Isabel's Wedding

by Pamela Oldfield

  He sighed deeply, running his fingers over his moustache. Should the moustache go? Maybe the combination of beard and moustache was altogether too American. Too foreign-looking.

  ‘Hell!’ he muttered, turning from the mirror and throwing himself on to his back on the unmade bed. Maybe if they did not consider him worthy of the word Father he could ask them to call him Jack. They might find that easier.

  ‘Hi there! I’m Jack!’ he said, smiling up at the ceiling. It sounded unconvincing even to his ears. ‘Goddam!’ Choked, he closed his eyes. How had he ever thought that this was a good idea? For a moment he struggled with his emotions, fighting against the urge to give up the whole ill-considered enterprise. But this family was all there was of Ellen. Win or lose he had to go on. He had to at least see her children and know how they were faring. Sitting up, he swung his legs to the floor and turned to stare out of the window.

  He wondered if the family had told anyone he was coming or if they were too ashamed or confused to talk about him. He crossed his fingers. Thank God Alice Redmond would not be around. She had been much older than Ellen and would be long gone! Poor Alice. Jack Fratton had broken her heart and she had retaliated. Did he condone her behaviour? No, but he understood where her hatred came from.

  Two days later Theo turned up for work and began the usual task of taking notes on the items which would be published in the next brochure. The new items up for auction were set out on a trestle table and Michael Rawley, the senior assessor, was holding a piece of pottery upside down and peering beneath it for the maker’s mark.

  ‘Definitely late eighteenth century,’ he said aloud and waited for his trainee to note it in the ledger. Rawley was in his fifties with a bulging waistline and a small round face below untidy grey hair. ‘Biscuit barrel with worn raffia handle. Nice colours but a few small scratches round the rim and the lid has been repaired . . .’

  He would set a price later. The present task was to describe the objects for Theo to note. He moved on, reaching for a pewter jug. He lifted the lid and peered inside, tutting in disapproval as he did so. ‘Someone’s tried to clean it up,’ he grumbled, showing the item to Theodore. ‘Ruined it. Even scoured the inside. Would you believe it?’ He shook his head. ‘So what did you think of our Miss Fawcett’s little book? Didn’t know she had it in her, did you? I certainly didn’t. She kept that quiet. Dolls Through The Ages, eh?’ He shrugged. ‘I daren’t tell my wife. She’s been nagging me for years to produce a book.’

  Theodore nodded eagerly. ‘I thought it was excellent. Very clever of her. She even did the sketches, apparently. Hidden talents!’

  They laughed; then the older man hesitated and turned to Theodore. ‘I’ve been hearing some odd rumours, Fratton. About your long-lost father. Rather far-fetched, I fancied, but my wife insisted she’d heard the selfsame gossip. Any truth in the story?’

  Theodore groaned inwardly and drew a deep breath. He had been expecting the news to leak out somehow. ‘If you mean our father’s return to England, they are right. We had a letter some days ago. A bit of a shock, to say the least! We gave up on him years ago and thought, after no word for twenty years, he must surely be dead. And without Mother to keep our hopes up . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished.

  Rawley’s eyes widened. ‘You mean it’s true? Coming home again after all these years? Well I’m blessed! Wonders will never cease!’ He peered at Theodore through his small round spectacles. ‘That will be an event, that will! The prodigal father! Hah!’ He slapped his right leg which was his way of showing excitement. ‘He must have quite a tale to tell, your father! Bit of a wild place, America, or so they say. California, wasn’t it?’

  Theo nodded, trying to look at ease with the subject and failing. ‘I expect we shall hear all about it when he arrives. We’re still trying to recover from the shock, as you might imagine, and we were already busy with Isabel’s wedding.’ He was hoping to divert Rawley’s attention but failed again. ‘My younger sister became engaged . . .’

  ‘So when is he arriving, this wanderer?’

  He was obviously not interested in the wedding, thought Theodore. That would mortify Isabel, if she knew. ‘He didn’t say. The letter came by hand so we imagine he is travelling and doesn’t yet know when he will reach us. Isabel had asked me to walk her down the aisle and I was working on my speech when . . .’

