Winter Wedding

by Joan Smith

  “Oh my yes! Three girls, all giants, and a younger son, Nickie. But Allingcote is the eldest. We call him Benjie, or Ben. He was named after Benjamin Franklin, who was a friend of his papa.”

  Clara had not gotten on a first-name basis with Lord Allingcote. He had asked her to drop the “Lord,” she remembered. “Lord me no lords, Miss Christopher,” he had said, in his strangely imperative way. “I always feel I have escaped from the Book of Common Prayer.”

  “Do you see much of your sister’s family?” Clara asked.

  “We usually exchange a visit once a year. We all go to Braemore in autumn, and Peg brings the children here in the spring.” Bad timing again, Clara thought. “Benjie comes, too, though he does not usually stay the whole two weeks. He was here last July by himself, but went darting off to Brighton halfway through the visit. He is strangely restless.”

  Clara bit back a howl of dismay. She had been in Brighton in June! Why could he not have gone in June? Her pen had proceeded to another name on the list, and this interesting subject was dropped.

  It rose again a week later when Lady Allingcote, Lady Lucker’s sister Peg, sent in an acceptance to the wedding invitation. She was to come with Marguerite, her eldest daughter, to arrive on the twenty-sixth of December. A few exceptions to the rule of a three-day visit were tolerated within the close family. A sister would be a useful creature to have around the house to share last-minute wedding preparations.

  The two ladies were once again in the library, working on a list. On this occasion they were endeavoring to juggle a list of rooms and expected guests, the latter far exceeding the former. “I didn’t realize Oglethorpe had so blasted many relatives,” Lady Lucker said. Clara, being one of those relatives, said nothing. “I am glad Peg is not bringing all her brood with her,” Lady Lucker continued. “Children are an infernal nuisance.”

  “Just the two Allingcotes then, your sister and Marguerite?” Clara asked. The name Ben had not crossed her lips since its first mention a week before, but it had often been in her mind. “They could share a room, could they not?”

  “I always give Peg the green suite. Maggie will take the dressing room, but I have no positive word on Ben. He was off visiting again. Peg forwarded his card somewhere or other. If he does not get it, she says he will be home for Christmas, and she will give him the message. She thinks he will come. He has had an invitation from Scotland, and is eager for an excuse to decline it.”

  Clara kept her head lowered, for she had a strong notion that her eyes were sparkling with pleasure.

  “See what she says: ‘Ben is looking for an excuse to evade the Scottish squab.’ That is Lady Gwen, poor thing. And she’s pigeon-chested, too. Really a regular little squab. But rich, of course. Very well to grass. So if Ben comes, that will take up the gold suite, and where do we put Oglethorpe’s Uncle Maximilian?”

  “Put him well away from the ladies, ma’am. Uncle Max is a pincher,” Clara warned her.

  “Is he indeed! And he a magistrate. If he is that sort of reprobate, I shall make him share a suite. He can share with Ben, and the two of them can help each other find out all the pretty girls. Much luck they’ll have. As I glance over this list, it strikes me there isn’t a single beauty coming. You may well find yourself the belle of the ball, Clara.”

  “If that is a compliment, ma’am, I thank you,” Clara said, laughing.

  “There is nothing amiss with your looks, Clara. So Max the pincher goes in with Ben. Ben must take the dressing room and sleep on a truckle bed. He will cut up stiff over that. He is a great cutup, but very fond of Prissie. I wonder what he will give her. Peg says she will wait till they get here to buy a present after she sees what Prissie wants. I wonder if we may expect two gifts, or if they’ll go snacks. Two, I shouldn’t doubt. They are both awfully fond of Prissie.”

  The talk turned to other guests, and no definite word was received of Allingcote’s coming. Clara was fully occupied during the ensuing days, overseeing the arrangement of cots and beds for the guests, getting mats ironed to cover scratched dresser tops in seldom-used rooms, and seeing to the airing of the beds.

  Through all this busy time, Prissie was treated like a duchess. She sat in state in the gold saloon, serving tea to callers, shopping endlessly, and thumbing through fashion magazines and home-furnishing catalogs.

