'My dear,' Charity stammered, once she had managed to overcome her initial surprise, 'your outfit is… er… startling. And certainly very original!'
She spun round from the mirror to allow Charity to examine more closely the outfit she had chosen, not out of sentiment, but because she could not have borne to carry out the pretence of marriage wearing white satin and a puritanical veil. The marriage was to be no more than a farce, therefore the theatrical costume would help her to keep her fears in perspective.
Charity's breath caught in her throat when she felt the full impact of a lovely young bride dressed all in black—black velvet that enveloped her slender limbs from neck to toe, from shoulder to wrist. A flower-embroidered, ribbon-trimmed bodice helped detract a little from the severity, as did a large jewelled medallion hanging from a heavy gold chain that reached to below her waist. But solemnity was again reinforced by a neck ruff of white pleated cotton and a coif of the same material that framed her face like petals fringing the heart of a flower.
Charity felt overawed, stunned, then just a little bit doubtful. 'My dear,' she began uneasily, 'Rolf is very much a man of today, no doubt he appreciates tradition as much as we all do, provided,' she hesitated, 'he doesn't have to become personally involved.'
When Claire's eyebrows rose in pretended puzzlement, she stumbled on, 'What I'm really trying to say is, I know it's absolutely taboo for the bridegroom to see the bride's outfit before the day of the wedding, but I've gathered from Rolf's conversation that he's expecting to see his bride wearing white, so won't your appearance come as a terrific shock?'
Her feelings of unease was not in the least placated when, looking suspiciously gratified, Claire smiled sweetly and cooed:
Oh, I do hope not. That would be a terrible shame…!'
Aunt Effie's bustling entry into the room precluded further probing on Charity's part.
'My dear,' her aunt clasped her hands together in a furore of happy anticipation, 'the whole island seems to have turned out for the wedding! How clever of you to have planned an authentic Nordic ceremony during this, our Millennium Year! The visitors are absolutely agog. Now,' she crossed to the dressing table, 'let me help you on with your crown! Isn't it fortunate,' she beamed at Charity, 'that my brother never felt tempted to dispose of this heirloom? In the old days, it was every girl's ambition to wear the traditional silver crown, but of course many of them had to make do with a fillet of myrtle or tinsel. However, the crown of chastity, as it was then known, was considered to be so important that it became common practice to keep a silver crown at the church to be lent to girls who were too poor to provide a coronet of their own. There!' Having placed the crown to her satisfaction she stepped back to admire her handiwork and to appeal to Chastity, 'Doesn't she look simply superb?'
In spite of her misgivings Charity had to agree that Claire's waxen cheeks and cloud-grey eyes framed inside a pristine coif had been lent a haunting fragility by the contrasting depth of dramatic velvet that was hugging her curves so closely every movement brought a reminder of supple, feline grace. Apropos nothing she could name, she felt a sudden surge of sympathy on Rolf's behalf, wondering at his nerve in aspiring to marriage with a girl who carried her magnificent garb with such dignity and who wore her silver crown with all the panache of an imperious queen.
'Oh, isn't it romantic!' Aunt Effie twittered, quite carried away. 'I do love recreating the past, don't you, Mrs MacLeod? I'm just a little bit disappointed that we're not to emulate the form of marriage by capture, the old Nordic custom of a would-be bridegroom capturing his bride at the very door of the church as she was about to be married to another.'
When a deathly silence fell she became aware, in spite of her excitement, that she had committed a dreadful faux pas. Colour rose in her cheeks as, keeping her eyes averted from Claire's expressionless face, she mumbled, 'Forgive me, my dear—I'll go and tell your father you're ready.'
The doubts Charity had been harbouring were immediately confirmed. Concern for Rolf sharpened her tone as she demanded of Claire, 'Will Jonathan be attending the wedding?'
'I certainly hope so.' Coolly, Claire put her firmly in her place. 'On such an occasion one needs the support of one's oldest and dearest friend.'
