First Comes Marriage (21 page)

She never wondered about her court dress—the one in which she would be presented to the queen after her marriage.
That
was impossible to forget. For some bizarre reason, the queen insisted upon the fashions of the previous century, and so the dress had to be huge-skirted with an equally huge petticoat and a stomacher and a long train and tall feathers for her hair and other ridiculous accessories.

And Vanessa had to learn to walk in it and back up in it without tripping and toppling backward over the train—one was not, of course, permitted to turn one’s back on the queen as one left her presence. And she had to learn to curtsy to the queen until her nose almost touched the floor—but with infinite grace.

She did a great deal of laughing—as did Cecily—while she practiced. Even Cecily’s mother sometimes let go of her exasperation at Vanessa’s frequent clumsiness and failures and laughed too.

“But you must promise—you absolutely
must,
Vanessa,” she said, “not to collapse with mirth if you make a mistake on the day itself, which heaven forbid you will do. But
if
you do, you must efface yourself and make your exit as quietly and unobtrusively as you possibly can.”

They all dissolved into laughter again then as they enumerated and exaggerated all the ghastly things that could possibly go wrong.

“Vanessa,” her future mother-in-law said, holding her side when they had finally run out of ideas, “I do not know when I have laughed as much as I have since you joined us.”

They laughed a great deal too over the dancing lessons that had been arranged so that Cecily could brush up on her skills but in which Vanessa joined too. She had to learn to waltz. It was a dance she had scarcely even heard of let alone seen performed. But it was not difficult once one grew accustomed to the fact that it was danced exclusively with one partner, whom one held—and who held one—the whole time.

Vanessa had her hair cut. At first the stylist intended merely to take off a few inches, but when he discovered that there was a heavy wave in her hair—though nothing as attractive as Stephen’s curls—he cut it short in the newest fashion and styled it in such a way that it bounced about her head and cheeks and could be teased with fingers and tongs into curls and even ringlets for special occasions.

“Vanessa!” the viscountess exclaimed when she saw it. “I
knew
your hair had promise. I told you so, did I not? But I did not fully realize what short, wavy hair would do to fill out your narrow face. It emphasizes the classical lines of your cheekbones and the size of your eyes. Smile for me.”

Vanessa smiled and then shook with self-conscious laughter. She felt bald.

“Yes.” The viscountess looked critically at her. “You really do look quite pretty. In a unique way. You are an original.”

Which Vanessa supposed was a compliment.

She felt bald even so.

All her new clothes were pastel-shaded. The dress she would wear for her wedding was pale green—a lighter shade than the dress Hedley had bought her for the summer fete.

If she had not been so busy every day and so exhausted every night, she might have shed tears over her memories, over the fact that Hedley was not with her to share all the excitement. As it was she ruthlessly suppressed the memories—and the guilt—except when they popped up unbidden.

She also tried to think as little as possible about Viscount Lyngate, to whom she would be married within a month.

In memory he became more arrogant, more supercilious, more morose, more everything that was negative every time she thought of him.

She was going to have to work terribly hard if she hoped to fulfill her promise to make him happy, to please him, to... What was the other thing? Ah, yes. To make him comfortable.

And to keep him faithful.

The month galloped along far too quickly. She was not ready. She needed more time.

For what, though?

For everything!

But time would not, of course, stand still. The day inevitably came when she found herself in Viscount Lyngate’s carriage again with Lady Lyngate and Cecily, headed in the direction of Finchley Park and Warren Hall. Mr. Bowen rode beside them as an escort—he was to be the viscount’s best man at the wedding.

In just a few days’ time. The guests would be starting to gather already. They included Sir Humphrey and Lady Dew and

Henrietta and Eva. And Mrs. Thrush. And the Duke and Duchess of Moreland. Very soon she would see her betrothed again. Vanessa’s stomach performed an uncomfortable flip-flop, which she attributed to motion sickness.

