Mariel

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “You never told me that, Uncle.”

  The two men glanced over their shoulders to see Mariel standing on the steps of the solarium. Deep in conversation, they had not heard her dainty footsteps on the silent stones. She walked to her uncle and reached for his hands. He put his much larger ones in hers.

  “I’m sorry, Mariel. I should have known you were strong enough to see the hell where your cousin lived his last years.”

  Tears brightened her eyes. “For the past year, I feared Georgie died hating me for what I said to him that night when he lost control.”

  “What you said?”

  She shook her head. “You would not understand, for it was something only children can share. I did not hate him, even that night. I hated what he could become, but I never stopped loving Georgie. I am glad to know that he forgave me.”

  “If it comforts you, my dear, I am sure he did not remember anything you said to him while he was in the midst of his mental aberration. He listened only to the ‘voices,’ as he called them.” In explanation for Ian, he added, “Georgie was haunted by demons, which spoke only to him. At first, when he was small, we thought he was using those ‘voices’ as an excuse for childish misdeeds. Then we learned how wrong we were.”

  “Poor soul,” murmured Ian. “I hope he has found peace.”

  “I hope so, too.” Wilford shook himself physically to push aside the thoughts. “Enough dreary talk of the past. I understand we will be having a wedding soon. Let us talk about that instead.”

  Mariel smiled as they worked to forget the past that haunted them. She listened to the men talk and added her convivial comments. As she had guessed, everything would be wonderful when her uncle came home. For the first time in many years, she did not fear the future.

  Mariel wanted to refuse the suggestion that Reverend Tanner marry them in the small church in the village. No one mentioned that most previous Wythe brides had been married in the chapel in the old Cloister. Now, only a pile of tumbled and scorched stones, it would never be used for such services again.

  “Ian, I do not want that old hypocrite reading our wedding rite.”

  He laughed as he turned the carriage onto the well traveled road leading south. Reverend Tanner had retired to a small cottage overlooking the ocean which infected all who lived near it with a lifelong devotion. “What do you suggest, sweetheart? That I marry us?”

  “You two aren’t the only ministers in this area. There is Reverend Allen, and Reverend Eckert.”

  “Reverend Allen is busy with another wedding that day. Eckert is in Bristol on a well deserved vacation.” He squeezed her fingers. “We could delay the date for a few weeks if you wish.”

  She leaned her head on his shoulder, savoring the comfort of his arm around her. With a soft chuckle, she whispered, “I don’t want to wait as long as we must. It seems as if it has been forever since you have loved me, Ian. We have too many chaperones.”

  “You are Lady Mariel. Your behavior must be exemplary.”

  “Balderdash! None of the Wythes have ever cared what anyone else said about them.” As her fingers roved along his face, she asked, “Did Sybill Wythe, the one in the painting in the drawing room, care when everyone accused her of taking at the height of the battle of the Spanish Armada, a Spanish sailor as her lover? If the stories I have heard are true, she cared little about anyone’s opinion. She passed her child off as her husband’s. The Wythes have fought duels and murdered enemies to protect the Cloister and gain our way.”

  His hand stroked her shoulder through her cape. “That was long ago, in a much more romantic era. Such things would not be sanctioned now.”

  She sighed. “I wish we were living then. I am tired of pretending. Each time I kiss you good night in the foyer, I wish it could be as it was when we slept side by side all night long.”

  The carriage came to a sudden stop as he pulled back on the reins. Sweeping her against him, Ian pressed his mouth over hers. His fingers sought beneath the concealment of the heavy cloak to find the soft roundness of her breast.

  A rush of passion flowed through her. Her arms tightened around his broad shoulders. When he leaned her back onto the thick cushions of the buggy seat, she gasped and turned her face from his.

  “Ian! If—”

  “Didn’t you just tell me that you did not care what anyone thought?” He laughed with a low rumble of eager desire. “No one can see us, my love. I have pulled the buggy behind a stand of trees. Your reputation is quite safe.”