  She never stirred a finger to help her mama and Clara prepare her party. She sighed wearily to be put to the bother of delivering an opinion on anything. Clara had to wonder at this blind spot in Lady Lucker’s makeup. She would squeeze some use out of any chance caller. Every resident within miles had some little function to fill, but Prissie just sat there, the cause of all the furor, looking pained at having to say “please” or “thank you,” and often neglecting even that.

  The days left little time to think of Lord Allingcote, but Clara thought of him at night in her bed—a different bed now in a different room. Her former suite had been turned over to Oglethorpe’s parents. She wondered if Allingcote would come. It would be placing too much significance on a brief flirtation to say that Allingcote had been in love with her. Yes, really it would be presumptuous to think anything of the sort. He had seemed to like her—had more than once sought out her company in a rather marked way at the Bellinghams’.

  There, at a large house party including several attractive heiresses, the most eligible, most handsome, most absolutely desirable gentleman at the whole party had selected her as a special friend for all of three days. He had walked, talked, danced, and flirted with her. And then before the production of The Tempest had been staged, he had left very abruptly. His father had taken ill, she heard, and died a month later. She had not seen Allingcote since.

  The memory of his well-shaped, dark head was sharply etched in her mind. She could remember it as seen from any angle. She knew to a degree at what slant his eyebrows rose up from his smoky gray eyes, knew precisely the lineaments of his nose, strong jaw, and chin. She recalled how he walked with a careless lounge and inclined his head toward anyone to whom he was speaking, because he was taller than most.

  She knew too that if he came, she would be hard-pressed to keep up any show of disinterest. With not a real beauty at the party, it seemed possible he might again favor her for his flirt. She knew she was a ninny to feel such pleasure at the possibility. He had been dashing around the countryside making up to every girl he met. Traveling all the way to Scotland to see the Scottish squab, whom he had no intention of marrying. And there was his local flirt, whoever she might be.

  But there was no point worrying; by the twenty-fourth of December, it was still not clear whether he was coming at all. On Christmas Eve day, a card arrived saying he would stop in on the twenty-sixth, with Miss Muldoon.

  That he was bringing an uninvited guest put Lady Lucker sadly out of frame. “Who the devil is Miss Muldoon?” she demanded. She sat with Prissie and Clara, trying to discover from Prissie whether she could tolerate having a new mauve mohair shawl packed in her trunk. The Highlands, where the honeymoon was to take place, would be cold, especially in winter.

  “She’s that girl he’s been running around with for two years,” Prissie said.

  Miss Priscilla was elegant but she was not amiable. Her smooth blond curls, her pale blue eyes, and her clear complexion were all marred by the sullen expression she wore. Her lips thinned and her nose drew down, ruining what might otherwise have been a passably pretty face.

  “The one Aunt Peggie hates so much, and they think Ben’s going to marry. You remember I told you, Mama, she was with me at Miss Simpson’s Seminary.”

  “Ah, I knew I had heard the name before. So that’s who she is. Peg usually calls her Nel; it was the Muldoon that threw me off. Old Anglin’s ward—a niece, I believe. He was visiting Braemore recently. It seems it has come to a match, if Ben is bringing her here. A fine time he has chosen for it! Why could he not have married her at least, so they would only take up one room?”

  Clara remembered heari
ng the girl spoken of as a beauty, and her hopes of being the belle of the party and enjoying a flirtation with Allingcote withered to dust. Determined to know the worst, she said to Prissie, “What does she look like?”

  “Blond hair like spun silk and big blue eyes,” Prissie said sullenly.

  “Why, she sounds like you!” Lady Lucker exclaimed, smiling fondly at her daughter. Clara began reconsidering. If Nel Muldoon proved to be no prettier than Prissie...

  “She is a horrid flirt,” Prissie said, offended.

  “Just what Benjie would like,” Lady Lucker decided. “He always favored blondes, like you, Prissie. Poor Gwendolyn has that ugly brindled hair. They call her a redhead, but it is brindled like a cat. Well, Peggie may not like Nel Muldoon, but the girl is well dowered and pretty. What else can she want?”

  “None of the girls at Miss Simpson’s liked her,” Prissie said comprehensively.

