The hall was being decorated with plants from the greenhouses and there was an atmosphere of bustle everywhere; savoury smells emerged from the kitchen and the cook was making an enormous wedding cake over which she seemed to be puffing and groaning every time I went into the kitchen.
We should have a few people staying in the house—those who came from too far to be able to get home on the evening of the wedding day; those in the not-too-distant neighbourhood could attend the ceremony and the reception which was to follow and then start the journey home.
The marriage was to take place in the Eversleigh chapel, which was reached from the hall by a short spiral staircase. It was not small—as chapels in country houses go—but on the other hand it was not large and would therefore, I was sure, be overcrowded. My mother had said that the servants could sit on the staircase if there was not room for them inside the chapel.
The day after the wedding David and I would leave for London and would spend a week there before returning to Eversleigh.
“The honeymoon proper is temporarily postponed,” said David, “but only until life settles down more peacefully on the Continent. Then for us it will be the Grand Tour. We may go through France if that is possible and perhaps visit some of the people and places you once knew. And then… on to Italy. In the meantime we shall have to be satisfied. Will you accept that?”
“Needs must,” I said laughingly.
I began to thrust aside my doubts. My mother was so pleased. I knew she had always favoured David. Why was it that she, who had chosen Dickon, the wildest of adventurers, and one least likely to be a faithful husband, should have chosen serious David for me? Perhaps for the very reason that she herself had chosen Dickon. I believed my own father was a man whom she had shared with many women. So perhaps that was the very reason why she preferred the steady one for her daughter.
It was the night before my wedding. I opened the cupboard door and looked at my dress. Before the candles were lighted it looked like a woman standing there. Soft chiffon! The pride of Molly Blackett’s life. It was beautiful. I should be happy ever after.
I undressed and brushed my hair, braiding it neatly into two plaits. I went and sat by the window and I asked myself if everything would have been different if Jonathan had not gone away. Suppose I could go back to the days before my birthday. It was on my birthday, with the arrival of the refugees, that everything changed. It was they who had fired Jonathan and Charlot with the idea of going to France. Charlot had always wanted to go back.
Suppose those refugees had not escaped. Suppose they had never come to Eversleigh… Would this then be the eve of my wedding?
I looked out into the distance. How often had I stood there straining my eyes to the horizon looking for a rider who might be Jonathan returning from France.
But he had not come. Perhaps he never would come. Perhaps he would disappear as my Uncle Armand had—although he came back… when it was too late.
Would Jonathan?
I got into bed. It was difficult to sleep. I kept thinking about the future, sometimes fearfully. But what was there to fear? David loved me and he was the kindest of people.
And if Jonathan ever came back…? Well, what if he did? I should be married then. His coming and going would be no real concern of mine.
At last I slept and I awoke to find my mother standing by my bed.
“Wake up, little bride,” she said. “It’s your wedding day.”
I was coming out of my sleep and as I smiled at her I seemed to hear another voice, strange and ghostly: “Beware, little bride.”
So I was married to David in the chapel at Eversleigh. It was a simple ceremony performed by the priest who lived on the estate and officiated on all such occasions. I felt a sense of fatality standing on the red tiles where generations of Eversleigh brides had stood before me.
The chapel was so hot and the overpowering odour of so many flowers made me feel a little faint; but perhaps that was the excitement.
David was smiling as he put the ring on my finger and said the words required of him in a resolute voice. I hoped I sounded equally determined to do what was expected of me.
Then we were walking out of the chapel and I was aware of all the people there: Lord and Lady Pettigrew with their daughter Millicent; friends from the neighbourhood; and at the back of the chapel—suggesting to me a certain false modesty—were Mrs. Trent and her two grand-daughters.
I could feel their eyes on me. But this was natural, for was I not, as the bride, the focus of attention?
The servants who had been seated on the stairs hastily pressed themselves against the wall to make a passage for us, and so David and I, now husband and wife, came into the hall.
My mother was right behind us. She was flushed and looked very beautiful; with her dark blue eyes and luxuriant dark hair, she was still a strikingly handsome woman.
There were tears now in her lovely eyes. She whispered to me that it was so moving. “I kept thinking about the day you were born and all the funny little things you used to do.”
“I believe that is how mothers are on their daughters’ wedding days,” I said, “so, dearest Maman, you only acted true to form.”
“Come,” she said. “They are all returning now. We shall feed them right away.”
Soon they were assembled in the hall and there was a buzz of conversation. Dickon looked very pleased and I could hear his hearty laughter above the conversation. My mother was at his side and I thought: She is happier than she has been since the day Charlot left.
I cut the cake with David’s help and I smiled to note the cook’s anxious eyes on us while we performed this ceremony, for the servants had gathered in one corner of the room.
I nodded towards her to imply that it was perfect. She closed her eyes, and opening them, rolled them to the ceiling in ecstasy. David and I laughed together and went on cutting the cake.