  “Mine? I was thinking of yours.”

  Tasting the warmth of her skin beneath the collar of her cape, he murmured against her, “Even the church board has acceded to our betrothal. Do not think of that now, my love. Think of our love.”

  “I am,” she breathed before her words dissolved into a gasp of delight.

  When he slipped his hand along the lithe line of her legs, she shivered, but not with longing. With a laugh, she pushed his fingers from her and smoothed her skirt back over her ankles. “It is too cold.”

  “Funny,” he whispered as he held her tight to him, “I do not feel the cold at all.” He kissed her lightly once more before he retrieved the reins from the floor of the buggy. When he drove the vehicle back onto the road, he did not release her. The rest of the trip to Reverend Tanner’s house, he kept her close to him.

  The old man had not changed since he preached at the Foxbridge church. His officious manner irritated Mariel, before she had seated herself in his well-furnished parlor. While his housekeeper served the obligatory tea, they chatted inanely about the shire. She managed to maintain her composure until they discussed the wedding ceremony.

  “No!” said Mariel suddenly.

  “No?” repeated Reverend Tanner. He frowned as he looked at the bafflement on Ian’s face. Lady Mariel’s stubborn expression was one he knew too well.

  She placed her cup back on the tray, ignoring the clatter as it struck the sugar bowl. “I will not promise to obey Ian.”

  “My lady, you must. That is part of the wedding vow. It is the duty of a woman to subjugate her will to that of her husband.”

  “No.” She folded her hands in her lap and added nothing more.

  The disconcerted clergyman turned to the other man. “Ian, perhaps if I left you alone with Lady Mariel for a few minutes, you could make her understand the reasons why this is in the service.”

  Ian stirred his tea with a reflective smile on his face. “Although I have not heard anyone protest as vehemently as Mariel, this is not the first instance of a bride deciding against this passage. What is that we preach over and over? That marriage is a partnership?”

  Reverend Tanner slammed his book shut. In his sonorous voice, he stated, “Then I will not marry you. Never in all my many years on the pulpit have I been involved in an exchanging of vows when the bride did not promise to cherish, honor, and obey her husband. I do not plan to alter that precedent now.”

  He glared from one young face to the other. Lady Mariel’s was set in those firm lines, which he knew from past experience meant she had no intention of doing as he commanded. He was less familiar with the man who had replaced him in Foxbridge, but his words had made it clear he was willing to do as Mariel wished.

  “Very well,” came a soft response to break the stilted silence in the study. Tanner’s eyes returned to Mariel. “You can use the word in the service, Reverend Tanner.”

  “Mariel!”

  She patted Ian’s hand as she heard his astonishment. With a smile, she said, “Do not worry. It will change nothing of the love we share. I do not want to halt our plans for something so incidental.”

  “Good!” crowed Reverend Tanner. He had doubted he would ever triumph over Lady Mariel in a contest of wills, but it seemed when she wanted something as badly as she wanted to marry Reverend Beckwith-Carter, she would back down.

  Over the days that followed, Ian tried more than once to discuss the offending word with Mariel. He did not want her to think she
must obey him literally. She shoved aside his concerns, stating she was too busy with the plans for the wedding. When, in the midst of everything, the news came from Mallory and Sons that Rosie’s adoption was completed, they celebrated with a party at the Cloister.

  Time flew past. Cynthia Beckwith-Carter came to attend the wedding. Although Mariel invited her to stay at the Cloister, she chose to sleep at the parsonage. Most of the time she spent with Mariel making lastminute preparations, but she was anxious to see the side of her son foreign to her. As she saw him deal with the needs of his parishioners, she could not hide her pride.

  The morning of the wedding dawned with crisp freshness. Dressing early, Mariel spent the morning fussing with her hair, which refused to stay in the curls she had wanted. Finally, she pinned it in a French twist on the back of her head with several loose curls framing her face.