  “Naturally they would not like a pretty young heiress,” her mother rallied. “Put you all in the shade, I wager. It is clear she has caught Benjie, however, and where the deuce are we to put her? Every room in the house is full to the rafters. I think she must bunk in with you, Prissie.”

  “No! She will not!” Prissie declared at once. “She will have her abigail and ten trunks with her. I won’t have her taking over my room, right at my wedding time. I hate her.”

  “Oh dear,” Lady Lucker said, and immediately backed down. “But we cannot send her to an inn, a single young lady, and Anglin’s ward.” Her mind ran to Clara’s present room. Such a shabby little corner, with no space for an abigail and ten trunks, or even two. She continued to fret over this detail while Christmas approached, with all the fuss of food and Christmas baskets and carolers.

  Lord Oglethorpe arrived on the evening of the twenty-fourth to spend Christmas with them, but it was the twenty-sixth that was to see the first large influx of visitors. On Christmas day they had no more than Lord Oglethorpe added to their party, and a poor addition he was, in Clara’s opinion. A tall, gangly, silly fellow who fortunately spent most of his waking hours in secret conclave with Prissie in various dim corners, clutching her hand, her arm, shoulder, or waist, and whispering in her ear of the bliss awaiting them.

  Clara and Lady Lucker, too, were ready to crown him, but as there were no outside visitors to see how foolishly he behaved, they tried to ignore him. Sir James, who was a collector of Roman coins, remained all unaware of the hubbub around him. He had picked up a piece of bent metal in his pasture and was busily shining it to look for traces of a head or a date, thinking he found an addition for his collection. Its size and smooth edges suggested an English crown to Clara, but she didn’t tell him so.

  She and Lady Lucker soon turned their attention to the more pressing matter of arranging a place in the pantry for the wedding feast that was arriving in bowls, on platters, and in boxes from all corners of the diocese. It was Clara’s job to keep a list of items, along with their receptacle and owner, for the purpose of sending thanks and returning the container. She helped her hostess decide which comestibles to serve before the wedding, lest they perish into inedibility.

  It was a huge, full-time task that left very little freedom to consider the unknown Miss Muldoon. A room for her had been found under the eaves, and if she did not like it, Lady Lucker said bluntly, she could lump it. She was becoming irritable from nervous exhaustion, and even said, though she didn’t mean it, that she was sorry she had ever decided to “do” Prissie’s wedding herself.

  Clara, privy now to all the family secrets, was sent scrambling through bare linen cupboards and even ragbags to find a set of sheets for Miss Muldoon and a clean pair of towels. It was necessary to unpack the latter from Prissie’s trousseau. Clara was asked to remind Lady Lucker to have them laundered and returned before the trunk left. She made a note of it and added a splinter of dislike in the fence she was building around Miss Muldoon.

  When finally the twenty-sixth came, Clara was fagged with work and worry, but she was aware all the same of a coil of excitement that had nothing to do with the approaching wedding. A nervous agitation seethed within her while she went about her duties with an outward calm. Not since her childhood birthdays had she felt this mingled anticipation and apprehension, wondering if she would get the gift she craved or some well-meaning substitution. It was childish and unworthy of a grown lady, she told herself, but nothing calmed the feeling. This was the day Allingcote was to arrive, and she was on tiptoe to see him again.

  Chapter Three

  None of the promised guests arrived early on the twenty-sixth of December. If the guest lived nearby, he would come on the day of the wedding. The guests from afar would leave their homes in the morning and arrive late in the afternoon. Lady Allingcote and her daughter, Lady Marguerite, arrived at four o’clock. Clara was curious to see Allingcote’s family. The ladies were both exceedingly stylish. The mama was not unlike Lady Lucker in appearance—tall, dark hair and eyes, full-figured, and jolly, but perhaps less talkative than her sister. Marguerite was handsome and gave some idea how the older women would have looked thirty years before, with a smooth cheek, a firm chin, and a larger, clearer eye than they could now boast.

  Mother and daughter bustled in, full of good wishes and questions and a great eagerness to meet “him,” Baron Oglethorpe. No sooner were their capes and bonnets off than they went to seek him out. They soon ran him to earth in the study, sitting before a blazing grate, his fingers entwined in Prissie’s.

