The Wedding Portrait

by Fiona Hill

  Still, Laura persisted. For hours, lines were swallowed, forgotten, and misread. Entrances were missed and exits pointed out impatiently; whole speeches were delivered to the backdrops, or to the wrong party. Miss Webb simpered; the rector intoned. When Lady Eleanor entered and handed Mr. Shaw his fool’s cap, a new sound was added to the room: Jacob, delighted with the bells, shook his head and jingled wherever he went and even, sometimes, when he went nowhere. Mr. Ashley Lowland excused himself about midway through and vanished upon some business of his own; Miss Emily Shaw was about to follow suit, for they had reached a part where she had no lines, but Laura withheld her. The rehearsal stumbled on.

  It was not until they had nearly reached the end that Mr. Thaddeus Grey had what might be called an inkling. Until that time he had regarded the play as a pleasing fancy born of his betrothed’s romantic but undirected imagination. Now, however, it occurred to him that there might just possibly be some correlation between this creation of her mind and their real circumstances. Eagerly he read, for the first time, the conclusion of the drama. Indeed, it did seem as if—were the proper substitutions to be made—the play might be a disguised version of the party’s true situation. Labouriously, he applied his thoughts to this hypothesis. If it were true, and if Laura had done it all purposefully, he could not but conclude that she, too, had second thoughts about their imminent marriage. What he could not discern was the actual identity of the minstrel. So far as he knew, Laura had no secret tendre in the neighbourhood, nor could he fathom who, if it were not a local fellow, this mysterious man might be. The more he puzzled over it, the less he understood it; he reasoned finally that although there probably was no such man, Laura still did not wish to go through with their marriage. In spite of this conclusion, however, Thaddeus did not approach her directly, for the very simple reason that he could think of no way to frame a question that would suggest his suspicions without revealing them. Instead he simply tucked his thoughts away in the back of his mind and hoped for the best.

  Mr. Lowland had found much to occupy him since coming to the Abbey, and it seemed as though this wealth of activity would not cease for awhile. He quit the Red Saloon in response to a veritable flood of intimations from Jacob Shaw, the gist of which was that Miss Elizabeth Shaw desired ardently to have her portrait sketched by him, and would be sadly disappointed if he did not come. Ashley had intended to ignore these suggestions, and he had indeed tried to discourage Jacob when the boy began hinting again, but it was all to no avail. Mr. Shaw would not give over, for he prided himself upon his obstinacy, and Ashley was obliged to concede, feeling that he could not resist longer and still remain within the bounds of courtesy. He trod regretfully up the stairs, fetched a sketchbook and pencil from his room, and knocked at Lizzy’s chamber. Her low voice responded with a polite invitation to whoever it might be to enter.

  “I hope I do not disturb you, Miss Shaw?”

  “No, indeed,” she answered truthfully, for the light slumber into which she had fallen earlier had been broke sometime before. “How is it that you are not with the others? I understood you were all to be occupied with my surprise this morning.”

  “They are, in truth, very much occupied, but my services are not needed at the moment. I would not have intruded upon your solitude, Miss Shaw, but that your brother suggested you might welcome a visit.”

  “My brother? Yes, I believe he feels quite sorry for me, for he is not at all fond of being alone, and cannot believe that I do not suffer from it. And so he delegated you to see that I am not neglected, but does not come himself? Such fraternal affection! I am overwhelmed.”

  “Indeed, you must not blame him, for he suggested that I might sketch your likeness, and knew he could be of no assistance. Will you allow me to do so? I should be honoured,” he lied.

  “With the best will in the world,” she replied, with equal mendacity. “The honour is all mine. But perhaps it is not convenient to you to do so? I know well how Jake can press one…”

  “Please, say no more. Only permit me to glance upon your watercolours and I shall be well rewarded.”

  “My watercolours! I had forgot! You were to show me your illustrations, were you not?”

  “In sooth—and here they are,” he answered, drawing from his book a series of painted pages. “Where shall I find your efforts?”