The one concession that had been made to present-day comfort was the car that carried Claire, her father, and her aunt to the tiny parish church built of stone, with low walls, a much-weathered roof and a turret from which was issuing a frantic peal of bells. It had no grandeur, no architectural pretensions, but was merely a plain, spotlessly white, rectangular building with a black roof of Manx slate, the usual east window and west doors.
Claire had been christened at its small stone font, had worshipped there since childhood and because she drew from its atmosphere an inner strength she had insisted, in spite of her father's strong arguments that it was too small to accommodate the expected number of guests, that she would consider no other church, even if it meant that best part of the congregation had to remain outside. But it soon became evident from the number of cheering, waving people lining the route to the church that no existing place of worship on the island would have been spacious enough to contain the cram of sightseers that fell into stunned silence, then erupted into an appreciative roar when Claire stepped with the aplomb of a leading lady out of the car.
Solely with the aim of discomfiting her unsuspecting bridegroom, Claire had arranged for the Nordic ceremony to take place out of doors on a raised dais, a wicked piece of guile which no doubt accounted for the thunderous frown she glimpsed on his face as uneasily he waited—as a bit actor awaits his cue —beneath the porch at the entrance to the church. Fiercely glad that she had managed to plead prettily and successfully with her father that the New-World Canadian would strongly oppose any personal involvement in archaic customs, and that the success of the pageant depended solely upon his remaining ignorant of procedure, she approached the church, walking between her father and her aunt, each holding her by an arm, pulling her forward as she enacted the signs of reluctance once considered essential of a shy Nordic bride.
Attired in a black cut-away coat, grey waistcoat, and pinstriped trousers, her bridegroom seemed un-certain how to react when she approached him. She had hoped to make him appear incongruous, but she had to acknowledge that she had not completely succeeded. Undoubtedly, anger was simmering beneath the surface, but outwardly he looked calm, dignified, and quite extraordinarily handsome.
She was dragged passed him, still simulating reluctance, and set down upon a ceremonial chair. Six girls chosen from a nearby village moved forward to hold over her head a canopy of shawls to keep her protected from evils, then her father placed upon her feet shoes which tradition decreed had to have neither buckle, strap, button, nor other fastening if she were to hope for easy delivery in childbirth. He then placed a silver coin in the right shoe and her aunt a gold one in the left, to ensure her future prosperity.
Betraying an expression that was markedly cynical, Rolf Ramsey moved forward when instructed, to be joined with her in pagan matrimony by a Viking 'priest' whose muttered, unintelligible words gave rise within her to an hysterical urge to giggle. All during the ceremony she looked for a sign of awkwardness or embarrassment, but her bridegroom carried out his duties with dignified aplomb, reacting so promptly to his cues that it was impossible to guess he had not had the benefit of even one rehearsal. When a lighted candle was pushed towards her, signalling the culmination of the ceremony, she passed her hand lightly over the flame, symbolising that she was cleansed of any evil influence that might still have been clinging to her from her former life, then she rose to her feet and felt tempted to sweep a curtsey when, with a burst of applause, their audience showed its appreciation. But the temptation subsided when, after a quick sideways glance, she read resentment in her bridegroom's rigid jaw. Elated by this confirmation that her plan to humiliate him, to make him feel a complete outsider, was succeeding, she indulged in a smile of triumph as side by s
ide they walked into the church where a minister was waiting to proceed with the legal marriage ceremony. But triumph faded with the echo of her first footstep against the stone-paved floor.
The interior of the church was dim; an organ was softly playing and as a choir of children began to sing she shivered, chilled by a blast of cool solemnity.
'I take thee …to my wedded husband … to have and to hold ... from this day forward…'
It could not be her voice making those meaningless promises to this stranger standing so stiffly erect by her side, the lean planes of his face made to look even more alien by flickering shadows cast from candles set in sconces that were imitating the spears that had served a dual purpose during the days when marriage by capture was common, masquerading as candleholders during the ceremony, but available for defence in case of attack.
