by V. J. Banis
Helen had little time to ponder these things, however. The wedding would be big and lavish, and it seemed there was hardly time now for anything but the wedding.
The wedding was scheduled for July the second, and people were coming from hundreds of miles away. The house would be filled with overnight guests and the sheds and outbuildings had been readied for the children and the servants to sleep in.
A vast canopy for the ceremony itself was set up on the lawn. The reception was to be held inside. Helen had borrowed help from the neighboring plantations. An entire army of servants would be on hand to serve the guests.
“This will be the biggest to-do anyone around here has seen since before the war,” was Bess’s opinion.
For Jennifer it was a heavenly period—all the details of the wedding to be arranged, under Helen’s adept supervision; so many new people to meet and make friends with; the sensation of luxury, of money to spend lavishly; the travel. All of these kept her breathless and thrilled.
Most of all, there was Walter. No longer need they exchange meaningful glances at a distance, or dream fondly of one another from afar. Now they could stroll hand in hand around the lawn of an evening, or sit cozily close in the parlor.
“Soon we shall always be together,” Walter said.
“And you will quickly grow tired of me,” she teased him, to which he replied with a fervent kiss.
At last June came, and with the glorious onslaught of summer, the wedding preparations entered their last frenzied stages. Gowns had to be fitted and final adjustments made. Food arrived, seemingly from around the world, and all Darkwater was a giant madhouse.
Helen and Bess were everywhere all at the same time, overseeing everything, ordering Walter out of their way as regally as if he were a manservant. Bess herself was responsible for all the marketing. She traveled into New Orleans, where she purchased the fresh calves’ feet from which the jelly was made. Stripped of their tough outer layer, they were cut up and then ground into a powder. Hot water and sugar were added to make jelly. Cochineal was added for the pink gelatin, spinach juice for the green, and thickened lemon juice for the yellow.
Weeks before, the most precious luxury of all, ice, had been loaded onto a steamboat far upriver, packed in straw to slow the melting. A special cellar had been dug and the ice was buried in more straw. Finally the jelly was set on the ice to harden.
The crude brown sugar made and used on the plantations was replaced with white refined sugar purchased on Bess’s trip to New Orleans. It came in hard cones like rock and for days Darkwater rang with the sound of mallets breaking it into chips, which were then ground into fine powder.
Smoke stood up straight from the tall kitchen chimneys on the last few days of preparation. The ovens, great metal affairs with their tops filled with live coals, were pushed into the fireplaces. Everywhere pots simmered and steamed with roux and soups and gumbo. A giant, seldom used fireplace was smoking now and across its front the meats—wild boar and venison--turned on spits, spattering their juices into pots set on the hearth.
Orange blossoms and violets were dipped into boiling syrup and allowed to harden into candy. In the kitchen yard, ice cream custards had been poured into huge cylinders which were turned continuously by strong black men. Every few minutes a man would give up his place at the tubs and sit back to blow on his freezing hands. If one rested too long, Bess was there scoring him with her sharp tongue.
Knives were rubbed on a hardwood board covered with powdered brick dust, to sharpen them. The gelatins, hardened now, and the sherbets and russes went down into the ice cellar. Vast cakes were stacked in layers and iced in the pantry, with much finger licking. Orange peels were woven into delicate little baskets, to be dipped into the boiling sugar syrup and set to harden, when they would be filled with sweets—pralines and bonbons and nougats.
Walter chose the wines and liquors and set them on the sideboard, but even here Helen reigned, making countless suggestions until Walter gave it up with a toss of his hands and went back to his fields.
Flowers filled urns and vases and ramblers and hybrid roses from the garden garlanded the front staircase.
“I don’t recall ever seeing anything this grand,” Susan said, watching in awe as the last details were attended to. She shook her head as the servants were brought in for Helen’s inspection, wearing livery new from the skin out. Two small boys wearing turbans rehearsed standing on each side of the immense tables, pulling golden cords that moved the huge fans above.
