the Dalaverse

Some Weatherby introspection, inspired by photos of the good governor's (beautiful) wedding outfit found in justawench's galleries and geek_mama_2's recent picspam. Thanks to them and to gryphons_lair for additional costume info. Takes place just before the start of DMC, no spoilers.



Who Gives This Woman


"There you are, Governor. And it all looks quite fine, if I may say so."

"Thank you, Giles." Weatherby squared his shoulders, studying his reflection with a critical eye. As the event itself was going to be a smaller affair than originally planned, he had spared no expense on clothing the wedding party, himself included. He'd had to discreetly wipe away a few tears when Elizabeth's dress was finally fitted, and he was sure William would cut a fine figure in his suit. "That will be all."

The manservant nodded and slipped out through the door, leaving Weatherby alone before the mirror. The rich embroidery on satin coat and brocade waistcoat pleased him. He would admit to a taste for elegant clothing, but he didn't think he'd worn anything so bright since his own wedding day. The thought caused him to sigh and meet his own eyes, set off by shades of blue and green. Even after all these years, the memory was as bittersweet as the marriage had been.

Mary had just turned seventeen, a shy girl who missed her country estate and was ill at ease in both her new husband's London home and his politician's circle of friends. In temperament and breeding they were well-matched, but he had quickly learned that such considerations were not necessarily the best foundation. She put on a brave face and tried to be happy, tried to forget the sweetheart she had left at her parents' bequest; for his part, Weatherby pretended not to notice her melancholy or the letters that came from Derbyshire every now and again.

Despite everything he'd loved her dearly, for her sweetness and her delicate beauty. He had hoped that, given time, they would settle into a more companionable relationship, especially as her belly grew round with their child. With the hindsight of time, he now wondered if he'd been a fool to hope so. She had grown pale and distant in the last weeks of her pregnancy and shown little interest after Elizabeth was born, though he supposed this was also due to her failing health. Guilty at never having seen fit to marry again, he had painted Elizabeth such a vibrant picture of her mother that he'd nearly forgotten how Mary had faded away at the end.

His pristine white collar was a bit tight; he rubbed at an itch and rearranged the stock on his breast. Never mind his own fears and doubts over the suitability of a blacksmith for his only child. Elizabeth had always been a girl who knew her own mind. He liked to think he had raised her to make intelligent and informed choices, and he would not now take the choice of her heart from her.

Settling his hat on the crisp curls of a new wig, he glanced out the window and prayed the gathering clouds would open on neither silk nor lace nor his daughter's wedding day.