Uncomfortably Sunny remembered that Katie had said the girl had been nicknamed the Gargoylette. Her lips compressed as she returned the note to the envelope. The girl might be small, shy and seventeen, but she was the only Aubrey to write her brother’s bride, and Sunny looked forward to meeting her.
“Are you only going to have muffins for breakfast?” Augusta said with disapproval.
“After the dinner last night, it’s all I have room for.” Sunny broke and buttered one of the muffins, wondering why her mother had requested this private breakfast.
Expression determined, Augusta opened her mouth, then paused, as if changing her mind about what she meant to say. “Look at the morning paper. Thornborough was intemperate.”
Obediently Sunny lifted the newspaper, then blinked at the screaming headline. Duke Tells American Public to Go Hang!
“Oh, my,” she said weakly. The story beneath claimed that Thornborough had bodily threatened several journalists, then bullied the hotel manager in a blatant attempt to infringe on the American public’s constitutional right to a free press. “He mentioned yesterday that he’d been abrupt with some reporters, but surely this story is exaggerated.”
“No doubt, but someone should explain to Thornborough that it’s a mistake to pick fights with men who buy ink by the barrel.” Augusta neatly finished the last of her meal. “A good thing that he was in England until now. Heaven knows what trouble he would have gotten into if he had been here longer.”
Feeling oddly protective, Sunny said, “He’s a very private man. He must find this vulgar publicity deeply offensive.”
“Unfortunately, wealth and power always attract the interest of the masses.”
Sunny poured herself coffee without comment. Her mother might say that public attention was unfortunate, but she would not have liked to be ignored.
Augusta began pleating her linen napkin into narrow folds. “You must be wondering why I wanted to talk to you this morning,” she said with uncharacteristic constraint. “This will be difficult for both of us, but it’s a mother’s duty to explain to her daughter what her... her conjugal duties will be.”
The muffin turned to sawdust in Sunny’s mouth. Though she didn’t want to discuss such a horribly embarrassing subject, there was no denying that information would be useful. Like all well-bred young ladies, her ignorance about marital intimacy was almost total.
Briskly Augusta explained the basics of male and female anatomy. Then, rather more slowly, she went on to describe exactly what a husband did to his wife.
Sunny choked on her coffee. “That’s disgusting!” she said after she stopped coughing. She had heard whispered hints and giggles about the mysterious something that happened between men and women in the marriage bed, but surely it couldn’t be what her mother was describing.
“It is disgusting,” Augusta agreed, “as low and animal as the mating of hogs. It’s also uncomfortable and sometimes painful. Perhaps someday scientific progress will find a better, more dignified way to make babies, but until then, women must suffer for the sins of Eve.”
She took a piece of toast and began crumbling it between nervous fingers. “Naturally women of refinement are repulsed by the marital act. Unfortunately, men enjoy it. If they didn’t, I suppose there would be no such thing as marriage. All a woman can do is lie there very quietly, without moving, so that the man will please himself quickly and leave her alone.”
Lie there and think of England, in other words. Sunny’s stomach turned. Had her tall, athletic father actually done such things to her delicate mother? Was this what Paul Curzon had wanted when he was kissing her? And dear God, must she really allow Thornborough such liberties? Her thighs squeezed together as her body rejected the thought of such an appalling violation.
Seeing her expression, Augusta said reassuringly, “A gentleman will not visit your bed more than once or twice a week. You also have the right to refuse your husband once you are with child, and for at least three months after you deliver.” She glanced down at the pile of crumbs she had created. “Last night, after the settlements were signed, I took the duke aside and reminded him that you are gently bred, and that I would not permit him to misuse you.”
“You spoke to Thornborough about this?” Sunny gasped, so humiliated that she wanted to crawl under the table and never come out “How did he reply?”
“He gave me the oddest look, but said that he understood my concern for your welfare, and assured me that he would be mindful of your innocence.” Augusta gave a wintry smile. “It was very properly said. He is, after all, a gentleman.”
