Arden's Act
Page 11
Bonnie rushed downstairs when Nan called up: “The flowers are come!” She returned with Arden’s bouquet of gillyflowers and violets, faintly wet with rain. The stronger spice of the gillyflowers hid the soft scent of the violets, but neither flower could obscure the fresh spring smell of the fallen rain. Fortunate, the fragrance of rain. Arden could concentrate on it rather than the gillyflowers. She’d chosen that kind for their appearance, having forgotten until now the scented soap Lord Robert washed her with before he’d made love to her a second time.
“They’re strewing the rest throughout Madame’s parlor,” Bonnie informed the bride, after she had lain the bouquet on the small bed table. She began helping Arden into Madame Davenant’s borrowed finery. “I doubt they’ll wilt before it’s time to go downstairs,” said Bonnie, answering her questioning glance at the bouquet. “Do you think I should pin the bodice?” the maid inquired. “We could just leave it be.”
Arden sighed. Bonnie spoke the truth. As loosely as her corset had been fastened, the green and lilac silk barely required adjustment. Babies certainly had a way of taking up space before one wished it. Still, even a pregnant woman had pride. “Pin it, Bonnie,” Arden commanded tersely. An inch was an inch. Fortunately, the axiom applied to Arden’s bustline as well. Ample white flesh swelled proudly over the deep neckline of the gown. Bonnie completed Arden’s ornamentation with the diamond necklace and earbobs. Arden left the matching bracelet in Madame’s strongbox. Brian did not know it had been returned, and she did not want to remind herself or her new husband of Courtenay in explaining its reappearance.
Just as Bonnie declared Arden perfection, a soft knock sounded. “I’m here to escort the bride,” called Sir William. “Is she ready?”
Bonnie opened the door, nodded, then squeezed past him and ran downstairs. Arden heard titters of laughter from below as Bonnie rushed to take her place among the guests. Though she served the bride, she was also the groom’s cousin. She would enjoy the spectacle now she had prepared her employer.
They had planned a small ceremony, to be celebrated only among the Duke’s Company by Father Fernaut. As Arden took Sir William’s offered arm and walked with him to the landing, they were joined by Madame Davenant. Clad in a dignified gown of dove-gray silk and carrying a bouquet similar to Arden’s, she served as matron of honor, and preceded Arden and Sir William downstairs. The Davenants’ oldest son, Charlie, would perform the ring bearer’s duties with the parlor's best cushion.
When the players caught sight of Madame gliding sedately down the stairs, the violins sounded. The musicians came from the Company’s orchestra, and they had chosen a piece both suitably stately and merry at once. At first Arden could do little but stare through her gauzy veil at the back of Madame’s head, at her neat bun and the bouncy ringlets that curled near her ears. Then she looked into the room below. Spring and hothouse flowers adorned every newel post and mantel. Every corner and nook held a vase brimming with floral beauty. As with her own bouquet, the scent of fresh rain mingled with the perfumes of the blossoms. Tears of gratitude slipped from Arden’s eyes. The Davenants had arranged everything so lovingly, and given her and Brian a much finer wedding and celebration than they could have afforded on their own. On their own, Arden realized, Father Fernaut would have married them in their everyday clothes, with not a bloom in sight. They would have eaten no more than their usual dinner.
All the members of the Company, standing now to watch Arden's progress to the makeshift altar at the far end of the parlor, appeared at their grandest. She wondered briefly about the fine-looking, black-wigged man clad in dark green velvet standing near Father Fernaut, whose fancy laced hose spilled cunningly over the cuffs of his high black boots. Arden thought she had seen Betterton in similar apparel once. But this was not the leading actor of the London stage. Arden suppressed a smiling gasp. No, there stood that renowned brutalizer of William Shakespeare, Brian Malley. Her heart quickened. She couldn’t wait to see him without the veil clouding her vision.
At last Arden and Sir William reached the altar. He left her to stand between his wife and Brian, then moved around to Brian’s other side and removed the old cavalier’s hat from his head. Davenant did double duty, acting both as Arden’s guardian and Brian’s best man.
