Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman…
A wide shaft of sunlight slanted through the high glass window and illuminated the bowed head of the bride. Her mass of shining dark hair gleamed through her tulle veil. Her slender form, draped in soft white satin, looked too frail for the heavy, ivory velvet train which fell from her shoulders in smooth folds as she stood beside her tall, broad-shouldered bridegroom. Close behind her was the first of her bridesmaids, tall and supple, her golden hair shimmering under its wreath of moss roses, her lovely face serious and attentive.
The Dowager Marchioness of Andover, elegant in subtle shades of silver-grey and the palest lavender, her fine features enhanced by one of Paquin’s most exquisite confections of velvet and ostrich plumes, looked on approvingly.
A very pleasing wedding; the bridegroom not, of course, as well-endowed with worldly goods as one might have hoped – but still, Emily was a practical girl, and only one’s step-granddaughter, after all. A classical beauty; Lady Clarence had, it was well known, hoped for an elder son for her, but Emily had shown surprising determination in one so well-behaved and otherwise so biddable. It was ironic, reflected the Dowager, that it should be Lady Clarence’s own daughter who had, despite all her mother’s care, formed an attachment so young, not even out of the schoolroom; and then remained so amazingly faithful. Still, the Fortescues had always been a rather boring family…
The Dowager pulled herself up sharply; really, one should be delighted at the thought of a lifetime of fidelity in front of a bride on her wedding day! And dear Emily, so upright, she would never know what she had missed…
The Dowager’s eyesight, keen as ever, detected a faint ripple of movement in the satin-clad shoulders of the chief bridesmaid. Darling May, now, there was a difference! May reminded her of herself as a young girl, so impulsive, even headstrong – a little too much of her mother in her, perhaps. Still, as a younger son Clarence had had to make a choice: breeding, beauty and wealth were so seldom allied in this unfair world, and he had certainly secured two of the three in young Mary Frears. And then, after her early death, having lost the beauty but still in possession of a considerable portion of the wealth, he had married breeding. There had been no doubt of that with the widowed Lady Julia Fortescue – and so much propriety. The Dowager cast a covert glance through her eyelashes at her daughter-in-law in the front pew…
‘But reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God…’
Lady Clarence Winton’s face expressed her accustomed unruffled composure, her gaze steady on the couple at the chancel steps as she ticked off in her mind all the arrangements for the wedding breakfast. Haines and Mrs Jameson were models of efficiency: she would not have retained their services long had they not been, but one needed a firm hand on the reins. Nothing must go awry on a day like this.
Dear Emily! William Target was a worthy young man with a promising career ahead of him, but who would have believed her gentle daughter would prove so stubborn? And have formed such a lasting preference at so early an age? Such a success as she had been in her first Season, Lord Caistor so interested, his family one of the oldest in the country, his estates totally unencumbered. Lady Clarence could still remember her astonishment at Emily’s firm reply: ‘I cannot accept his proposals, Mamma, my affections are otherwise engaged.’ So unlike her docile Emily, one did wonder – May’s influence? ‘There has been no concealment, Mamma. I have had no communication with Lieutenant Target since he left England, but my own feelings remain unchanged.’ Not that she had ever had any fears of that nature with regard to Emily, always so upright and correct, though no doubt May had preached rebellion.
At this point Lady Clarence’s sense of justice reasserted itself. She must not be unfair, there was nothing underhand in May’s nature either; whatever her other faults her step-daughter was always open. Too much so sometimes: direct defiance would have been her response in a similar situation. Yet she had so many good qualities too… but if only it had been May standing before the altar now; if ever a young woman needed the firm, guiding hand of a husband, surely it was May!
‘Who giveth this Woman to be married to this Man?’
Lady Clarence’s attention turned to her husband. He would, of course, perform his task impeccably, she had given him full instructions, but a wife’s responsibilities never lapsed…
Lord Clarence Winton stepped forward and placed his step-daughter’s hand in that of her future husband. Then, with the distinguished bearing which characterised all his movements, he strode back to the place reserved for him.
A good girl, Emily, one of the best. Should have been given away by old Chippenham, but she’d insisted he was to be the one to escort her down the aisle; had explained so prettily to her uncle, no one had been offended. Tactful girl, she deserved a good husband, and William was a fine youngster, he’d make his way.