  She indicated a large album that lay upon the desk and bent her head to study his pictures, which were indeed arresting. The first was of a gloomy castle, done all in greys and deep blues, which sat forbiddingly atop a steep, trackless hill. There followed a depiction of a golden-haired damsel—Mathilda, of course—who turned anxiously to a casement, some embroidery lying forgotten on her lap. There followed others like these, all drawn from the most frightening episodes of The Castle of Otranto; one, of Mathilda fleeing among the subterranean passages, sent shivers down Elizabeth’s spine. She pored over them, heedless of what their artist now did.

  He was absorbed in her paintings, as much as she in his, but for a different reason. They were pleasant, a little more skillful than the average, mostly of landscapes and flowers. He regarded these politely, but what held his attention so fixedly was not these but the last picture in the book. A number of pages were left blank between it and the others, and it had obviously been painted recently, for it was of Thaddeus Grey. It was in profile, and the nose was something straighter than it should have been, but it was unmistakably of him. Ashley gazed upon it, glad to find this confirmation of what he had hitherto been pretty sure of: Miss Shaw was in love with Thaddeus, and her brother’s intimations that it was Mr. Lowland she favoured were no more than the results of an error in judgment. He closed the book in silence, smiling faintly.

  “These are—beautiful, Mr. Lowland,” Elizabeth said sincerely. “I am sorry I can think of no better word for them, for they deserve much praise. So rich, and mysterious! And you portray Mathilda just as I myself envisioned her! I am jealous of your skill.”

  “You need not be,” he returned. “Your countrysides are delightfully done, and your floral studies quite perfect.”

  “Yes, but to be able to paint people! And so finely…it is far beyond my skill. I have rarely even attempted—oh dear!” she broke off on a sudden gasp, colouring deeply. “You did not—?”

  Mr. Lowland knew well what it was that Lizzy left unspoken, but he was by far too gentlemanly to reveal it. Evidently she had forgotten until now whose portrait she had left in her album. He looked at her distantly, curiously, as if awaiting politely the end of her sentence. “I did not—?” he prompted.

  “Oh no, it is nothing,” she said, recovering her breath as she assured herself that Mr. Lowland had overlooked Thaddeus’ picture. “I do not know what I can have been thinking of! Shall we do the portrait now?”

  “By all means,” he bowed, drawing a chair to the foot of her bed and settling himself in it. For some while he sketched in silence, his eyes fastened mainly on Elizabeth, who kept hers averted. At length his pencil ceased to be heard and he stood up, handing her the drawing and saying, “I fear it does not do you justice. I attempted to reproduce the calm, wide sweep of your brow, but alas! it appears quite ordinary.”

  “On the contrary,” Elizabeth protested, “it is a most flattering likeness.” She reflected—silently, of course—that indeed her features bespoke a most uncharacteristic preoccupation—but this, she knew, was hardly the artist’s fault. With Laura’s wedding only two days off, she could gain none of her customary serenity, and it was only natural that her portrait should reveal her agitation. For a moment, as she met Mr. Lowland’s eyes, she thought she might almost confide her anxiety to him; his gaze was profound, and it seemed as if he would understand anything. But then her habit of reserve re-awakened, and she turned her eyes away and said nothing. Ashley’s glance in turn became more shallow, and the muscles round his mouth relaxed as he realised what was passing through her mind. He was sorry they could not discuss the case openly between them, but he percei
ved how painful such a confession would be to Miss Shaw and he would not for the world have pushed her to lay bare her heart. Elizabeth, for her part, knew nothing of how well Mr. Lowland understood her in this moment, but she was mutely grateful that he did not require her to flirt with him, or to engage in meaningless banter, as Lady Eleanor and Laura had seemed to wish them to do. In fact, he said almost nothing, merely bowing, making his excuses for running off, and quitting the room. Elizabeth was well pleased to be left in solitude again.

