Chapter Thirty-Eight

London, October 1923

Sun streamed through the ancient stained-glass windows above the altar as Eve walked down the aisle on Porchy’s arm. He was kind to her that day when he stepped into his father’s shoes to give her away. St. Margaret’s was an elegant church with pretty stone arches running along either side of the pews. She was aware of the whispers and giggles of the little flower girls behind, who looked like Botticelli cherubs. She imagined Pups’s spirit was there, floating somewhere in the atmosphere, wishing her well. If it were at all possible, she knew he wouldn’t miss his daughter’s wedding day.

Brograve looked taller and lankier than ever as he stood at the altar, and she smiled. Although she was wearing the most vertiginous high heels she could find, their height difference made them look as if they were different species—like a giraffe marrying a deer. She grinned at Maude, Emily, and Lois, all dressed in matching mauve satin gowns and looking beautiful, each in their own way.

When she reached the front of the church, Brograve took her hand and held it throughout the ceremony, as if to anchor her. All the same, tears came when the minister pronounced them man and wife. Pups would have been so proud. She could hear Almina sniffling in the front row—only the second time Eve had ever heard her mother cry.

Next it was time for photographs: group ones, family ones, individual ones; the photographer herded them around till he had all the pictures he wanted. They had decided not to hang around for a party but to catch a boat train to Paris that evening. Eve changed into a cream linen traveling outfit, knocked back a glass of champagne, and tossed her orange blossom bouquet over her shoulder. It was caught by a young cousin of Brograve’s, who looked a little unnerved.

Then at last they were alone together in a private carriage, legally wedded man and wife.

* * *

Brograve had arranged for some Bollinger and a light supper to be served in the train carriage, which had a table, armchairs, and a fold-down bed in the corner by the window. They sat and picked at the food, sipping champagne, and Eve felt nervous. Would he want to make love to her here, on the train, or would he wait till they reached Paris? Emily had told her what to expect, in some detail, and had warned her that it would hurt the first time but that the pain passed quickly, to be replaced by “indescribable” pleasure.

He held out his hand to pull her onto his lap and when they kissed, he seemed tentative, although there was no doubting the lust they felt for each other. She pressed herself against his body and kissed him till she was in a frenzy of desire. She could feel that he had stiffened beneath his trousers, but she was nervous that the guard might interrupt them, so she pulled away and reached for her champagne glass.

“I have a wedding present for you,” he said. “I couldn’t bring it with me but I have a photograph.”

He pulled it from his jacket pocket and handed it over. It showed a foal, a newborn by the looks of things, its twig-like legs bowed, unused to bearing weight.

Eve stared at him in astonishment. “Did you buy him? Or is it a her?”

“Yes. Porchy helped me choose. He’s a bay, born to the Derby winner Endicott. I thought you might stable him at Highclere, and that will give you lots of opportunities to visit. I know how much you miss it.”

“You bought me a horse!” It was such a magnificent gift, she couldn’t take it in.

“We can visit him as soon as we get back from Paris. I left it for you to name him.”

Eve looked from the photograph to her husband’s grinning face and felt tears coming. It was the most thoughtful gift she’d ever received. The name flashed into her head: “Miraculous,” she said. “Because he’s a little miracle.”

“So are you,” Brograve said, touching her cheek. “You are my little miracle.”

* * *

The honeymoon was not the romantic idyll Eve had dreamed of when they first got engaged because she couldn’t shed her sadness. They ate some wonderful French food and drank fine wines, and every night they had a flutter in a casino, just as she knew Pups used to do when he was in Paris. By day they caught a steamboat along the Seine, climbed the Eiffel Tower, strolled in the Tuileries, and visited Sacré-Coeur in Montmartre. Eve had to trot to keep up with Brograve because one of his steps was equivalent to two or three of hers.

The biggest shock was that, despite the passion she felt for her new husband, the physical side of marriage did not come easily. On the first night in their hotel suite, in a four-poster bed with hangings embroidered in gold thread, they attempted to make love, but it was so painful for Eve that they had to give up. It wasn’t a slight pain, like a headache after drinking too much gin, or a finger accidentally slashed on a kitchen knife; this was excruciating, as though her flesh were being ripped apart, and she screamed out loud.

Brograve was distraught to have hurt her so badly, while Eve was distressed to have failed at the first hurdle in her new role as his wife. Something must be wrong with her. Married couples the world over performed this act; why couldn’t she?

“We’re both tired,” Brograve said, kissing her forehead. “And there’s no rush. We have all the time in the world.”

She insisted on trying again the following night, and the next, but it was too painful to proceed. By their last night in Paris, two weeks later, they had still not managed to consummate their marriage and it cast a cloud on the romance. Over a quiet dinner in Montmartre, Eve asked Brograve a question that had been on her mind.

“Have you ever made love to a girl before? You can tell me the truth. I don’t mind if you say yes.”

“No.” He shook his head straightaway. “I always wanted to wait till I was married. During the war there were opportunities—French girls who would do it for food or money—but the men who tried usually ended up with syphilis.”

“Good. I’m glad we will be each other’s only lovers,” she said, squeezing his knee under the table.

“Maybe if I had more experience . . .” he began, but didn’t finish the sentence.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” Eve said. She had been experimenting in their bathroom and realized there was enough room inside her. “I seem to tense up when you try to enter.”

“You’re still traumatized by your father’s death,” he said. “I’m in no rush. We’re both young and healthy, and I’m sure it will simply happen one day.”

Eve wasn’t so sure. If the problem lay in her being too tense, perhaps there was a solution. She gulped down her glass of Saint-Émilion and gestured for the waiter to refill it. When the bottle was empty, she motioned for him to bring another. Brograve looked bemused but didn’t attempt to stop her.

Eve was so plastered she had to cling to his arm as she staggered back to the hotel. As soon as they were in their room, she stripped off her gown and pushed him backward onto the bed, unfastening the buttons at the front of his trousers.

“Now!” she said. “Do it to me now!”

It still hurt a lot, and there was blood on the gold coverlet, but she and Brograve were joined properly for the first time. As she lay in his arms afterward, with a throbbing between her legs and the beginnings of a hangover jabbing her temples, she was happy. There were times in life, she thought, when you just had to push through pain in order to get to the other side.

* * *

Brograve sensed that Eve wasn’t listening to the conversation with Maude and Cuthbert. She was staring out the Savoy River Room’s window, watching the boats go by on the Thames, and hadn’t touched the finger sandwiches on her plate.

“I can still speak French,” she announced suddenly. “Je peux encore parler français. I just realized that. It means I’ll be able to talk to people when we go to Paris.”

She was excited and Brograve felt warm inside. “Those years of childhood lessons with a French tutor paid off. You’ve always been more fluent than I am.”

He noticed Maude and Cuthbert glancing at each other, just quickly, and he knew what they were thinking: Eve wasn’t herself again, not yet. Maybe she never would be. But in all the ways that mattered she was still the woman he’d married, and he loved her more than ever.