'To love and to cherish… till death us do part…'
Her bridegroom's voice held no trace of the negligent drawl she had come to associate with him. He sounded as darkly earnest as he looked when he slid a heavy gold ring on to the third finger of her left hand, the finger from which the vena amoris, the vein of love, was purported to run straight to the heart. She did not lift her head to return his light kiss, but remained with eyes downcast, fighting an astonishing feeling of shame at having cheated him of a memory cherished by most men— that of seeing his bride dressed in virginal white walking down the aisle to meet him.
Outside the church they ran the gauntlet of showers of rice, then the moment she had been dreading arrived, they were alone together for the first time, being driven back to her home where the reception was to be held.
But whether because the anger she sensed within him ran too deep for words, or because he was conscious that their widely-grinning driver was watching them closely through the interior mirror, he stifled his resentment until they entered the silent hallway of her home. Taking advantage of their few minutes' start on the race of pursuing guests, he grabbed her shoulder and stared without speaking for long, fraught seconds.
'If you were hoping to confound me by wearing black for our wedding,' he finally grated, 'a colour chosen by both sinners and penitents, then you've certainly succeeded! What sort of woman are you, Claire?' Contemptuously he eyed her, showing equal dislike of black velvet and snow-white coif. I'm finding it hard to decide whether I've married a chorus girl or a nun!'
The wedding breakfast was typically Nordic and enormous. Laid out on tables, waiting to be served, was fish of every description, fresh, cured and smoked—shoals of salted herring swimming in seas of onion and vinegar marinade; filleted mackerel smothered in tomato sauce; crisp fishballs; huge platters of reindeer and mutton salamis; a variety of smoked and cured meats; mountains of boiled eggs and dozens of individual cheeses made by shepherds whose herds grazed high in mountain meadows. Bowls of wild mountain berries gathered early that morning and flown specially to the island were placed with accompanying jugs of sour cream to be poured over the fruit, then sprinkled with coarse sugar. Waffles were carried hot from the kitchen to be spread with butter and blueberry jam or, as an alternative, plates of nutty crispbreads that brought out superbly flavours that; owed their excellence to the clear sea and sparkling mountain air of the region from which the dishes had originated.
Trays holding glasses filled with liberal measures of brandy and aquavit began circulating the moment all the wedding guests were assembled. Twirling the stem of a glass filled with the potent snaps between quivering fingers, Claire seized the first available opportunity to make her escape from the side of her thoughtful, unfamiliarly morose bridegroom, edging cautiously towards the fringe of the nearest group of people, so that her disappearance into the crowd was made to seem entirely accidental.
'My dear, I've never witnessed a more dramatic marriage ceremony…' 'Such an unusual wedding …' 'How serene you looked, darling, not a hint of stage-fright, in spite of the size of your audience…' Somehow, she managed to murmur all the correct replies, schooling her expression into lines of tranquillity so that no one would guess how much she was regretting the trick she had played upon Rolf Ramsey, the man whose chosen environment was the northwoods whose inhabitants, though basically tamed, had inherited the ability to emulate the wary, knowing creatures of the wild, whose sharp eyes and keener scent enabled them quickly to detect an unfriendly presence.
As if fate had decreed that it should happen, she turned away from one group of people, meaning to progress to another, and found herself face to face with Jonathan. They had exchanged no words, had had no contact of any kind since the night Claire had decided to accept Rolf Ramsey's proposal, but as they stood together, isolated in a crowd, eyes locked, she could not muster so much as one word.
Jonathan, however, had plenty to say. 'Claire, why have you been avoiding me?' His hoarse mutter was pitched low enough to reach only her ears. Careful, as always, not to be seen to offend against society, he kept his expression light, his mouth tightly smiling, as he continued to rebuke, 'I thought better of you, Claire, but like everyone else on the island you seem determined to see me ostracised. Although Ramsey kept his word and the scandal did not break, rumours have been spreading, and the fact that I'm no longer welcome at your lather's house is adding fuel to the gossips' bonfire.
I still love you, my darling, and I feel certain that even though you ditched me in favour of Ramsey you must still have a soft spot for me, which is why I dare to plead with you to prove the gossips wrong, to demonstrate that you're prepared to be friendly so that others might follow suit!'