Sunny’s mind was a jumble of chaotic thoughts. The marriage bed sounded revolting—yet she had enjoyed Paul Curzon’s kisses, and kissing was supposed to be a prelude to doing it. Surely the women who carried on flagrant affairs wouldn’t do so if they found the whole business distasteful. Timidly she asked, “Do all women dislike the marital act?”
“I wish I could say that was so, but there is no denying that there are some women of our order who are a disgrace to their sex. Low-bred creatures who revel in their animal nature like barmaids! I know that you are not like that, but you will meet women who are.” Leaning forward, Augusta said earnestly, “I cannot emphasize enough that it is fatal to seem to take pleasure in a gentleman’s embrace. If you do, he will instantly lose all respect for you. A woman who acts like a prostitute will be treated like one. Always strive to maintain your dignity, Sarah. Ultimately it is all that a lady has.”
With horror, Sunny remembered that when Paul had taken liberties, she had responded eagerly. Was that why he had made his degrading suggestion that she marry Thornborough, then have an affair with him? She still thought his behavior despicable—but perhaps she had brought it on by her wantonness. Paul had seen her acting like a slut, so he had treated her like one. It was exactly what her mother was warning her about.
Apparently a woman who gave in to her animal nature also risked unleashing a man’s worst traits. That had been bad enough in the case of Paul Curzon, but Thornborough was going to be her husband! If he didn’t respect her, the marriage would be hellish.
Feeling ill, Sunny said, “I shall remember all you have said and I will strive to behave in a manner that you would approve.”
“I’m sure you will not disgrace your upbringing.” Augusta bit her lip, her usual confidence gone. “Oh, Sarah, I’m going to miss you dreadfully. You’ll be so far away.”
Sunny resisted the temptation to point out that her mother should have thought of that before accepting the proposal of a foreigner. “I’ll miss you, too. You must visit us at Swindon soon.”
Augusta shook her head. “Eventually, but not right away. I know that I’m a strong-minded woman, and I don’t want to cause trouble between you and your husband. Marriage is a difficult business, and you and he must have time together with as little interference as possible.”
At moments like this, Sunny loved her mother with painful intensity. It was true that Augusta was often domineering, yet her love for her children was very real. She was a woman of formidable energy. If she had a railroad or a bank to run, she might have been less absorbed in her daughter’s life.
“I’ll be fine,” Sunny said with determined optimism. “Thornborough is a gentleman, and I am a lady. I’m sure that we can contrive a civilized marriage between us.”
She wished that she was certain that was true.
Chapter 5
Tears flowing down her face, Sunny stood patiently while her maid laced up her white brocade bridal corset. Then Antoinette dropped the wedding gown over her head. It was magnificent, with foaming layers of Brussels lace and billows of white satin spangled with seed pearls and silver thread. Augusta had been so confident of her daughter’s future triumph that she had ordered the gown from Worth when they visited Paris in March, before Sunny had ever set foot in London.
When the gown was fastened, Antoinette lifted the tulle veil and carefully draped it over the intricate coils of
Sunny’s hair. As the gauzy fabric floated down to her knees, the bride bleakly wondered if it was dense enough to conceal her tears.
Antoinette secured the veil with a coronet of orange blossoms, saying soothingly, “Don’t fret, mademoiselle. Every girl is nervous on her wedding day. Monsieur le Due is a fine gentleman, and he will make you very happy.”
Sunny’s shoulders began shaking with the force of her sobs. Antoinette frowned and gave her a handkerchief, muttering, “Madame Vangelder should not have gone ahead to the church. A girl needs her mother at a time like this!”
As Sunny wept into the crumpled muslin square, a knock sounded at the door. Antoinette answered and returned with a large white flower box. “For you, mademoiselle.”
“You can open it if you like,” Sunny said drearily.
Less jaded than her mistress, Antoinette opened the package, disclosing an exquisite orchid bouquet nestled in layers of tissue paper. “There is a card for you, mademoiselle.”