“Surely everything must be ready by now,” Jennifer said, looking around with amusement and awe. It was June thirtieth.
“Almost,” Helen said. “And you? Your dress is just right?”
“Perfect,” Jennifer said with a little laugh. “You mustn’t start in on me with your army of servants. I would be too exhausted to stand up for the ceremony.”
“Hmm. Well, you have gotten a tan from too much time in the sun. Sleep with some sour buttermilk on your face for the next two nights. And I will do your hair myself.”
“Let me trim it,” Liza cried. With each day she had been more and more at Jennifer’s side, so that Jennifer had all but forgotten her old animosity. Almost, but not quite, because she could never quite get over the impression of something below the surface, something just out of sight, but menacing. Sometimes she had the feeling that Liza was with her not out of any desire for companionship but to watch her.
But then she would shrug and tell herself that she was being foolish. As if to quiet her doubts, she greeted each gesture of Liza’s with even greater enthusiasm, trying to reassure herself of their new friendship.
So, when Liza asked for a scrap of the fabric from her wedding gown, Jennifer made sure to find her a piece, and when Liza asked to trim her hair, she readily agreed.
“Yes, let Liza trim it,” Jennifer said, seeing Helen was about to refuse.
“If you like,” Helen said in a tone that left it plain what she thought of that idea.
The night before the wedding, when Jennifer had all but forgotten her hair, Liza tapped at her door, scissors in hand.
“I’ve come to trim your hair,” she said.
Jennifer took a seat at her dressing table and Liza came to stand behind her.
“Helen says she will come and set it when I have finished. Are you excited about tomorrow?”
“Yes, of course. Aren’t you?”
There was a pause. Jennifer glanced up into the mirror. Liza’s attention was directed to her hair, so that she was unaware that she was observed, and she wore such a look of scornful malice on her face that it gave Jennifer a start.
“Don’t do that,” Liza scolded. “You’ll make me ruin your hair.”
Jennifer looked up into the mirror then and Liza’s expression was again sweet and faintly puzzled.
“What’s wrong? Why did you jump like that?”
“Nothing.” Jennifer shook her head. Perhaps she had only imagined it. “I’m just nervous, I guess.”
Liza frowned. “That would be an omen. Mrs. Hodges taught me to believe in omens. Do you?”
“I...I’m not sure. For instance?”
“Well, for instance, if something really awful happened tomorrow, on your wedding day. It would be a bad omen. It would mean that your marriage was cursed.”
“Liza! What a thing to say.”
“It was only a for-instance. Or something really nice could happen. That would be a good omen.”
“Well, something really nice will happen. I will become Walter’s bride. I think that you have cut it short enough.”
“Yes.” Liza bent down and began to gather up the strands of hair that she had cut, tucking them into her pocket.
“You needn’t clean that up,” Jennifer said. “The maids will do it.”
“Oh, I don’t mind.” Liza continued to stuff hair into her pocket. “Besides, I want a lock of your hair.”
“What on earth for?”
“Because we’re frien
ds now. It’s all right, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I guess so. Now go tell Helen I’m ready.”
* * * * * * *
“Ugh, it smells vile,” Liza’s said of the hair dressing, but Helen ignored her. She had already pounded beef marrow into a fluid state, and now she added thick castor oil. Finally, she scented the concoction with oil of bergamot and patchouli and rubbed it into Jennifer’s thick, black hair, twisting each lock into curl papers so tightly that Jennifer gave a little cry of protest.
Afterward, her lips smeared with a salve of white wax and sweet oil, her face smelling of buttermilk, Jennifer was escorted off to bed, to sleep her last night as a single woman.
When she was in her bed, though, her thoughts went back to Liza, and the strange contradictions in their relationship. Liza tried so hard now to be friendly. Not since Christmas and her temper tantrum had she done anything to disagreeable.
Yet, there were moments...that face in the mirror, glowering savagely down at her head...had she only imagined that malice in the expression?
