Come Be My Love

by Diana Brown

  "Of course you can."

  "I can't. I can't."

  "Why on earth not?" mother demanded. "You know how important it is, and I assure you that you will have a lovely time. Not many young ladies of your age have the opportunity to serve at such an elegant wedding. And we'll cover your hair with a floral garland, real spring flowers. You'll be very pretty, dear."

  "I only hope she behaves herself," Eugenia glowered from her bed where she lay, her face whitened with calomine lotion and her fingers bound to prevent her from touching the itchy pustules.

  "Don't be unfair, Eugenia," mother remonstrated, "You yourself have remarked what a perfect lady Alex has become."

  "Then let's hope she keeps it up. I should hate any-thing to happen to Philomena's wedding on our account."

  "Of course it won't," mother said sharply.

  Philomena viewed the change with disdained resignation; I viewed it with horror. The fact that I not only had to be at the ceremony but now had to witness it, to be a part of it, was excruciating. The deepest circles of Dante's Inferno could have presented me with no greater penance, yet it became impossi­ble for me to withdraw from the role thrust upon me. Misera­bly I listened to my instructions, while Netty acted out the role of the bride with a large tablecloth draped over her head under which James hid, insisting it was a tent. I rehearsed my duties in so perfunctory a manner that I was still being re­minded of them up until the moment we set out for the church.

  Thus it was I found myself bearing the antique lace train of Philomena's white figured-satin gown, trimmed with or­ange blossoms especially brought from Spain, down the can­dlelit aisle of St. Mary's, past pews filled to their capacity with friends and relatives of both families resplendent in their silks and satins, under the watchful gaze of the four evangelists who gazed dispassionately on the fashionable scene from their can­opied niches high above the altar.

  It was at the altar that Darius stood awaiting his bride, solemn yet eagerly impatient as he followed her progress towards him until at last they stood side by side, his tall, broad-shouldered figure clad in a dark blue velvet cutaway coat with pearl grey knee breeches, to the right of her slight figure with its tiny waist from which the satin curved, covered by the lace train which was in my miserable grasp.

  "Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation to join to­gether this man and this woman in holy matrimony."

  It was clearly Mr. Linnell's moment of triumph. His voice was nasal yet resonant as the words echoed through the nave, off the uneven crown glass of the windows, through which I could glimpse the yews and elms and the clouds drift­ing carelessly by. My hands shook; I tried to force them to be still but couldn't. I felt horribly sick. I had eaten nothing for several days, but that morning mother had insisted that I take several mouthfuls of cook's fresh hog's head pudding to pro­vide me with stamina.

  "Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined. Therefore if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak or. . . ."

  My stomach regurgitated violently. I had an appalling desire to cry out. Instead I knew beyond a doubt that I was going to be sick, very sick. I turned and ran towards the church door clenching my teeth with all my might lest I dese­crate that holy place.

  Mr. Linnell had stopped speaking abruptly. I suppose he thought that for the first time since taking orders, a just im­pediment had been found. So, probably, did everybody else as all turned to mark my miserable progress.

  I looked back briefly to catch Philomena's furious gaze at such an affront to her ceremony. I could not bring myself to look at Darius. Mother rushed up to lead me from the church and once outside I could no longer control my stomach and I wretched violently, spewing forth a mouthful of foul smelling, foul tasting phlegm.

  The coachman was immediately instructed to drive me home and I lay back against the carriage cushions in silent relief at having escaped the ordeal of actually listening to those irrevocable vows.

  "I knew she would do something awful. How too disgust­ing! If she had to feel ill, why couldn't she have fainted. It would have been a sight more ladylike. But to vomit—how could she do such a thing to me! Now Philomena will never speak to me again," Eugenia wailed. "Alexandra, surely you could have waited until the ceremony was over."

  "I'm quite sure she wouldn't have done it if it could have been otherwise, for it was quite awful—the smell . . ." Mother shuddered faintly. "But she wouldn't do something like that on purpose. I don't doubt that she is coming down with the chicken pox also, and I suppose the little ones will get it too."