A very pleasant occasion, everything going off like clockwork; but then, what event organized by Julia ever dared to be less than perfect? Perfection like that was not always comfortable around the house, but she knew what was due to a husband, no question of that. His autumn shooting and winter hunting, never a word of interference, unlike some wives he could mention; Old Squiffy Wortham, for instance; and Maud Wortham, she’d been a goer in her day, too – never a hint of that with Julia, by God no!
His duties in the ceremony safely over, Lord Clarence turned his gaze to his own daughter.
The very image of her mother, though May stood up straighter; that was Julia’s doing. Mary had tended to stoop a little: she’d bent over his arm as they’d walked down the aisle together, twenty-three years ago next month! Dammit, it seemed like another lifetime. They’d all believed he’d been after her money; thought he’d pulled off a clever coup; but it hadn’t been like that, he’d been head over heels the minute he’d clapped eyes on her, over at old Benson’s place in Wiltshire – a lovely girl, and so young.
She’d not looked a day older when they’d carried her in from the fields on a hurdle, that bitter winter of ’84, with May just a babe in the nursery. He’d never borne to see her hunt, she knew why; that was one decision she’d never argued with, though she was her mother’s daughter, full of life and spirit.
Terrible time, that, just couldn’t take it in for years. Lucky he’d met Julia. Young May had been left to the servants: his mother had her own social life. Dora had offered, of course, but he’d not wanted to lose her like that, swallowed up in the Stemhalton nursery. Both of them out of control, really; he’d been drinking too much and May had been giving her governesses the slip and running wild. Julia had soon seen to that – strong sense of duty, Julia, knew what was right and what was wrong. Poor little May, it hadn’t been an easy time for her: a clash of wills there, but you could back a woman in her thirties against a ten year-old any day, especially a woman like Julia.
May had learnt the wisdom of submission, well, most of the time; and Julia was fair, no doubt about that. Bent over backwards to treat the two girls alike, though there’d never been any doubt which one cost her the most trouble. Emily had never caused a moment’s anxiety until the business with young Target here, and even then she’d behaved so correctly – she wasn’t her mother’s daughter for nothing. Always been a nice little girl, though, and she and May so close; pity about India, Emily had been the peacemaker: could be a collision course ahead.
If only May would make up her mind to take young Yoxford, nice enough youngster, could have sworn she had an eye for him. Come to that, she could do worse than think of her cousins. Not Bertie, perhaps, bit of a stuffed shirt, but surely Archie was lively enough for her; a younger son, of course, but May would have more than enough for both…
‘Lord have mercy upon us…’
His mind already dwelling on the rest of the day’s festivities, Lord Archibald Winton twitched the faultless creases of his trousers into position on the hassock; his uncle’s cellar was famous, and you could always rely on Aunt Julia to provide a tip-top do. Poor old Aunt Ju, two such beauties to bring out and they’d already turned down five titles between them, to his certain knowledge! Not to speak of that American millionaire who’d been hanging round May, all set to reverse the trade in transatlantic heiresses. And all to no avail: Emily had apparently only wanted steady old William from the moment she’d first set eyes on him, at a nursery tea party, while May – May didn’t know what she did want.
Archie risked a glance over the bowed heads to May’s white back and golden mass of hair under its demure wreath of roses. Who’d have thought chubby little May would turn into such a stunner!
She’d always been a good sport, though, up to anything, and never complaining or peaching; not even when he and Bertie had pushed her up that tree and left her stranded for hours. What a state her clothes had been in by the time the footman arrived with the ladder! Nanny had marched her straight off to Lady Clarence, and then what a telling-off! She’d kept mum, though, just stuck out her lower lip and refused to answer, even though mending her best dress had cost her a few afternoons confined to barracks in the nursery. Mind, she had got her own back; he still shuddered to think of his embarrassment over that business with the horse.
Yes, despite Lady Clarence being such a disciplinarian, she’d had a real tussle persuading May to toe the line; perhaps it was Emily’s influence which had eventually taught May the wisdom of some degree of discretion, at least. Funny the two girls got on so well; Emmie was so different, never put a foot wrong – but she’d never split on the others, either. Pity she was going to India, May would miss her. She wouldn’t take kindly to being Aunt Ju’s only ewe lamb – the ‘distilled essence of chaperons’, that was what Bertie had called their aunt once, and how right he’d been!
The bride, her veil thrown back from a face glowing with happiness, prepared to walk down the aisle on the arm of her chosen husband. In a single, graceful movement the chief bridesmaid shook out her train to lie, fully extended, on the carpet. The organ rang out and the ancient church quivered with the resounding peal of the bells. It had been a most pleasing wedding.