She stared, her grey eyes wide with astonishment, wondering how she could have overlooked his shallowness of depth. Incredibly, he had managed to convince himself that he had been jilted and was being unjustifiably condemned! Yet she could feel no anger, merely sad compassion for the man whom she had once, after all, been prepared to marry.
On impulse, she linked her arm through the crook of his elbow and smiled encouragement; if a gesture was all that was needed to put his world to rights it would be mean of her to withhold her support.
She heard his gasp of relief, felt gratitude in the grasp of his fingers upon her hand and tried not to appear too apprehensive at the sight of every dark head when Jonathan began parading her around the room.
She sensed the astonishment of guests confronted by a bride strolling arm in arm with the man she had supposedly jilted, cringed inwardly from the upraised eyebrows and the trail of scandalised whispers left in their wake as they passed group after chatting group.
It seemed an age, yet could only have been minutes before her feeling of apprehension was justified when from behind them a voice addressed Jonathan in an extremely pronounced drawl. 'I'm afraid, Heywood, that I must ask you to relinquish your claim upon my wife.' His tone was light, his expression suavely polite, but she was not deceived only she felt the impact of eyes with depths darkly glowering. 'It appears,' he held out his hand towards her, 'that the time has come for the proposing of toasts.' Miraculously, the crowd had melted out of their vicinity, leaving them stranded within an arena of antipathy. For the benefit of many watchful eyes, they had to act out the charade of friendly civility, yet Claire felt as vulnerable as an innocent thrown to the lions when, confident that he could not be overheard, her husband challenged in a savage undertone:
'What would your toast be, I wonder, Heywood? Victory to the vanquished?' He slid a possessive arm around Claire's shoulders, giving an outward impression of a proud, devoted husband. 'Sorry to disappoint you,' though he continued to address Jonathan his eyes did not leave her face, 'but my country, young though it is, possesses traditions of its own, standards that have been handed down from men who were among the first to brave the wild, lonely wilderness, pitting their wits against the untamed and the untameable. One of them is that it is absolutely taboo to poach on another man's territory, or to filch game from another trapper's snare. The punishment meted out to any man who transgressed was swift and terrible and has remained so, H
eywood,' he turned on Jonathan to menace slowly and with bloodcurdling intensity, 'right up until the present day!'
CHAPTER SIX
With a great show of pride, Garff Foxdale proposed a skai. 'To my daughter Claire, and my son-in-law Rolf, may great happiness be heaped upon their marriage!'
'To Claire and Rolf!' With appropriate solemnity, glasses of aquavit were raised to the level of the third waistcoat button, guests bowed, their eyes meeting, the drink was quaffed, glasses lowered to their previous level, again with eyes meeting, then after a second bow the glasses were returned to the table.
Very conscious that her bridegroom's tolerance was wearing thin, Claire sipped her way nervously through innumerable toasts wishing that the prolonged reception would come to an end so that she could lay her throbbing head on a comfortable pillow.
'By the way,' her aunt piped up, 'where are you spending your honeymoon?'
Claire's hand jerked so suddenly some of the liquid spilled out of her glass. Stupidly, her mind had been so preoccupied with arrangements for the wedding she had given no thought to what came after.
'That's my secret.' Rolf came to her rescue as, fiery-cheeked, she sought for a convincing answer.
'You mean that even Claire doesn't know?' her aunt probed.
With an inscrutable smile he parried, 'One blade of grass looks pretty much the same as another to lovers.' He stroked a glance across Claire's features, mocking her swift rise of colour. 'Wouldn't you agree, ma chérie?' he insisted wickedly.
Pinned by the interested eyes- of her inquisitive aunt, she stammered agreement and felt almost grateful to him when, sweeping an arm around her waist, he urged her forward.
'Please excuse us,' he requested her aunt, 'your brother is beckoning us rather urgently.'
She sensed that the restraint he had been exercising for so long was beginning to grow irksome as he wove a way through guests who were showing signs of boisterousness as, well fortified with spirits, they hailed the appearance of musicians and began a concerted surge towards a doorway leading into a room whose floor had been cleared for dancing.
Marriage by Capture Page 5