  But suddenly his companion had lost interest. He picked up a small portrait and peered at it then pulled a magnifying glass from his pocket and gave it a closer scrutiny. ‘Lovely work. Very fine,’ he muttered, ‘and see the young woman’s expression, so delicately done. Exquisite. Pity there’s no signature although it might be on the back but I’ll have to get the back off and these things are so fragile. I’m always afraid they will fall to pieces and we can’t have that! I’ll ask Mr Pope when he comes in. He knows more about miniatures than I do.’ He glanced up at Theodore. ‘You could write a book, Fratton. You can’t be beaten by a slip of a girl! You know quite a bit about barometers and suchlike. Remember that one you discovered last year. French wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but that was a bit of a fluke.’

  ‘A fluke? Nonsense. It was nothing of the sort. You’ve got a good eye, young man. Clocks, too. Start now and take your time over it. Ever thought about it?’

  ‘I haven’t, but thank you. Maybe I should give it a try.’ Theodore found himself blushing at the older man’s compliment.

  ‘Good! No time like the present. Start tomorrow.’ He laughed.

  Theodore hid his panic. ‘Just at the moment I could not start on anything like that,’ he protested weakly. ‘We have a baby on the way and Isabel’s wedding rushing towards us – not to mention Father!’

  ‘Rather thrown a spoke in the wheel, has he? Never mind. But why not set yourself a date? For the book, I mean. Say, make a start by Christmas.’

  ‘I’ll certainly think about it,’ Theo stammered, flustered by so much attention.

  ‘Tell you what – I’ll help you with it here and there when I have a moment. Impress your old man, eh?’ He chuckled. ‘Is it a deal, Fratton?’

  ‘A deal? Oh well . . . Yes, I suppose so.’ Was he really saying this? Was he really committing himself to compiling a book? ‘Thank you! That’s very generous of you, Mr Rawley.’ Theodore shook the meaty hand outstretched towards him. ‘I truly appreciate your offer. Wait until I tell Cicely!’

  In fact he dreaded telling her. The idea of him stepping off the path of their life together – of venturing into the wider world outside Canterbury – would thoroughly alarm her. The prospect of her husband setting foot in London to become involved in the world of book publishing would certainly unnerve her. Theo gave a wry smile. What was he saying? Who was he fooling? The whole book idea unnerved him!

  That same day Alice’s letter arrived, and far from reassuring Olivia it had the opposite effect. She read the four elegantly written pages with a growing dismay which bordered on panic and decided that she must put it aside until she felt strong enough to reread it and share it with the other family members. Alone in the house, she felt as though a huge weight was settling upon her and the responsibility of having to deal with it was giving her no peace. After a few minutes, however, she knew that the longer she delayed action the worse it would be and forced herself to reread it:

  My dear Olivia,

  You forgot to include your father’s letter but you told me enough in your own letter and it has quite simply ruined my day. At the ripe old age of sixty-nine . . .

  Olivia wondered if this was really her godmother’s age. She had always been very secretive about her age.

  . . . I am too old to deal with such unwelcome news which has come as a great shock. I shall cross my fingers that I am still able to reach seventy!

  But to be serious, you all have my sincere commiserations for what has happened – or is about to happen. Sadly I am at a loss to offer anything useful in the way of advice except to warn you to be very wary of the man. My haz
y memories of that unhappy time when your father chose to head for California instead of staying to care for his family will never quite leave me and the disastrous effect it had on poor Ellen remains clear to this day. Quite simply the wretch broke her heart. I would go so far as to say that grief contributed to her early death.

  How very like the Jack Fratton I remember – expecting you all to rush to his side now that he has decided to return. I imagine that even Theo has no real memory of his father – you were all so very young when he left and Jack, of course, has never even seen Isabel . . .

  Olivia sighed heavily. She had been relying on Alice to somehow show her the way to reconciliation but the more she read, the less she could imagine ever feeling magnanimous towards her father.

  . . . I can only suggest that you wait and see. He may have changed his ways and if so you may be able to discover a nicer Jack Fratton than the one I remember. (The moon may be made of green cheese!) Of the two friends, Jack and Larry, the latter would have made a perfect husband for Ellen but sadly she changed her mind at the last moment. A tragic mistake.

  No point in crying over spilt milk, I hear you say. True. What happened, happened.