Father Fernaut, of course, stood before them. He wore a more ornate chausuble than when Arden had first met him, but not as heavy and decorated a one as had they married in a Catholic country. He held up his hands, silencing the group of stage people gathered to witness the impending event, and motioned for them to be seated. Later, Arden would notice that the chairs the Davenants had arranged in rows did not all match, but she would not particularly care.
“I must ask before we begin,” announced the priest, after bidding the couple kneel before the altar. “Are there any here present who can show just cause that Brian Malley and Arden West should not be joined as husband and wife? Let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”
Arden held her breath. She half-expected Treadwell to burst into the parlor, dead set on preventing her marriage to a Papist. The image of Lord Robert striding confidently into the room also flitted past her mind’s eye, but she quickly dismissed it. Besides it being an unworthy thought, Courtenay had to be at least as far as Portugal by now.
Father Fernaut smiled and nodded approvingly at the silence. “Bien,” he murmured. He then turned to Brian, and asked: “Brian Malley, will you take Arden West, here present, to be your lawful wife, according to the rite of our Holy Church?”
Brian’s “I will” rang stronger than any previous words Arden had heard him utter.
Then the priest found Arden’s eyes, despite her veil. “Arden West, will you take Brian Malley, here present, to be your lawful husband, according to the rite of our Holy Church?”
Her affirmation sounded softer, but no less clear.
“Please hold hands, mes enfants,” Fernaut commanded them. As Arden and Brian obeyed, the priest intoned: “I join you in matrimony, in the name of the Father”―and here he began the sign of the cross over them―“and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” Fernaut then carefully took up a small cruet of holy water, and lightly sprinkled the pair. He beckoned to Charlie, who stepped forth with the parlor cushion. The priest deftly picked up the small golden ring it bore as he began the call and response.
As the last dulcet tones of “And also with you” echoed through the parlor, Arden could not help smiling to herself. Marrying before a company of professional entertainers had probably ensured her the most eloquently pronounced and exquisitely full-bodied prayer responses ever enjoyed by a Papist bride.
“Let us pray,” the priest continued. He held the ring in the palm of his left hand and made the sign of the cross over it with his right, saying:
“Bless, O Lord,
This ring which we bless in Your name,
So that she who shall wear it,
Remaining totally faithful to her husband,
May remain in peace and in Your will,
And live always in mutual charity.
“Through Christ our Lord, Amen,” Fernaut concluded. Then he sprinkled the small golden band with holy water, and gave it to Brian. Arden held out her left hand to him, and he slipped it onto the third finger. This being done, the priest made another sign of the cross over the couple, speaking the traditional accompanying words once more. Then he started another call and response prayer, at one point singing the Kyrie Eleison with a haunting tenor voice. After the last response from the wedding guests, Fernaut recited a final prayer:
“Look down, we beseech You, O Lord,
Upon these your servants,
And graciously assist this ordinance of Yours,
Which You have provided
For the propagation of the human race;
That those who are joined together
By Your authority
May be preserved by Your help.
“Through Christ our Lord, Amen,” he finished, raising
Arden and Brian to their feet. Fernaut motioned for Brian to lift Arden’s veil, then announced he might kiss his bride. With the gauze removed, Arden beheld clearly the intensity of Brian’s loving hazel gaze upon her face. As ever before, the touch of his lips upon hers held reverence, but the newly-wedded couple made a goodly enough show of it that applause burst forth from the assembled guests. The priest brought the outburst to a quick close, however, as he prepared to celebrate the mass.
Chapter Sixteen
Arden felt a little awkward not taking communion at her own wedding. To do so without sharing faith that the Host and the wine actually became the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ, however, seemed disrespectful to her new husband and her Catholic friends, including the good Father. This quandary ceased to trouble, though, when the mass had finished and some of the stronger men dragged most of the guest chairs from the parlor to the dining room from whence they had originally come. There, Arden and Brian occupied a central position at table, and all the others gathered round them for an amazing feast. The Davenants’ board groaned with several types of meat, including baked ham and roasted venison, beef, and turkey. A few eels even made an appearance. Countless vegetables enhanced the meal as well, made exquisitely palatable by a variety of French sauces. The wine flowed with abundance, necessary for the myriad times guests drank the couple’s health.