  But I did not come down with the pox. The next day I was at Charteris apologizing to Lord and Lady Bladen for my unfortunate mishap. They were delighted to see me well. Their only sorrow was that I had missed the ceremony, for it had proceeded without a hitch after I had left. They had saved me wedding cake, which I promised to sleep on so I might dream of the man I would marry. Margaret and Pa­tience regaled me with each detail of the wedding feast and everything that had been said and done, minutely describing Philomena's pale blue silk pelisse and bonnet of white crepe over satin, trimmed with Danish blue satin and parma violets, in which she had left with Darius on the first stage of their wedding trip. Despite my despair, I listened avidly to each detail, each striking me as surely as the asp had struck at Cleopatra's breast, like a lover's pinch that hurts yet is desired.

  IV

  Lord Bladen was fond of telling me that books teach us to enjoy life or to endure it. It was the latter function they ful­filled for me during that long summer and autumn after Darius married. Though I had escaped actually hearing Mr. Linnell's words, "What God hath joined together let no man put asunder," still those words revolved in my head like the carp in the lake behind Charteris, which, even when they could not be seen, were inescapably there. My dreams died hard; in fact I cannot honestly say they died at all. Yet in continuing to love Darius, I knew I broke the tenth command­ment, and each Sunday I prayed for forgive-ness, only to begin each new week desiring him as much as ever.

  Life at home continued uneventfully, though the atmo­sphere had become more lugubrious since Eugenia's coming out. It was not that her London season had been unsuccessful. That is to say, she had been much admired and had received a multitude of invitations and had danced every dance when­ever she went to a ball—by such criteria she could be said to have taken—but her season had not resulted in the hoped-for and anticipated goal of any young lady's season: a suitable proposal of marriage. Her admirable face and figure had been insufficient to overcome the size of her marriage portion, and no request for the bestowal of her hand had come from the more noble, the more wealthy of her admirers. She had re­turned to Linbury in a lamentably unpleasant frame of mind, and as time passed and no suitable prospects presented them­selves, she became increasingly cantankerous. I was glad to have my daily escape to Charteris, to be free for a few hours from her critical eye and sharp tongue.

  It was with some relief, therefore, that I heard her former admirer, George Ramsey, had returned. He had been in York­shire attending to business matters for his father. At one time it had been rumoured that he was to marry an heiress from the north, but the match had failed to come about because, I overheard Mrs. Fanshawe tell mother, her fortune had not been nearly as large as he had been led to believe, and since she was no beauty, he was not to be persuaded to cast his lot for her.

  When next the Ramseys dined with us, George was with them. Eugenia took particular care with her toilet that day. I must admit she showed to great advantage in her London gown of yellow sarcenet surmounted by a white frilled bodice, the skirt just short enough to reveal her shapely ankles. She preserved just the right degree of amiability towards her for­mer admirer without appearing overanxious to see him, and I, knowing full well the pains she had taken to please, could not help but marvel at her subterfuge. Her manner of talking on posit
ive nothings as though they were the most fascinating subjects in the world, an art she had perfected during her London stay, was stifling yet oddly intriguing, and Netty took to copying her. Was that what Darius had meant by frivolity becoming young ladies, I wondered? No matter, I would never be able to charm a man as I saw she now charmed George Ramsey. His attentions did not escape my parents' notice or his own, though I fancy his were less happy with it than were mine. The Ramseys, wealth from trade notwithstanding, would want for their son and heir a wife with a fortune in addition to a pretty face and good name.