  Do please send me an invitation to Isabel’s wedding but it is very close now and as things are here at the moment (hectically busy) I doubt I shall feel able to desert the gallery, nor will I be up to the journey. I know you will understand that at my age I have to protect my health. All good wishes . . .

  Your loving Aunt Alice

  Frowning, Olivia was aware of a deep unease. Her godmother seemed to be suggesting that Ellen’s marriage had been a mistake – that she had made the wrong choice between two friends. Why, she wondered, had Jack Fratton been the wrong man, in Alice’s opinion? Her mother had obviously been in love with him and not the other man because they were engaged . . . and why was her godmother so determinedly short on details and explanations? She was hinting at a mystery surrounding Ellen’s marriage but without revealing her reasons for doing so and Olivia was beginning to feel annoyed. The four Fratton ‘children’ were all adults now and surely deserved the full truth instead of a trickle of information designed to make them more confused about their father’s return.

  ‘And you are no longer planning to come to the wedding!’ she accused the absent Alice. ‘Is this really because you are desperately busy or because you don’t wish to meet Father?’ Her shoulders sagged as she realized how disappointed Isabel would be if her godmother failed to attend the wedding. ‘And I shall be the one who has to break the bad news!’ she muttered.

  Refolding the letter she resolved to show it to Theo at the first opportunity but that would do nothing to prevent her father suddenly appearing on their doorstep. Did he intend to take them by surprise or would he have the decency to give them prior notice of his arrival?

  Four

  Isabel came into the garden an hour later to find her sister weeding half-heartedly in an effort to tidy the garden before the day of the wedding.

  ‘Where’s Luke?’ Isabel demanded as her sister straightened up, one hand at her aching back. ‘He’s not in the house and his bed hasn’t been slept in.’

  ‘Don’t ask me! I’m not his keeper.’ Olivia kept her tone level but her heart sank. Two nights earlier the same thing had happened and Olivia had assumed that there might be a young woman involved and had hoped that Isabel had been unaware of the fact. The coming wedding was already making Izzie ultra-sensitive. Cicely had already put her sister-in-law’s nose out of joint by falling pregnant at what Izzie called ‘an inconvenient time’ and Olivia did not want Luke to produce a lady friend who would further complicate Isabel’s big event by diverting more of the limelight.

  ‘It’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’ Isabel reached idly down, pulled up a dandelion and added it to the small pile of weeds Olivia had amassed.

  To change the unwelcome subject, Olivia asked, ‘When is Miss Denny due? I’m looking forward to seeing the beadwork.’ She glanced at Isabel who seemed surprisingly unimpressed by the prospect.

  ‘He’s probably with that woman from the Coach and Horses.’ Isabel gave her a sideways glance to see how she would react to the suggestion.

  Olivia’s mouth fell open with shock. ‘Woman from the . . . Which woman? There’s only Mrs . . . You don’t mean Fenella Anders!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why should he be with Mrs Anders?’

  Isabel shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘He’s taken a shine to her. Everyone knows . . . except you! I heard them whispering about it in the Post Office.’

  ‘Mrs Anders? But she’s married!’ Olivia stared at her speechlessly. ‘But . . . but what about . . .?’

  ‘He’s away. His aunt’s dying – or so he says. He’s in Hastings to be with her. His wife’s running the pub with the help of the barman.’

  Olivia needed to sit down but there was nowhere nearby. ‘Luke and Mrs Anders? Oh Izzie! Are you sure?’

  Isabel poked at the pile of weeds with the toe of her shoe. ‘I thought you’d have heard by now. Our “golden boy” doesn’t seem— Oh!’ She put a hand to her face which was stinging from the slap Olivia had given her. ‘What was that for?’ she demanded angrily.

  Olivia regretted the slap but too late. She had often told her sister not to call Luke ‘the golden boy’. Isabel had always envied her brother the attention he received from Aunt Alice, and in a way Olivia sympathized with her but she had repeatedly pointed out that Luke was not to blame – and nor was their godmother. Luke had been born with artistic talent and Alice, an artist, had naturally supported him.

  For a moment the two sisters glared at each other and then Olivia mumbled an apology which Isabel ignored.

  Abruptly Olivia covered her face with her hands and there was a long moment while she struggled with her overwrought feelings.

  ‘Olivia! Are you crying? Please don’t.’