Sunny’s puffy eyes widened when she read, "These flowers are from the Swindon greenhouse. If they are suitable, perhaps you might wish to carry them. Fondly, Justin."
Oblivious to the fate of her five-yard-long train, Sunny dropped into a chair and wept even harder.
“Oh, mam’zelle!” Antoinette said helplessly. “What about the orchids makes you weep? They are very lovely.”
“Yes, they are.” Sunny made a desperate effort to collect herself. “I am ... touched by Thornborough’s thoughtfulness in having them sent all the way from England.”
Though it was not something she could say to her maid, she was even more moved by the fact that he was actually letting her choose whether or not to carry them. Every other detail of the wedding: the trousseau, the decorations, the extravagant reception, had been determined by her mother. Even the eight bridesmaids, including two Vangelder cousins, a Whitney, a Jay and an Astor, had been selected by Augusta for reasons of her own. Sunny had been swept along like a leaf in a torrent.
But Justin had given her a choice. Surely with such a considerate man, she could be happy. Unsteadily she said, “I must look like a fright. Please bring me some cold water and a facecloth.” She glanced at the enormous bouquet Augusta had ordered. “You can set that aside. I will carry the orchids.”
“But...” After the beginning of a protest, the maid nodded. “Yes, mademoiselle. An excellent choice.”
As Antoinette went for the cold water, Sunny found herself wondering if the maid had ever endured the grotesquely undignified process of mating that Augusta had described. The thought almost sent her off in tears again.
For the last two days, at the most awkward moments, she had wondered the same thing about others: her brother Charlie, who was very fond of female company; the wife of the Anglican bishop who was going to perform the ceremony; Thornborough himself. Her morbid imaginings were turning her into a nervous wreck.
Antoinette returned with a basin of water and a cloth, then flipped the veil back over Sunny’s head so that her face was bare. “You must hurry, mademoiselle, or you will be late.”
As she sponged her stinging eyes with the cool, moist cloth, Sunny snapped, “They can all just wait!”
* * *
The day became increasingly unreal. Fifth Avenue was lined on both sides with policemen assigned to prevent the thousands of spectators from breaking through. The wedding was to be at St. Thomas’s Anglican church. Though the Vangelders didn’t usually worship there, it was the only fashionable church with enough space for the seventy-voice choir Augusta had chosen.
Inside the church, huge arches of orange blossoms spanned the aisle, and banks of palms and chrysanthemums seemed to cover every vertical surface. Twenty-five excruciating minutes behind schedule, Sunny waited for her entrance, one icy hand clenched around her orchid bouquet and the other locked on her brother Charlie’s arm. Though she couldn't see the guests clearly in the dim light, every pew was filled.
As the bridesmaids marched smartly down the aisle to the music of the sixty-piece orchestra, Charlie whispered, “Buck up, Sunny. Show them that an American girl is every bit the equal of any European princess.”
The wedding march began, and Sunny started the long walk to the altar. If it hadn’t been for her brother’s firm support, the “American princess” might have fallen flat on her face.
With hysterical precision, she calculated that in the months since she had met Thornborough, they had seen each other for ten days, and been alone together for less than an hour. Why was she marrying a stranger? If it hadn’t been for the five-yard train, she might have turned and bolted.
The dark figure of her fiancé waited impassively at the altar. Next to him was his best man, a pleasant fellow called Lord Ambridge, an old school friend of Justin’s who was currently serving in the British Embassy in Washington.
As Sunny drew closer to her future husband, she saw that his expression was grim. Then she looked into his eyes and realized that he was as nervous as she. Her lateness must have made him wonder if she had changed her mind.
Dear God, how humiliating those long minutes of waiting must have been for him! As Charlie handed her over, she gave Thornborough an unsteady smile of apology.
His expression eased. He took her hand, and the warmth of his clasp was the most real thing she had experienced all day.
They turned to face the bishop, and the ancient, familiar words transformed the stranger beside her into her husband.
* * *
The wedding night was a disaster. Later Justin realized that it had been foolish of him to think it could have been otherwise, yet he had had the naive hope that once he and his bride were alone together, they would be able to relax. To become friends.