Mrs. Evalina Trent was talking to Millicent Pettigrew, rather to Millicent’s consternation, for her mother would most certainly not approve of Mrs. Trent. I think Evalina Trent knew this and was rather maliciously keeping Millicent in conversation although it was clear that she wanted to escape.
“It’ll be your turn next, my dear,” I heard her say. “Oh yes it will. Take a piece of cake and put it under your pillow, my dear. Then tonight you will dream of your future husband.”
Millicent looked over Mrs. Trent’s head and Mrs. Trent went on, indicating her two grand-daughters, who were close by. “Now my girls will put that cake under their pillows, won’t you, girls? They’re determined to see their future husbands tonight.” She turned to Millicent: “You’ll be staying the night, I daresay.”
Millicent admitted that she would be.
“Too far to travel back by night,” went on Mrs. Trent. “Dangerous, too. I wouldn’t want to travel after daylight. Those gentlemen of the road are getting bolder. They’re not content with taking a lady’s purse… They want something else besides, so they tell me.”
Millicent murmured: “Excuse me!” and went over to join her mother.
People came up to congratulate us; toasts were drunk and there was a great deal of laughter. Dickon made a speech saying how happy he and my mother were, and he stressed what an unusual state of affairs this was when a man’s son could marry his wife’s daughter and it could be the most perfect union imaginable.
Everyone applauded, and the servants cleared away the food and dancing began. As was customary I opened the dance with Dickon, followed by David with my mother; and the others fell in behind us.
I was tired and a little apprehensive, half relieved and half fearful, when the guests began to depart, leaving only those who were staying in the house.
Mrs. Trent came to say goodbye to me before they left.
“I reckon you’re glad to see the back of us,” she said, her eyes sparkling as she almost leered at me. “Now,” she went on, “the real wedding can begin.”
I watched them leave and felt
quite glad because they were no longer under our roof.
The carriages started to leave and we stood at the door waving to them as they clip-clopped off into the darkness.
Then David slipped his arm through mine, and together we went to the bridal chamber in which so many of my mother’s family had spent the first night of their married lives.
The Return
I WAS HAPPY. My doubts had disappeared. David was so kind, so tender and considerate, so eager to do everything which would please me. We slipped from a long and companionate friendship to a more intimate relationship, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. I had left my innocence behind me and I was glad.
When I awoke on the morning after my wedding day, David was sleeping. He had changed subtly as I supposed I had. He had ceased to be the quiet young man absorbed in serious matters. He was passionately in love with me, and I was very happy that he should be. We had always been the best of friends, but this new closeness was a comfort to me. I felt happy and secure. I believed that I was learning to know David as I had never known him before; and I daresay he felt the same about me. I had always been intrigued by that phrase in the Bible which I think says: “He came unto her and knew her.” I understood now what that meant. David came unto me and I knew David and he knew me, and we were miraculously united.
When David awoke and found me studying him, he returned my gaze with a kind of wonderment. We embraced. I knew that he felt the same as I did, and that we did not need words to express our thoughts. That was part of the new relationship which was springing up between us.
My mother studied me anxiously. I must have looked radiant for her fears vanished immediately. She held me very closely and said: “I am so glad, my dearest. Now you are going to be happy.”
She looked very like her old self as she stood waving us off.
What happy days they were! London had always excited me; the bustle, the carriages with the fine ladies and gentlemen riding in them; the shops full of exciting merchandise; the link boys when it was dark; the vitality of it all.
And now to be here with David, making plans as to how we should spend the day, seemed absolute bliss.
We stayed at the family house in Albemarle Street, so in a way it was like being at home; but it was the first time we had ever had the house to ourselves. I felt very grown-up and fancied the servants treated me with a very special deference because of my newly-entered-into marital state.
Then began one of the happiest weeks of my life—which is what a honeymoon should be, of course. I was determined to enjoy every moment, and during that time all my doubts had disappeared. I was sure I had made the perfect marriage.
There were so many interesting things to do. We liked to wander through the streets, to stroll through the market listening to the street traders; we went for trips along the river to Hampton and we rode into the interlying villages as far out as Kensington, coming back across the bridge over the Westbourne at Knightsbridge. As we passed Kingston House David told me of the recent scandal concerning the late Duke and his mistress Elizabeth Chudleigh, who claimed to be the Duchess. It had been a cause célèbre some years before.
He had many interesting stories to tell me, and I felt I was seeing London as I never had before. I loved our leisurely walks through the streets of the City when he would point out those historic spots which had been the scene of much of our country’s history. There was that spot in what had been Pudding Lane, where the great fire of London had broken out in a baker’s shop at one o’clock in the morning of a Monday and raged through the City until the following Thursday. David could talk vividly, and he made me see the raging furnace and the terrified people running from their houses, the craft on the river and finally the experiments with gunpowder which had demolished the houses straight ahead of the fire and so stopped its progress. We visited the new St. Paul’s, which had replaced the old one—a magnificent example of the work of Christopher Wren.