  ‘I’m not crying,’ she lied, hastily brushing at her eyes. ‘I’m in a bit of a muddle this morning, that’s all,’ she admitted shakily. ‘There’s a letter from Aunt Alice. She’s very upset about . . . everything.’

  ‘She’s upset? What about me?’ Isabel demanded, hands on hips. ‘It’s my wedding that’s going to be ruined! Where is this wretched letter? I want to read it.’

  ‘It’s on the kitchen table but she’s . . . Wait, Izzie! Just let me explain.’

  But Isabel had turned and was running back through the garden towards the back door.

  Olivia shouted, ‘Don’t forget Miss Denny!’

  Olivia stood there, her heart thumping uncomfortably, and even the perfume from the nearby roses failed to soothe her. Glancing down at the weeds she bent down abruptly, snatched them up and tossed them back on to the rose bed. ‘Grow where you like!’ she told them. ‘Why should I trouble myself?’

  She walked slowly back to the kitchen wondering about Isabel’s reaction to the letter and worrying about Luke. Luke and Mrs Anders? How could she, Olivia, have been so blind, she asked herself. And how could he have been so stupid? She sighed deeply. She had obviously been so distracted by Isabel’s wedding and then their father’s imminent return that she had missed any clues there might have been to this new problem. Her younger brother with an older married woman! It seemed impossible that the unkind fates were finding something else with which to distress her.

  The kitchen was empty and the letter had gone but she could hear Izzie’s bed springs and knew that she was tossing restlessly, either in anger or dismay. Olivia rolled her eyes despairingly. What was it Aunt Alice used to say when they were young and overexcited? ‘There’ll be tears before bedtime!’ Olivia’s smile was a feeble attempt.

  ‘What next?’ she asked – but it was a rhetorical question. She had no desire to know the answer.

  By the time Miss Denny arrived Isabel had fought down the wave of anger which had overtaken her when she read Aunt Alice’s letter. She had washed her face and tidied her hair and fixed a bright smile especially for the dressmaker,
anticipating the first occasion on which she would see the finished dress in all its glory. Half an hour later, still in her bedroom, Isabel allowed Miss Denny to coax the dress, resplendent with the new beads, over her head and ease it down with loving care. Soothed to some extent by the sight of herself in the mirror, Isabel’s mood finally softened.

  The dressmaker positively glowed with satisfaction. She said, ‘I’ve been waiting for this moment! The final fitting is always so . . . Oh my! You look wonderful! Breathtaking!’ She stepped back, her face alight with excitement. ‘What do you think, Miss Fratton? Aren’t the beads the most wonderful final touch? They lift the dress from being too plain to being perfect!’ She clasped her hands. ‘Another happy young bride!’ she whispered, offering a hand mirror so that the bride to be could appreciate the total effect.

  Carefully Isabel examined her reflection from all angles, awed in spite of herself. Miss Denny was right. The design of the dress flattered her slim build and the dove grey of the silk was soft enough not to overpower her pale complexion.

  ‘Imagine how it will be when your hair is dressed on the day,’ Miss Denny suggested. ‘I did wonder whether you might want a few beads on the circlet you are planning to wear in your hair.’

  ‘Beads? Oh, but I thought we had agreed that white flowers would be best.’

  ‘But now I can see that a few well-placed beads would add a certain something. Tie in with the decoration on the bodice . . . but it’s up to you, naturally.’

  Isabel pursed her lips. ‘I’ll think about it. It’s all so difficult here at the moment. Pandemonium reigns, as they say! On top of everything else my brother’s – well, never mind about him. My sister’s in a bad mood and my father’s due to appear but we have no idea when . . .’ Her voice shook slightly and Miss Denny rushed to ward off any tears. ‘Take a look at the back . . . and from the side,’ she urged. ‘It fits you like a glove!’

  ‘Let’s hope all the worry doesn’t make me lose weight!’ Taking the mirror she regarded the back view with deep satisfaction then turned back and perched herself carefully on the edge of the bed. ‘Would you mind if I ask you something?’ she began with a fresh trace of nervousness in her voice. ‘It’s about Father. I don’t like to ask Olivia because she doesn’t seem to be looking forward to his return as much as I am . . . In fact nobody seems to want him here which is so sad.’