12

THE ladies came home from London three days before the wedding. But very little time, not even the three days, was to be allowed him in order to get to know his bride better, Elliott discovered.

Perhaps it was just as well.

His grandparents had arrived from Kent. His aunts and uncles had come too and his cousins with their families. His paternal cousins, that was. Con, though invited at the request of the Huxtables, had declined. And of course his married sisters had come with their spouses and Jessica’s children. Finchley Park seemed very full.

Everyone was delighted with him. But it was his grandmother who put into words what they were all eager to agree with. It was after she had been over to Warren Hall with his grandfather to meet his bride.

“She is not a beauty, Elliott,” she said after her return—and in the hearing of all the rest of the family except Jessica’s children. “And that is a relief to me. You must have chosen her for qualities of character. She has an extremely pleasant disposition, though she was understandably nervous at meeting Moreland and me. I am pleased that you have shown so much good sense.”

“Or perhaps, Grandmama,” Averil suggested, “Elliott has fallen in love with her. I must confess I like her exceedingly well though I was rather surprised when I first saw her. She is not the sort of lady I would have expected to attract Elliott. But I could hardly catch my breath for laughing when she was describing her misadventures with the train of her presentation gown. I like someone who can laugh at herself.”

“I hope he
is
in love,” their grandmother said, looking hard at him. “
Are
you, Elliott?”

He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, very aware that every female eye was upon him. “I certainly have a regard for her, Grandmama,” he said carefully. “Give me time, and I daresay I will fall in love with her too.”

“Oh, men!” Jessica tossed her glance at the ceiling. “Be careful that you do not kill her with your ardor, Elliott.”

She was not a beauty, his grandmother had said. No, she was not. But he was shocked nevertheless when he saw her again—in company with his grandparents and his mother and sisters. He scarcely recognized her.

She was no longer wearing mourning—not even the hideous lavender. Neither, he noticed when he glanced at her left hand, was she wearing her wedding ring. She was dressed in a simple but stylish high-waisted dress of pale lemon. Both the color and the design flattered her.

But it was her hair that made her virtually unrecognizable. The new style suited her to perfection. It flattered her face, made it look fuller, less pale. It made her cheekbones more pronounced, her eyes larger. It somehow drew attention to her lips, which were generously sculpted and almost always curved upward slightly at the corners.

He felt that now-familiar but still somewhat puzzling stirring of desire at the sight of her. For even with the changes she really was no beauty.

But he had no private word with her and would not before the nuptials, it seemed. He was busy with his family, she with hers.

Sir Humphrey and Lady Dew had come with their two daughters. They had brought Mrs. Thrush, the Huxtables’ former housekeeper, with them. There were no other guests at Warren Hall, but Sir Humphrey could fill up a house all by himself. And Elliott preferred to keep his distance than be cornered into endless conversation with him.

Actually Elliott was surprised that the Dews had come at all. Would it not be painful for them to see their son’s widow remarry?

He endured the final days of his freedom with as much cheerful fortitude as he could muster. There was nothing he could do to avoid his fate now even if he wished to do so. He carefully avoided asking himself if he
did
wish it. It was a pointless question.

He dressed on the morning of his wedding with deliberate care and kept to his own rooms for as long as he was able. It was a ruse doomed to failure. If he was not going down to greet his family, they would—and did—come up to see him.

So he had to endure being hugged and wept over by all and sundry in the narrow confines of his dressing room.

And because it suddenly struck him full force that this was indeed his wedding day, that his life would forever change today, he hugged them all back and wrung his grandfather’s gnarled hand.

And finally he was on his way to the small family chapel in the park at Warren Hall, George Bowen beside him in the carriage.

“Not one word,” he instructed firmly when he heard his friend draw breath to speak. “Enough sentimental claptrap has been spoken this morning to give me nausea for a month. Not
one word
.”

“How about several, then?” George said with a grin. “Do you have the ring? You were supposed to give it to me after breakfast, but you did not come down to breakfast. You lost your appetite, I daresay. Weddings—one’s own wedding, that is—are said to do that.”