Instead, the “wedding breakfast” had proved to be a huge reception that seemed as if it would never end. By the time they reached their hotel suite, Sunny’s face was gray with fatigue.
He wanted to hold her but restrained himself, for she looked as if she would shatter at a touch. They had a lifetime ahead of them; it would be foolish to rush matters now.
She mutely followed his suggestion that she relax with a long bath. Much later, after Sunny’s maid had finished her ministrations and left for the night, he joined his wife in the spacious bedchamber. He expected to find her in the canopied bed, perhaps already asleep. Instead, she stood by the window, gazing out on the lights of New York.
He found her a far more interesting sight than the city. The glossy, honey-gold hair that flowed over her shoulders was even lovelier than he had imagined, and he longed to bury his face among the silken strands. Her white negligee frothed with lace and delicate embroidery and was so translucent that he could see the lithe shape of her body beneath. It must be another Worth creation; only a master could make a woman look simultaneously pure and provocative.
His wife. He was still awed by the miracle of it.
Justin had been introduced to the dark mysteries of passion when he was sixteen. Deciding it was time his young brother became a man, Gavin had taken Justin to a courtesan. With his usual careless kindness, Gavin had chosen the woman well. Lily was a warmhearted, earthily sensual Frenchwoman who had known exactly how to initiate a shy youth half her age.
Justin’s shamed embarrassment had been gone by the end of his first afternoon with Lily. With her he had discovered not only passion, but kindness and mutual affection. He had visited her many times over the ensuing years. When her looks faded and she could no longer support herself as a courtesan, he had quietly bought her a cottage in the south of France so that she could retire in comfort. They still corresponded occasionally.
Because of Lily, he was now able to give his wife the gift of passion. Praying that desire would not make him clumsy, he went to join her by the window. Her delicate violet scent bewitched him, and his hands clenched with the effort of not touching her. Needing a safe, neutral topic, he said, “New York is lovely in a way quite distinct from London or Paris.”
“I shall mi
ss it,” she whispered.
He glanced over and saw tears trembling in her eyes. “It must be hard to leave one’s home,” he said quietly, “but you can come back whenever you wish.”
“Yes.” She drew an unsteady breath. “Still, it hurts knowing that I am no longer an American. Though I understood that marrying a foreigner meant that I would lose my citizenship, I didn’t expect to feel it so much.”
“The law might say that you are now an Englishwoman, but it can’t change what you are in your heart. America made you, and nothing can take that away.”
After a long pause, she said in a low voice, “Thank you. I needed to be reminded of that.”
Thinking the time was finally right, he put an arm around her waist. For the barest instant, she was pliantly yielding. Then she went rigid, like a small woodland creature holding still in the desperate hope that it would escape a predator’s notice.
He turned her toward him and pulled her close, stroking her back in the hope that she would relax, but he was unsuccessful. Though she submitted without protest, her body remained as stiff as a marble statue.
Shyness or nerves were to be expected, but her reaction seemed extreme. He put his hands on her shoulders and held her away from him. “Sunny, are you afraid of me?”
“Not...not of you, really,” she said, her eyes cast down.
It wasn’t a heartening answer for an eager bridegroom. Patiently he said, “Then are you afraid of... marital intimacy?”
“It’s more than that, Justin. I don’t know quite how to explain.” She pressed her hands to her temples for a moment, then looked into his eyes for the first time in days. “I was raised to be a wife. In the whole of my life, there was never any thought that I would ever be anything else.” She swallowed hard. “Only now, when it’s too late, does it occur to me that I don’t really want to be married to anyone.”
Though she claimed that he was not the problem, it was hard not to take her comments personally. Feeling a chill deep inside, he lowered his hands and said carefully, “What do you want me to do? Set you up in a separate establishment so that you never have to see me? File for an annulment on the grounds that your mother coerced you into marriage against your will?”
Weddings of the Century: A Pair of Wedding Novellas Page 11