  Clara observed their expectant smiles dwindle to a polite parting of the lips as they ran their eyes over his rangy figure and unprepossessing countenance. By the time bows and curtsies were exchanged, the ladies had uttered their congratulations and good wishes, and Oglethorpe had civilly thanked them.

  Prissie then bestirred herself to ask whether it was very cold out. Lady Marguerite said not so very and asked her if she was nervous about the approaching wedding. Prissie exchanged a secret smile with her beloved and said “a little.” When this ceremony was complete, there seemed little more to say. The groom said and then repeated that he was very pleased to meet them he was sure, as though the matter had been in doubt. Having established his pleasure, his talk dried up.

  Lady Lucker tried to prolong the meeting by mentioning the honeymoon in the Highlands and the fear of a cold climate. Her sister already knew the reason for this destination, but asked anyway and was told by Lady Lucker that Oglethorpe’s grandma wished to meet the bride. Once it had been added that Oglethorpe’s parents would be arriving the next day, ingenuity gave way to impatience and the hostess suggested a nice hot cup of tea for the travelers. It was with a sense of relief that they escaped, and the visitors were forced to exert their wits to find a compliment on the groom.

  “He seems very nice” was the best they could do. Lady Allingcote, being a sister, felt free to add, “He is quiet, is he not? A little shy of strangers, I daresay.”

  “He will open up when he gets to know you. He has a sense of humor,” Lady Lucker assured her. His reputation as a jokesmith was based on his having once put on Prissie’s bonnet for a prank. It looked well on him.

  Clara, temporarily free from duties, tagged along with them to the gold saloon. Lady Lucker explained in a meaningful way that Clara was Oglethorpe’s cousin, which had a restraining effect on the anticipated coze. Not another word about the groom was uttered. “Has Benjie arrived yet?” Lady Allingcote asked instead.

  “No, but he comes today, and do tell me, Peg,” Lady Lucker asked eagerly, “is he engaged to Nel Muldoon?”

  “Indeed he is not!” the mother said vehemently. “Anglin is trying to push him into it. He has Benjie there three days out of four, but it has not come to a match.”

  “I see. Then pray, why is he bringing her here for the wedding?”

  Lady Allingcote did not swoon. Her reaction was rather an increase of spirits than a fading away. “You never mean the minx has convinced him to bring her here!” she declared noisily. The
n she turned to her daughter. “Maggie, did I not say when his carriage turned off at the crossroad that he was going to say good-bye to her? It was Anglin’s he was headed to certainly, and not daring to say a word to me, the wretch. To bring her here, uninvited—and at such a time! He knew I would stop him if he told me. That is why he kept silent. This is some of Nel’s jiggery. Ben isn’t on to half her curves. What a trick to play on you, Charity.”

  “We will be happy to have her,” Lady Lucker said. She was not so much happy as extremely curious to see why an objection was being raised to a pretty young heiress of good birth.

  “No, you will not!” Lady Marguerite laughed. “Nel will have the place in an uproar the whole time she is here.”

  Lady Lucker asked what was wrong with the girl, and Lady Allingcote gave her an ocular hint that it would be discussed later, when they were alone. Clara would have liked very well to hear all the details, but was discreet almost to a fault and excused herself at once.

  “Why don’t you run along with Clara, Maggie?” Lady Lucker suggested. “She will show you your room.” She was a little ashamed at the way Oglethorpe’s cousin was being used. If Clara was to dig in and work like family, she ought to be given the family privilege of gossip.

  Lady Marguerite, already aware of Miss Muldoon’s history, went along with Clara. She liked what she had seen of Miss Christopher thus far. “So you are Oglethorpe’s cousin,” she mentioned. “You don’t seem much like him.”

  “Thank you,” Clara replied, and laughed lightly. “I think that was meant for a compliment.” To disassociate herself from this person who had failed to find favor with the Allingcotes, she added, “We are not at all close.”

  “He seems very nice,” Lady Marguerite said dutifully.

  “Prissie thinks so in any case.” It was a relief that she was not the only one with an objectionable relation.