Elliott dug into a pocket and handed over the ring he had purchased in London.

“The kidneys were particularly delicious this morning,” George said, as if to himself. “Nice and greasy, the way I like them.”

“If you also like being my secretary,” Elliott said, “you will keep such thoughts—and all others for the remainder of this journey—to yourself, George.”

His friend chuckled and held his peace.

If Vanessa had hoped to have a private word with her betrothed—and she
had
so hoped—in order to ask him once more if he really minded marrying her or if he would prefer her to grant him his freedom, any such hope was dashed soon after her return from London.

She saw him only twice before her wedding day—once when he escorted the Duke and Duchess of Moreland and his two elder sisters to Warren Hall, and once when he brought his aunts and uncles and their offspring.

He looked positively morose both times, like a dark and bronzed Greek god who had been expelled from Mount Olympus for some heinous crime.

Both times he conversed with Margaret and Katherine and Stephen and made Vanessa an elaborate and formal bow and asked after her health.

His visits certainly did not aid her digestion as she awaited her wedding day.

Neither did the appearance of the duke and duchess, who were both very gracious and very kind—she almost confided to the duke that it was she who had proposed marriage to his grandson, not the other way around, but Viscount Lyngate was within earshot at the time and she supposed he might be annoyed at what he would surely construe as a slur on his manhood.

But even so, they were a real live duke and duchess. She was awed by them. And she was to marry their heir.

The presence of her mother- and father-in-law and her sisters-in-law did not help either. They were so pleased to see her again and so pleased to be at Warren Hall and to see Meg and Kate and Stephen. And they were so pleased that she was betrothed to Viscount Lyngate. Sir Humphrey even took full credit for bringing them together and told the duke and duchess so—in the viscount’s hearing. It was another of those occasions on which Vanessa would cheerfully have sunk through the floor if only it had been possible.

But Vanessa loved the Dews. And she knew they loved her. Soon she would no longer share their name. She would be married to someone else.

Surely they must feel some sadness.

And of course they did. On the night before the wedding, when she was bidding them good night, Vanessa kissed Lady Dew on the cheek and hugged her as she had used to do each night, and she had smiled at Sir Humphrey as she had always done. But then she had hugged him impulsively—very tightly about the neck, her face buried against his shoulder, and had felt as if her heart would break.

“There, there,” he said, patting her on the back. “You were good to our boy, Nessie. More than good. He died a happy man. Far too young, it is true, but happy nevertheless. And all because of you. But he is gone now and we must live on. You must be happy again, and we must be happy to see it. Viscount Lyngate is a good man. I picked him out for you myself.”

“Papa.” She laughed shakily at the absurdity. “May I always call you that? And Mama?”

“We would be mortally offended if you ever called us anything else,” he said.

And Lady Dew got to her feet to share the hug.

“When you have children, Nessie,” she said, “they must call us Grandmama and Grandpapa. They will be our grandchildren, you know, just as surely as if you had had them with Hedley.”

It was almost too much to bear.

Vanessa was glad they stayed out of her dressing room the next morning. Mrs. Thrush insisted upon being there, of course, fussing over Vanessa and getting in the way of the maid who had come down from London to work for Meg and Kate. And everyone else came there.

“Lord, Nessie,” Stephen said, looking her up and down in her pale spring-green dress and pelisse with the absurdly festive flower-trimmed straw hat that Cecily had spotted at one of the milliners they had visited in London. Her hair curled and bounced beneath its brim. “You look as fine as fivepence. And years younger than you did when you went away to London.”

He was looking very smart indeed, with far more
presence
than he had had when they left Throckbridge. Vanessa told him so and he waved off the compliment with a careless hand.

Kate was biting her lower lip.

“And to think,” she said, “that just a few weeks ago Meg was darning stockings, Stephen was translating Latin texts, I was romping with the infants at school, and you were at Rundle Park, Nessie. And now here we are. And today brings the greatest change of all.”