  Dinner interrupted the rehearsal, providing an interval for which most of the players were glad. The play had been got through at last, but Laura had insisted upon returning to some early scenes and going over them again. Miss Emily Shaw was beginning to feel that her cousin had got quite tyrannical over this business of the play, and Miss Clio Simpson heartily regretted that she had ever consented to take part in such hard work. Only the rector’s enthusiasm continued unabated, for he was learning that playacting suited him very well—better, almost, than sermonising. He extemporized copiously upon this discovery to Miss Webb as they walked with the others to the dining table.

  “Laura, my dear,” Lady Eleanor said to her daughter, as soon as they had been seated, “there are a number of things we must discuss. I am sorry to say it, but I fear you will have to leave your play aside this afternoon, for Mr. Lowland must finish your portrait without further delay. Will you sit for him after dinner?”

  “Of course, Mamma. If Mr. Chance will be so kind as to assume my place as director, I believe the others can rehearse quite well without me.” Emily and Clio, naturally, seconded this statement with silent vigour.

  “Do you think, Mr. Lowland, that a few more hours will suffice to finish the painting?” Lady Eleanor went on. “You have been so good, so patient with my daughter! I am afraid your task must have been very hard.”

  “Not at all, ma’am,” said the artist, with as much sincerity as courtesy. “This afternoon should provide quite enough time; and, good Lady Eleanor, I beg you will call me Ashley. After all, you promised me when I arrived that you would do me the honour to consider me a member of the family; to call me by my Christian name seems the least you can do!”

  “Oh, I do beg your pardon! Ashley, of course,” she agreed. “Now, I hope you all will excuse me for harping on in this managing way, but there are certain details…Laura, you and I must write some invitations this evening, to the Simpsons, you know, and the Greys. For the play, of course—when will it be ready?”

  Laura looked round the table doubtfully. “Tomorrow afternoon?” she suggested.

  “Yes, very well, because you know you must go to bed early tomorrow night, for I am sure I need not remind you that the next day is your wedding.” She paused a moment to smile briefly at Thaddeus, who returned a rather sickly little grin. “I trust Lizzy will be well amused—I myself am curious to see what it is you have contrived! It will be some recompense for all the hours she has had to spend alone. Oh, and Thaddeus! Do not, please, forget that you must return to Lindley Park directly the play is over. I am sure it would be most improper for you to stop here on your wedding eve, much though we should like to have you.”

  “Indeed, ma’am.”

  “Now, Emily, my smallest sweet; when did your parents think to arrive? It is shameful, I know, but I declare I have forgot!”

  Emily looked at her brother. “Can it have been today?”

  “That depends,” said Jacob. “What day is it today?”

  “Friday.”

  “In that case, they will be here tomorrow morning, for I know they planned to leave London Friday and to make the journey in two stages. And—oh, dash it, Aunt Eleanor! Did I forget to tell you? They sent their apologies for not coming sooner! It’s so difficult for Father, you know, what with politics, and—and things like that,” he finished lamely. Jacob, like most young sporting gentlemen, knew very little of government, nor cared very much.

  “Never mind, Jacob,” said Lady Eleanor kindly. “I know your parents, and I know they would have come earlier if they could have. Now, let me see…does that cover everything? I think—oh, yes, Laura, one more detail. I wish you to put on your wedding gown again, just to be certain it is exactly right. Will you do that?”

  “Of course,” Laura assented. “I shall try it after dinner, before I put on my portrait outfit; will that answer?

  “Yes, thank you, dear,” Lady Eleanor said vaguely. She then sank back into her abstracted reflections and was silent for the rest of the repast. A very great deal, it seemed, was necessary to make a wedding go smoothly. She was quite thankful to have no other children than Laura.

  “I say, what about some dancing tonight?” Jacob suggested. “We were to have dancing the last time Miss Clio was with us, but the snow prevented it. Shall we do it now?”

