

  “I certainly sounded like a twit,” Katherine mumbled to herself as she left Dr. Worth’s office. “An old friend! One who is meeting him for dinner, at an expensive restaurant, and doesn’t even know what he does for a living.”

  She stopped suddenly. “He’s a curator!” He had a real job. He wasn’t the painter in the park.