  For my part I was having difficulties with Augustus Fanshawe. For reasons I was unable to fathom, he became a con­stant visitor at Seton Place, waiting for me if I were not home, greeting me awkwardly when I came. I could not understand why he called so often or what he wanted. Perhaps he was simply lonely, for Sebastian had gone to London to study law, and even though his family was large, it was equally as easy to feel lonely within a large family as within a small one. I knew that from my own experience. So I spent my afternoons work­ing on my embroidery while Augustus sat opposite me, talking sometimes of his ambitions to follow in his brother's footsteps and read law at Lincoln's Inn, more often saying nothing, forcing me to make conversation since I couldn't bear the weight of the silence. I didn't dislike Augustus; I had grown up with him, but he did bore me. Whenever he spoke, blink­ing his pale, myopic eyes behind his steel-rimmed spectacles, nodding his head at each word, he reminded me for all the world of a barn owl: kindly, pedantic and horribly dull.

  I was quite pleased when George Ramsey joined us one day as he waited for Eugenia. Since she had not expected him, I knew it would take some time for her to change her gown and rearrange her hair, so I did my best to make him welcome.

  He was a pleasant enough young man, a trifle heavy, perhaps, but of a build large enough to carry his corpulence though the future promised that he would become as rotund as his father. He had the florid complexion of all the Ramsey men, but at times his dark eyes twinkled in a way that made me believe he was not quite as stolid as he seemed. Thomas always described him as quite a card and winked in a way I did not entirely understand.

  I made him talk of his travels in Yorkshire and found that he told amusing stories of the fierce independence of the peo­ple of the north, of their open hostility to officials who did not act according to their wishes. There was even one tale of a blanket-tossing.

  "It is hardly surprising that you found them of a less even disposition than people in our southern climes—you've been in the home of the Cliffords, among people who openly sup­ported Mary Stuart."

  "Nothing but a hotbed of primitive Methodists and Lud­dites if you ask me." George Ramsey was quite obviously happy to be able to voice his opinions, for he did little enough of that in the presence of his father or my own when he sat silently, nodding in unison with their every word. I suppose it was for that reason that father held him in such high esteem.

  "Perhaps," I answered. "But I think you must admit that more often than not they exhibit a shrewd common sense."

  "But how do you know so much of them? Have you been among them?"

  "I've never been outside Wiltshire, but any reading of our country's history illustrates the rugged character of Yorkshire's people, a character that is only equalled by the terrain, from what I hear of it. But you must tell me about that, for you have seen it firsthand."

  Thus it was that when Eugenia finally came down, George Ramsey was sitting next to me, regaling me with the tale of a West Riding squire and his gamekeeper, who had bested the squire's sly attempt to catch him sleeping by pre­tending to take his employer for a poacher and soundly thrashing him.

  George was laughing so heartily at his own story that he had only a perfunctory greeting for Eugenia when she entered, wearing the new sprigged muslin she had trimmed only the day before with ribbons she had sent to London for specially, her hair carefully styled in bunches of curls at either ear. I could see she was furious, for she was left to entertain Au­gustus, who seemed as displeased with her company as she was with his. When I attempted to draw her into the conversation, she made no attempt to disguise her disinterest in Yorkshire, being more concerned with a ball to be given in Linbury the following month.

  George Ramsey, however, refused to allow the conversa­tion to be diverted, for he seldom got the opportunity to talk freely on topics of interest to himself. He resolutely turned his back on Eugenia and Augustus and began to discuss a family he had stayed with—I wondered if it could be the one with the heiress daughter—and their hospitality to him. Over his shoul­der I caught a glimpse of Eugenia, her face pink with fury, and hurriedly suggested that since the weather was so fine, we should all take a walk.

  Eugenia accepted my suggestion with an alacrity she did not usually exhibit for my ideas, and together we left the room to get our wraps. As we mounted the stairs, she hissed at me between clenched teeth, "Please stop pushing yourself. It is positively embarrassing to Mr. Ramsey."

  I started to protest, but she held a finger to her lips and cast a sweet smile down to the hall, where our companions awaited us.

  When we left the house, I determined not to walk with George Ramsey, but we had not been long gone before he took my arm to assist me over a fallen log and then made no at­tempt to release his hold. Eugenia, forced to walk behind with Augustus, would, I knew, be livid. At a bend in the path, I pretended to have twisted my ankle and begged Augustus to see me back to the house, a request with which he readily complied.