At one time she had reached the conclusion that Liza was in love with Walter. If that were so, had she gotten over her girlish love? Or had she somehow subdued it, for the sake of domestic tranquility? No, that wasn’t like Liza.
But what then? Could she be harboring a bitter resentment that Walter was marrying someone else? Liza was not the sort, either, to harbor a resentment without acting on it. In her own devious ways she had acted against Alicia.
“Is she acting against me?” Jennifer asked herself. “In some subtle way I don’t understand?”
Now you are being a fool, she decided, and turned over, trying again to get to sleep.
* * * * * * *
Bess was surprised to see that a light still burning in Liza’s room. She opened the door without knocking. Liza sat on the edge of her bed. At the sound of the door, she jumped and thrust her hands behind her.
“What you doing still up?” Bess asked, eyeing the girl suspiciously. Of all those in the house, she was the one least impressed with Liza’s good behavior. She had an abiding distrust of her.
“None of your business,” Liza snapped. “What are you doing, going around spying on people?”
“I thought I saw something shiny.” Bess came closer to the bed. “And what is this? Hair? And this bit of cloth, why, that’s off Miss Jennifer’s wedding dress, I recognize the fabric.”
“She gave it to me. It was just an extra piece and she said I could have it to make a doll.”
Bess’s dark face went darker still. “What kind of doll you making? Let me see what you got behind your back. Give it here.”
She forced Liza’s hand open. A golden chain fell to the floor.
“That’s Miss Jennifer’s pendant,” Bess said, picking it up. “She’s all the time wearing this. You goin’ to tell me she gives you this, too, huh?”
Liza said nothing, only looked sullenly down at the floor.
Bess leaned close. “What kind of doll you makin’? Is this some of that old swamp woman’s mischief?”
Liza looked up then, her eyes flashing. “I could make a doll of you too, you know,” she said.
Fear flickered in Bess’s eyes and she could not quite conceal it. “You could, huh? And I could just tell Mr. Walter too, couldn’t I?”
“He’d never believe you. He’d laugh and say you were being silly.”
Bess took a step backward. Liza was right, those people never believed in the powers. The threat of having some evil power directed against her was beginning really to frighten her.
“Just see you don’t practice any mischief around this house, or I’ll see that you get into trouble,” she said, but the authority was gone from her voice.
“Oh, I won’t,” Liza said with exaggerated sweetness. She held out her hand. “May I have the pendant back? Please?”
For a moment their eyes met, and what Bess saw made a cold shiver run down her spine. She dropped the gold chain into the outstretched hand and, without a word, turned and went quickly from the room, crossing herself as she went.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Guests came from throughout Louisiana and even as far away as Alabama, staunch matrons whose daughters had been laced unmercifully into corsets with whalebone stays and pieces of applewood three inches wide up the front, so that no deviation could be permitted from the posture of a gentlewoman.
Stores in New Orleans and Mobile had exhausted their supplies of rice powder and the sale of imported Parisian gowns and hats hadn’t been better since before the war.
* * * * * * *
Martin, Walter’s best man, helped him dress for the ceremony. Walter had not seen Jennifer since the previous day. “It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride,” Helen insisted, strictly enforcing her edict.
“Why, your hands are shaking,” Martin said.
“Well, yes, this is the biggest day of my life,” Walter said. “I’ve been married before, of course, but not like this. This time it’s the woman of my own choosing and I am marrying for love. This time will be forever.”
The ruffles on Walter’s white linen shirt had been starched until they stood out stiffly from his broad chest. His new cutaway coat was dark maroon, so dark and rich that the color was only evident when the light struck it, and it was trimmed with mother-of-pearl buttons. His waistcoat was cream-colored with an embossed fleur-de-lis pattern, and the stocks were white silk, so soft and clear that they appeared blue in the folds. His boots were polished until they reflected the light of every candle.
Peter, who had been in an ecstasy of excitement for days, came running into the room.
