| |
Our wedding took place in the village church, just quarter of a mile from my father’s house. Father had never gone to church on a Sunday, so I’d had nobody to take me when I was younger, and had never picked up the habit since then. I’d always felt as though he didn’t like me to socialise too much with people in the village, preferring instead to keep us within our own society. He had taught me to say my prayers, which he said was enough, and had encouraged me to read the bible. I hadn’t missed church except that it would have given me more of an opportunity to meet people my own age.
Now my first entry was likely to be my last, in this church at least. I didn’t know about my husband. Perhaps he was a devout man. Father had told me nothing, and ignored all of my hints and more probing questions. I didn’t even know how they knew each other, or what line of business this man was in. As I picked my way up the crooked path that led between the graves and to the thick, black wooden door, I fought down panic at what was to come. I held Father’s arm, but felt little comfort from his presence. Yet he had agreed to this. He knew my husband. He would never send me anywhere he thought I wouldn’t be happy; I was sure of that. What father would? It was the natural inclination of a parent. He would know what was best of me. I had very little to complain of in my life thus far, and that had all been at his direction.
No music played, and I walked through the pews to the altar to the music of my own footsteps, the click of heels on the stone floor. The church was empty but for me, my father, the vicar, and the stranger I was to wed.
My fiancé stood with his back to me, and I stared at him with fearful interest through the cloud of my veil. As I moved closer, I saw that he was a slim man with dark hair that he wore slicked back from his brow. There was a tinge of grey in some places, and as I grew closer still, I saw it was beginning to thin slightly on top.
He wanted to marry me, I reminded myself. It followed therefore, surely, that he wanted us to be happy and would be as nervous as I. I watched him as I approached, and took his fidgeting with the cuffs of his well-fitting black coat as nerves.
Father dropped my arm as we drew level, and shuffled back to sit in one of the pews. I felt his loss. Mr Raynor and I turned towards the vicar, who seemed to be put out at performing the marriage on such short notice. Beneath the shade of my veil, I cast furtive glances towards my fiancé, trying to see more of his face. He was handsome, I thought, for a man so much older than me, although his eyes were small and his forehead high and slightly shiny. His nose was long and straight, his lips were firm, and he had a strong chin. I felt relieved, not knowing how I could have married a man with a weak chin. It was foolish, really, but I started to feel better. His bearing was good, and he gave the impression of strength and elegance. I was hopeful, for the first time in days.
I repeated the vicar as directed, and my voice quavered slightly as I did so. We turned, my soon-to-be husband and I, and rings were exchanged. He sounded excited and my heart lifted still higher.
Our vows completed, my husband reached forward, his eyes alight, and grasped the heavy ends of my veil. I could swear his hands shook a little as he slowly drew it upwards to reveal my face, and I smiled in readiness.
His mouth seemed to drop, and he stared at me for a few long moments, his brows furrowed. I saw him look past me, to where my father sat, then back to me, and back and forth again – for all the world as though he was reassuring himself that I was my father’s child. Then he dropped my veil, nodded curtly to the vicar and propelled me swiftly down the aisle towards the door. I looked back over my shoulder, but I couldn’t see my father. I think he must have left.