  Mother came to my room that night, which was not her usual custom. She sat awkwardly on the edge of the stool to my dressing table and began to talk of commonplaces. I could see she felt uncomfortable.

  "Is anything wrong, mother?" I asked at last.

  "Eugenia is upset, Alex. She says you were trying to di­vert Mr. George Ramsey's attentions from her today. Is that so?"

  "Of course not. I was interested in his stories of Yorkshire, that was all, and Eugenia wasn't. To say I tried to divert his attentions is absolutely unjust. Eugenia's attitude puzzles me. After all, Cassy sat next to him at dinner last week. I'm sure he talked to her, but Eugenia didn't take exception to that."

  "That's quite different, Alex. Cassy, as you must be aware, is not—well, how should I put it—Cassy is not exactly beautiful and . . ."

  "Am I beautiful, then?" I asked in surprise.

  "You are growing into a fine young lady. You're almost seventeen and you're taller than Eugenia now, though I hope you stop growing, for while it is good to be tall, it is not good to be too tall."

  "You don't think my mouth is too large for beauty, then?"

  She laughed and came over and kissed my forehead, glad, I think, that the interview had passed without rancour.

  "Of course it isn't. You have a very attractive smile, but please keep it away from Mr. George Ramsey. You know how disappointed Eugenia has been since she returned from Lon­don. It is important for her to have an admirer, and it would be awful for her to be outdone by a younger sister—and a sister not yet out. You have plenty of time yet in which to find a husband."

  I promised mother to be the model of decorum, and I was as good as my word and didn't speak two syllables together to George Ramsey the next time he called, so that he preferred Eugenia's commonplaces to my reticence and soon all was forgotten. Forgotten by Eugenia, that is, but not by me. It had amazed me that any man, even George Ramsey, had found me preferable to the family beauty. Perhaps, after all, men were not only attracted by frivolity. Perhaps, too, that was the reason that Augustus Fanshawe had begun to spend so much of his time at Seton Place. Yet if his interest in me was more than that of an old friend, I was determined to discourage him; friend he was, but he was in no way the sort of man I could ever consider marrying. I knew of only one man whom I wanted, and since he was unattainable, I would never marry.

  I could never tell my family of that resolve, for I knew it was considered the duty of every woman to m
arry. I wished I could have followed a career—law, or perhaps medicine—but that was only permissible for the boys.

  I was startled, however, when Paul accosted me one morning with, "Father says I'm for the church."

  "Don't be silly," I laughed. "He must be joking. Imagine you preaching to people, telling them to mind their ps and qs, and all the time, like as not you'd have a frog in the sleeve of your surplice—remember Sylvester?"

  "It's not funny, Alex, and father's deadly serious. James would do better," Paul went on morosely, "He's such a goody-goody, especially when mother's around. Thomas toes the line better than I do, but then he doesn't have to do anything; he'll inherit. Not that I'd want to run the estate—I'd rather have a profession, but not the church."

  "Then talk to father; tell him."

  "I tried, but he's set on it. He's not one to be disobeyed, but I won't take the cloth. I won't, I won't."

  I agreed with Paul. It seemed as great a sin to go into the church without a calling as it would be to marry without love and respect.

  Patience came out that spring, and the Bladens left for London. Lord Bladen had offered to present me along with his younger daughter, and father had been tempted by his offer, for it would have saved him considerable expense, but I over­heard him telling mother he would not want to find himself with a Whig for a son-in-law. Though the thought of seeing London had excited me, I was not altogether sorry at father's refusal to let me go, for the visit would have brought me into contact with Darius and Philomena and I was not yet ready to face their married bliss with equanimity.

  My relationship with Patience had been strained, per­haps because of the time her father devoted to me, though she had no wish to pursue studies herself. Since she rarely came to the library, being occupied with preparations for her presenta­tion, our paths did not often cross except at the luncheon table, when others were always present.