To be with David was like reliving history.
We strolled past Carlton House, and paused to admire the colonnade of single pillars—one of the houses of the Prince of Wales, and which had previously been the residence of Frederick Prince of Wales, who had died before he could reach the throne. Here was a link with Kingston House because the notorious Duchess had been maid of honour to the Princess of Wales—so she, too, had lived in this splendid Carlton House.
Dickon had many associates in London and some of them were eager to entertain members of his family while we were there; but because we were so newly married they guessed, quite rightly, that we would prefer to have a few days to ourselves—and they respected this. So for those first few days of that week we were alone, and I think they were the most enjoyable, which delighted me because they confirmed that I had been right in marrying David. The more we were together, the more at one we seemed to become. He was, of course, moulding my tastes to fit his; but it was gratifying that I had no difficulty in accepting his guidance. I was very happy, during those days. “The days of my innocence,” I called them later; that was when I would be overcome by a passionate desire to escape from what I had become and go back to them. Very few people must have wanted to turn the clock back more than I.
But to return to those idyllic days, I remember that evening at Ranelagh which seemed such magic. The pleasure gardens, the river at dusk, the magnificent temple with its painted ceiling, the Rotunda in which could be heard the finest music executed by the greatest musicians throughout the world. Mozart himself had appeared here. I remembered hearing my grandmother talk about that. We sat there entranced, listening to the orchestral music of Handel and Pleyel and the exquisite voice of Signor Torizziani.
There was a fireworks display of the utmost magnificence when we gazed in wonder at the scintillating rockets as they burst in the air, and were most impressed by the bombshell which exploded to release what looked like myriads of stars and comets.
“No one would think we were a country at war,” said David sombrely.
I pressed his hand and answered: “Forget war and everything unpleasant. I am so happy tonight.”
We took one of the vehicles which was run by the management of Ranelagh to pick up people in various parts of London and bring them with the minimum of discomfort to the pleasure gardens. These were imitation French diligences. I wondered why we imitated the French in so many ways, and they did the same with us, when we seemed to be such natural enemies and even now were at war with each other.
David always seriously considered my lightly made observations. So he pondered this one all the way from Ranelagh to Hyde Park Corner, where we alighted from the diligence.
Then he said: “There is an antipathy between our two countries. I think it is because we have so much respect for each other’s skills—both peaceful and warlike—and we are, at heart, afraid of each other. If we admired each other less, we should hate each other less. So we have this animosity and these occasional outbreaks of imitation when the desire to be like each other is irresistible. Remember imitation is the greatest form of flattery.”
I laughed at him and told him that he was so solemn that he made an issue out of everything.
“Really,” I said, “I do believe you should be in Parliament with Mr. Pitt, Mr. Burke, Mr. Fox and the rest.”
“A career for which I should prove most unsuitable.”
“Nonsense. You could do anything you set your mind to, and as the affairs of the country seem to be in a certain disorder, surely we need clever men to put them right.”
“You overrate my cleverness,” he said. “Politicians have to be single-minded. They have not only to think they are right, they must know it. For one thing, I doubt myself all the time.”
“That is because you are clever enough to know that there are two sides to every question.”
“Which would damn me as a politician.”
He laughed, and arms entwined, we walked the short distance to Albemarle Street.
Looking back, I am surprised by how much we did in those few days. We visited the piazza at Covent Garden and David told me how Dryden had been assaulted there because of some verses in his Hind and Panther, and how a soldier had been shot dead on the spot. He had stories to tell of so many people: Steele, Dryden, Pope, Colly Cibber, Dr. Johnson and famous names of the theatre such as Peg Woffington and David Garrick; and painters, Sir Peter Lely and Sir Godfrey Kneller—all of whom used to frequent the piazza in their day.
I marvelled at his knowledge. I said to him: “And to think I shall be able to draw on it for the rest of my life!”
We went to Covent Garden to hear the marvellous voice of Elizabeth Billington, which was thrilling—particularly as the glittering audience included the Prince of Wales with Mrs. Fitzherbert. I was drawn to them because they seemed—as David and I were—very much in love.
I often thought afterwards of the way in which life deals with us all. It seems that even when we are at the height of our bliss, evil lurks, waiting to strike. That was one of the last performances Elizabeth Billington gave, for the next year she left the country and retired to the Continent because of scandalous publications about herself. And the royal lovers had their vicissitudes to face in the years to come, as all know now.
As for myself—I was so young, and innocent enough to believe I was going to live happily ever after.
The next day friends began to call on us. I enjoyed meeting them, but it was not quite the same as those idyllic first days.
Of course we could not shut ourselves away from events for ever. We had to face reality. There was a great deal of talk at dinner parties about what was happening in France, and there was no doubt that the people in the centre of things were very uneasy. David was deeply interested to hear the views expressed. He listened with great attention. I supposed that was why he was so clever. He never missed any piece of information, any point of view.
Voices in a Haunted Room Page 8