  Phipps fluttered about the room, assisting her dress into the tarlatan wedding gown. The tightly fitting bodice was accented with a wide swoop of thick lace dropping from the leg of mutton sleeves across the front. Although plain in the front, the inverted pleats of the habit-back skirt ended in a train extending ten feet behind her. Pinned at the throat of the high collared dress was the cameo her mother had posed for before her own wedding day. Beaded satin slippers and a lace mantilla decorated with orange blossoms completed her outfit.

  When she heard Phipps sobbing in happiness, she knew she looked as lovely as she felt. She did not sit while she listened to Rosie being dressed in her attendant’s gown. The little girl did not want to stand still to be hooked up. Finally, all was ready, just as they heard Lord Foxbridge’s bellow from the foyer.

  Taking her train over one arm, Mariel took Rosie’s hand. A bounce in their steps showed their excitement. With compliments on both their lovely gowns, Uncle Wilford swept them out the front door. He was as anxious as the bride to have this wedding begun.

  “Thank you, Alistair,” he said to the carriage driver when he closed the door. “Drive carefully. I do not want to arrive with a dusty bride.”

  “Alistair?” queried Mariel. “I thought Walter would be driving today.”

  “Who the—oh, the man you hired to take care of that blasted automobile. Haven’t met the chap yet. Alistair told me he asked for some time off to visit family. He should be back at the end of the week.”

  She smiled. “You will like him, Uncle.” She twisted her gloves in her hands and forgot everything but the wedding which would be starting within minutes.

  The small white church was surrounded by buggies and wagons. Behind it, the leaves of the trees created a multi-hued backdrop. The fragrance of early fall cleansed the heat of summer from them. It was a perfect day and, many hoped, an omen of the good things to come for the newlyweds.

  “Ready?” asked Wilford as he helped her from the carriage. “You look perfect, my dear. So like your mother did the day she married your father. I wish they could be here to see you this day.”

  She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I am glad you are with me, Uncle Wilford. I could not imagine anyone else I would rather have escort me down the aisle.” She did not add aloud that she had such nebulous memories of her parents that this man seemed the only father she ever had.

  “Ready?” he repeated. His gruff voice showed his embarrassment with her effusive words.

  “Yes.” She ordered the tremors in her stomach to quiet. This is what she had wanted since the day she discovered she loved Ian. She should not be nervous, but she was. Trying to keep her voice steady, she turned to her left. “Are you ready, Rosie?”

  The little girl chirped, “Yes!” She twirled, so her wide chiffon skirts billowed around her in a cloud of pink. Flowers to match her name were woven into her loosened curls. Rosebuds sewn to the bodice of her dress matched the brightness of her cheeks. For days, she had been practicing her role as the flower girl. Today she would be able to reveal those skills for the guests.

  A swell of organ music reached its crescendo as the door at the back of the church was opened to admit them. In the silence after the crash of sound, a rumble of murmurs announced that the guests had seen the bride awaiting the start of the processional. The heat of the many candles giving off their intoxicating scents throughout the small building combined with the lush aroma of hothouse blossoms.

  Mariel sought for Ian with her heart. Although she knew he would be standing by the raised altar in the black frock coat he wore beneath his surplice on Sundays, she wanted to touch him with the love within her.

  In her ear, Wilford whispered, “He is grinning like a child at a birthday party. I wonder if he will be able to wait until the music starts.”

  Her soft laugh was swallowed by the heavy chords of the beginning of the triumphant melody they had chosen for this wedding. With one hand on her uncle’s arm and the other holding her bouquet, she waited nervously as Rosie stepped ahead of them to drop downy petals on the scarlet carpet. She heard the notes that signaled them to start. Her uncle patted her hand as they walked with forced slowness to the place where Ian waited.

  Out of all the fragrances combatting her senses, she picked out his cologne. As it grew stronger, she held out her hand to him. A murmur of astonishment sounded behind them, and she knew many had feared the bride would trip on her long gown before she reached her groom. Perhaps if Ian had not insisted she become as independent as she had been before the accident, she would have been that pitiful creature they expected. He had inspired her to be more than she thought she could be.

