The afternoon was idyllic, the warmth tempered by the faintest breeze, with only the tiniest clouds scudding through the sky. London was looking as handsome as it could. On the way to the church the wedding guests glimpsed the park, the riders in Rotten Row, the great houses on Park Lane, and every window box in Wilton Row was crammed with flowers: the whole city seemed to be celebrating the happy occasion.
As the guests filled the church, you could hardly imagine a mere two families could have so many friends, but the ushers were well prepared. English on the left, Germans on the right. Like two armies. That was the principle, but there were so many more English that after a while the ushers put the bride’s friends on the bridegroom’s side. ‘Let’s invade Germany,’ the English ushers muttered to one another, amused.
They were the nicest sort of Germans, you could see that at once. Watching the groom’s family arriving, the congregation agreed that you’d hardly know they weren’t English. Their clothes were almost exactly right: the men’s tail coats fitted immaculately, the women’s clothes were all they should be, the bridegroom’s mother had chosen the ideal hat for a woman of her years, dark blue with a discreet display of ostrich feathers that suited her serene features and her fine black hair. It was evidently a large family, led by the short and undeniably stout but amiable-looking father and this dignified mother. There were at least two brothers and several sisters, and men who must be brothers-in-law. The German ushers had beautiful manners, and spoke excellent English. Only their hair showed they were not English; it was cut unusually, in a straight wave over the head, with precisely delineated edges.
The groom was most presentable, tall and fair. The best man had to be one of his brothers, a slightly shorter, cheerful-looking version of him. They chatted easily to one another. Their morning coats were impeccable and must have been made in London. The bridegroom had apparently spent years in England studying architecture, it was not surprising he understood English ways. Irene Benson could hardly have done better, that was the consensus. It was said the groom’s father occupied a position at the Kaiser’s court, his mother came from a landed family. How could one believe the stories about war with Germany when one saw such a family?
‘They’re so like us,’ they murmured in the pews.
‘And look at our own royal family. . .’
‘And our beautiful new Queen Mary, such a fine young woman, and as German as can be.’
On the other side of the aisle sat the Bensons. Mrs Benson – small and slender, her face recalling youthful prettiness, her hair richly auburn – was extravagantly dressed. Her green hat was assertive, its ostrich feathers sweeping dashingly upwards so that when she moved, the upper extremities shook. Her dark green costume opened to reveal a handsomely embroidered blouse secured at the neck with a bronze-coloured neckband.
There was much whispering about her clothes.
‘She does look fine, doesn’t she? What a beautiful dress, most fashionable. Do you think she found it in Woollands? Or could she have gone to Paris, to Worth, even?’
‘It’s quite possible. They live very comfortably, you know. They say he is doing very well at the Bar. . .’
‘Yes, you’re always seeing his name in the papers – big cases. . .’
Mrs Benson gazed ahead, suppressing tears that were not due until later. Her son, a slight-looking young man, came to sit beside her, and there were some aunts and uncles and cousins. Clustered together was a group of young people who must be Irene’s artistic friends, the women in ill-fitting sludge-coloured dresses with fussy embroidery, and soft velvet hats, who surprised the congregation’s wandering gaze.
‘What odd-looking people. Who can they be?’
‘She was at the Slade, you know. She must have met them there.’
‘Look at that long hair, some of the men have hair on their shoulders. Artists, yes, I suppose they must be.’
‘Not even wearing morning dress. It’s too bad.’
‘I’ve heard she refused to be presented at court.’
‘Well, at least she agreed to a proper wedding.’
Everyone was set to enjoy the occasion. Why, complete strangers spoke to their neighbours in the pews, so friendly was the atmosphere.
The church was full. Even in St Paul’s Knightsbridge with its hundreds of seats there was hardly a spare place. The building trembled with polite rustling, waving of hands, craning of necks, whispering to spouses. The people in the galleries – the Bensons’ long-serving maids, clerks from his chambers, that sort of person – stared downwards. The guests below never looked up.
Ten minutes late, there was a bustle at the west entrance. The whispering gave way to an eager hush, the organ burst into a matrimonial march. The west doors were thrown open to admit Mr William Benson, with his daughter on his arm. His saturnine face was as composed as though he were entering a law court – appropriately for a King’s Counsel. But at the sight of the silks and muslins and feathers of the ladies spreading among the black morning coats like wild flowers across a ploughed field, the faces in the galleries merging into a single eager countenance, the white lilies in long silver vases, the sunlight transmuted into patterns of blue and pink and striking the face of groom and best man, his features softened. Though many could not see Irene’s face, they could all admire her tall slender figure in white satin stitched with pearls, and the lace cascading from the chaplet of flowers. She was followed by two little girls and a taller girl, all in gold dresses, and two small pages, their soft complexions adorned with drops of sweat, like little jewels.
Thomas Curtius turned and looked down the aisle. He looked concerned; it was a serious moment. The bride, encumbered by the drooping richness of satin, was a long while walking up the aisle. She moved proudly, upright and elegant. When she reached the front of the church she turned towards her family and gave the tiniest wave. Finally she reached the bridegroom. Then she threw back her veil in a bold, careless gesture, the lace tumbling round her, reached her hand towards him, smiled. Who would not be happy to receive such a smile, so frank, trusting, loving? Silently but powerfully, the congregation expressed its approval. They were a beautiful couple. They were clearly destined for happiness.
At St Paul’s they celebrated weddings almost every week, and the machinery was faultless. The vicar – handsome, urbane, silver-haired, as much at home in a drawing room as at an altar – assumed the air of kindly dignity, subtly modulated to fit the couple’s social status, that he had refined over several hundred ceremonies. The choirboys, hair smoothed, faces shining, rapidly inspected bride and bridesmaids before languidly surveying the congregation. They sang with melting beauty. The best man produced the ring at precisely the right moment. The couple’s responses were clear and confident. It was a perfect wedding. Except for the bird.
The bird was only a little bird – a swift, could it be? – but a noticeable one. People became aware of a faint fluttering that turned out to be beating wings. During the exchange of vows, a dark shape flew towards the middle of the church, and for a moment hung in the air. People involuntarily followed its progress round the church. The vicar, while smoothly intoning ‘. . . let no man put asunder. . .’, thought, I told Sturgess not to leave the gallery window open, it really is maddening. Then the bird halted, somewhere. It had not gone. As the organ burst into the ‘Wedding March’, it re-emerged and flew towards the chancel, landed on the altar rail to the amusement of the choristers, set out on another flight, its wings beating hard, narrowly avoided the altar, aimed for the east window. As though seeking escape, it flew against the glass, once, and then again, and then once more.
As the bridal pair reached the west door, the bird fell heavily into a mysterious space behind the altar, and did not reappear.