“Poppa, they’re coming, they’re coming,” he squealed, trying to climb up his father’s neatly trousered leg.
“Well, then, we’d better go greet them, hadn’t we?” Walter said, grinning.
Peter ran ahead to join Mary. Liza, Jennifer’s flower girl, was nowhere to be seen. Walter supposed she was with the bride-to-be. At the mere thought of Jennifer, his heartbeat quickened a little. Today, she would be his wife. And tonight....
Outside, footmen were opening the doors of the coaches. At the door, a butler called off the names of the guests as they arrived. Walter and Helen greeted them and they were led through the house to the wide back lawn, where tables of punch and hors d’oeuvres awaited them. From a pavilion nearby an orchestra played waltzes.
Wide as the lawns were, they seemed filled with beautifully gowned ladies and elegantly costumed men, moving gracefully about, standing in little groups and laughing and chatting.
For all the merriment and the air of festivity, there was nevertheless a tension in the air. Each was waiting for the big event to begin and, at last, the time had come. At a signal from Helen, who had just re-emerged from inside, the orchestra broke off the song they were playing and began instead the wedding music of Mendelssohn.
The guests formed a great circle, all eyes turned toward the door through which the bride-to-be would emerge. The minister took his place under the canopy, and Walter and Martin joined him there.
Something between a breath and a vast sigh rose from the lips of all those present, hovering in the air like an echo, as Jennifer came from the house.
She paused for a moment, framed in the doorway. All of the blossoms which decorated the tables paled beside her pearly loveliness. She had, after all, defied the curls Helen had so carefully set and spurned convention. Every other woman there wore her hair in the customary style, parted in the middle, with bunches of curls on each side.
Jennifer, however, had brushed hers until it fell in heavy midnight cascades about her creamy white shoulders. She wore a gown of ancient French lace which had been imported all the way from Paris, and it was cut in an extreme décolleté. She wore Helen’s own fine strand of pearls. Only the loss of her golden pendant, which had been her mother’s and which she had intended to wear, marred her preparations, but this had quickly been forgotten in the rush of getting ready.
When they reached the pulpit, Jennifer raised her eyes and looked into the face of her groom. She saw that he was bursting with happiness and pride and knew that all the effort and all the worry of preparation and dressing had been worth it. She felt as if she were floating on a pale white cloud. As if from a distance she heard the minister begin to speak.
But something was wrong. From the rear came an excited babble of voices, which others tried to shush, but the news, whatever it was, would not be quieted. It spread through the crowd like a flash fire through the brush, until the minister stopped speaking and everyone turned around.
“The President has been shot,” someone shouted. “President Garfield has been shot.” Others picked it up like echoes. “...Garfield...still alive....”
It took half an hour before the pandemonium died down and some sort of peace was restored. Stunned by the news and the disruption of her wedding, Jennifer had returned to her room.
“You mustn’t let this upset you,” Susan said over and over. “Things happen.”
“Yes, I know they do,” Jennifer said. She was thinking of Liza’s remark the night before, about bad omens. “If something really awful happened, it would be a bad omen....”
Well, this had been really awful, and surely it was a bad omen, on her wedding day.
At last Helen was able to restore order below and again the ceremony began, and this time it went without incident. But when at last the minister said, “You may now kiss the bride,” and Walter took her into his arms, Jennifer could not escape a feeling of waiting disaster.
After the wedding, the guests came inside for a great feast. The ballroom had been turned into a dining room, with huge tables of carved mahogany placed in a semicircle.
They sat down and at once an army of servants began bearing in the turkey, goose, chicken, venison and the wild boar. There was so much that the guests could do little but touch each course, all the while admiring the silver epergnes of trailing flowers in the center of each table, and the side tables groaning under their burdens of salad and cold meats and the jellies, the iced cakes and the ice creams and the wines glowing in their crystal decanters. At each lady’s place sat a basket of orange peel, filled with the candied petals of rose, violet and orange blossom.