  The words of the wedding ceremony flowed over her. She answered when required and listened to Ian’s deep voice repeating the vows to love her forever. When Reverend Tanner turned to her, she did the same carefully. She nearly laughed when Ian squeezed her fingers as she purposely omitted the promise to obey him. Although Reverend Tanner waited patiently for her to finish, she simply smiled.

  “Lady Mariel?” whispered Reverend Tanner. “You promised to repeat the whole line after me.”

  “You misunderstood.” Holding tightly to Ian’s hand, she leaned forward to add as quietly, “I said only that the words could be in the service. I did not say I would repeat them. I love you, Ian, forever. I will cherish that love with all my heart and honor it every day of our lives.”

  “And I love you, Mariel.” He glanced at the flustered minister as the guests moved uneasily in their seats at the delay. “Shall we continue?”

  Recovering his composure, the elderly clergyman hurried on to finish the rite. Inside, he fumed. He should have suspected Lady Mariel’s easy compliance was faked. This was not the time to argue about such duplicity. The ceremony must be completed without further disruptions.

  He took a lighted candle from the candelabrum on the altar and handed it to Ian. The groom used it to light a candle on his right before offering the taper to Mariel. Her fingers found the table easily, and she put the flame to her candle. She handed the original to the minister before taking the one she had lit.

  Ian’s hand guided hers as they raised them toward a larger candle in the center of the altar. Together they said the words they did not need to rehearse, “Two hearts, one love.” The wick burst into flame from the two touching it. He took her candle and inserted it in its holder. After doing the same with his, he put his hand around hers again.

  When Reverend Tanner urged him to kiss his bride, Ian lifted the shimmering veil to see a smile matching his own. He leaned forward to taste her lips, knowing never again would he be parted from her. “My dear wife,” he whispered.

  “I love you, Ian.”

  Even before the eyes of the, she could not halt the leap of passion in her that overpowered all other sensations as he placed his mouth over hers. Her arms swept around his shoulders as he drew her closer.

  The organ sounded with joy, and cheers from their guests filled the church. Reluctantly, Ian raised his mouth from hers. Later they would have the time they longed to have alone. It seemed too far away.

  Taking Marie
l’s hand, he placed it on his arm. He offered his other hand to Rosie as they walked back down the aisle. They stepped out into the golden glow of the autumnal sun glittering on the colorful leaves and into the future they would share together.

  Ian warmed his hands before the fireplace in Mariel’s sitting room. The cool days of autumn would soon fade into winter. He smiled as he thought how luscious the winter nights would be with Mariel in his arms. Tomorrow, they would leave for their wedding trip to Paris, a gift from Wilford Wythe. Later, they must decide if they would stay all the time in the Cloister or spend part of each week at the rectory. He suspected he would use the parsonage as his office and open the rest of its rooms for church functions.

  The reception that afternoon had been a joyous affair, attended by the members of his congregation and most of the population of the shire. At first, the guests had been unsure how they should tease a man of the cloth, but soon the barely veiled bawdy jokes were aired for all to enjoy. Mrs. Reed and the Foxbridge Cloister kitchen staff under Mrs. Puhle’s autocratic eye, had created a magnificent meal to be devoured by the partygoers. Now, the last of the revelers had taken the party to the Three Georges in the village to continue until dawn. They left the bride and groom to their own celebrations of the nuptials.

  “Ta-da!” came a laughing pronouncement to sever his thoughts of the day.

  Ian turned to see his fantasy given life. A short velvet jacket of midnight blue clung to Mariel’s body and accentuated her breasts. Her bare midriff led his eyes to the ruby gems forming a pattern across the sparse girdle. Sheer silk drawers floated in a gossamer cloud as she walked toward him. Caught at her ankles by a narrow, embroidered band, the trousers drooped over her golden slippers with their turned-up toes.