  “Oh, yes!” cried Emily. “Jake, who would have thought you could have such an excellent idea? May we, Sir Kenneth?”

  “I should think you would all be exhausted after so much rehearsing, but if you wish to, I see no reason why not. After all, this is a festive week!” He put down his fork for a moment in order to give Thaddeus a manly pat on the back, and a paternal wink. “I protest, I could even fancy a turn or two myself!” he added.

  “Then it is decided?” said Emily breathlessly. “Oh, I do love to dance!”

  “How shall we do for music?” asked Miss Webb. “I can play a little, but…” her voice trailed off. What she would have liked to say was that she wanted to dance, too—with the rector, of course—but that seemed a good deal too forward.

  “You play very well, Miss Lavinia,” said Laura, “and I can play sometimes, and Emily, too. And Clio, no doubt; you will help us, will not you, Clio?”

  “If you like,” said Miss Simpson, who felt that she would not be averse to stepping a figure with Mr. Lowland.

  “Then we shall do very well,” exclaimed Laura, who was glad, like many of the others, to have a new diversion. “This afternoon, work; this evening, dancing!”

  The spirits of the company were much improved by this prospect, except for Mr. Chance, who had been in good humour to begin with and whose dancing was a little rusty. He resolved to practice a bit while he dressed for supper. The ladies withdrew and set about finding music suitable for the occasion, while the gentlemen stayed at table, drinking. Thaddeus would have been glad to depart with the women, for he missed Elizabeth already and wished to see her, but there was no possibility of his slipping off unnoticed. Sir Kenneth seemed to have settled upon this opportunity of speaking in a fatherly way to his prospective son-in-law, and Thaddeus was trapped.

  “Nerves getting to you, my boy?” inquired Sir Kenneth, who had remarked Mr. Grey’s fidgets. “Never mind! Common to all young bridegrooms—get over it after the wedding. I recall I was ready to jump out of my skin before I married Lady Eleanor, but it goes away. She’s a fine girl, my Laura.”

  “Sir?” said Thaddeus, who had not been attending.

  “I say, she’s a fine girl.”

  Thaddeus looked at him blankly.

  “Laura, son, Laura! You are in a bad case, aren’t you?”

  “Oh!” said Thad, relieved to learn what was the topic of conversation. “Yes, Laura’s a—she’s one in a million, sir.”

  “Make you a very good wife, I promise you. Like her mother before her. More wine, son?”

  “I—no, thank you, sir.”

  “Ashley?” said Sir Kenneth, proffering the bottle. “I say, you have got an odd look about you! When are you thinking of getting leg-shackled?”

  Ashley merely smiled politely and took the wine. The odd expression on his features that Sir Kenneth had noted was the result of the conversation he had been listening to. He found it most amusing in spite of himself; in fact, it was all he could do to keep from laughing out loud. Sir Kenneth was so bent upon joviality, and Thaddeus so close to tears! He was almost ashamed of his reaction to it; still, he could not help but see the humour in the situation. He did not doubt
that Sir Kenneth would be as pleased to have himself as a son-in-law as Thaddeus, once he got accustomed to the idea. All Kenneth wanted was a good husband for his only daughter; the rest followed naturally. At the moment, however, as there was nothing Ashley could do to help Mr. Grey, he supposed that it could do no harm to find the present predicament comical, and consequently he enjoyed it to the full.

  “The wedded state is a holy one,” the rector was reminding the hapless Thaddeus. “You must think of that when we solemnise your nuptials on Sunday.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, there are few rituals more beautiful than the marriage ceremony,” the Reverend went on. “The joining of two into one, the union of heart, mind, and soul, in the eyes of God and man!” he rhapsodised. “Of course, one thinks long and hard before taking such a step,” he added, fixing Mr. Grey with an almost accusatory glance.

  “Of course,” said Thad, swallowing hard.

  “In the future you will be responsible for Laura at all times; wherever you go, as long as you both shall live, you two shall be as one. It will make you happy, will not it?”