Arden ate and drank sparingly, however, hoping she would not have to flee the dancing in search of a basin. When the dancing did begin, she made the pleasant discovery that she'd married a fine partner. Brian danced both nimbly and with great energy, so much so that at one point during the festivities Betterton called out to him: “Easy does it, Brian, lad! Don’t use up all your strength on mere footwork!”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Tom,” Brian replied smoothly. “There’s plenty more where this came from!”
At breaks in the dancing, Arden satisfied some of her curiosities. “Where did you get that finery, Brian? You do look wondrous! Is it Betterton’s?” Truthfully, the clothing fit somewhat too loosely for Brian, but the discrepancy in size did little to mar the impressive effect.
“Yes,” Brian answered merrily. “Awfully kind of him, wasn’t it?”
“And the ring?” Arden asked.
“That belonged to Madame,” he replied. “She volunteered it. Said it had been a birthday present from her grand-mother. If you look at the inside, you’ll see “Belle fleur eternelle” engraved upon it.”
“But that would involve taking it off,” said Arden, smiling at him. “I never intend to, so I shall have to take you and Madame’s word for it.” She went into his arms and they kissed to seal this bargain, an action which again produced loud applause on the part of the assembly.
At other intervals throughout the early evening, Arden observed several of the male guests vanishing from time to time. These disappearances generally correlated with large, bumping sounds from above, as though heavy objects were being dragged about on one of the upper floors of the house. Shortly after the last of these occasions, Davenant silenced the musicians and called out so that all could hear: “Time to see the couple to their marriage bed!”
Though the Company lived in the heart of London, it had decided to follow the old country wedding practices for Arden and Brian. Thus the guests separated the pair. Madame Davenant and the other women took Arden to Madame’s chamber. She had no idea where the men carried Brian; perhaps to his old room. In Madame’s dominion, her friends quickly divested Arden of her wedding gown and under-things, and unfastened her veil. After they had ushered her into an extremely chaste-looking white flannel nightgown, Bonnie brushed her hair vigorously for the second time that day.
Throughout the proceedings, everyone talked at once. Every woman there knew Arden had no need of maidenly advice, so they confined their conversation to high-spirited jests concerning the groom’s prowess and the bride’s ability to provoke that prowess. Arden laughed with her friends, grateful that not even Kitty Brinks ventured speculation on how she’d adjust to Brian after lovemaking with Lord Robert. Arden herself grew cautiously optimistic on the subject. If she had missed the man since he’d sailed for Tangier, she had missed the act as well. The act, at least, she would soon have. How different could it be?
At last Madame Davenant crowned Arden with a lacy white nightcap, and the women conveyed her bodily down the long hall to her own room. There the cause of the male disappearances and noise became apparent. During the party the men had helped move out her old, small bed and bring in a larger one. This gift―as had so many other parts of the day―came courtesy of the Davenants. “I’m sorry it’s not goose down,” whispered Madame. “But it is stuffed with the softest wool available.”
Brian had already been ceremoniously deposited in the bed, similarly clad to his new wife and denuded of Betterton’s wig. The gentleman guests stood lined along the opposite wall, and Father Fernaut waited at the foot of the bed. When the ladies assisted Arden to her proper place, the priest raised his hands above the couple’s heads and began the blessing: “O Lord, we ask your beneficence upon this marriage bed. May it be happily fruitful, and add to the blessed number of your servants on earth. Through Christ our Lord, Amen.”
Arden wondered how the Father could get through the “fruitful” part with a straight face, but he performed this office with his customary dignity. After Fernaut left the chamber and could be heard descending the stairs, one of the younger actors of the company loudly urged, “Give her what she deserves, Brian!” Similar requests from both men and women followed, but at last the wedding guests trooped from the room, herded by Sir William and Madame. Arden and Brian looked at each other, smiled, and single-mindedly listened until the sounds of celebration began to resume below them.
“With all the wine that’s left, they won’t give us another thought,” said Arden. She edged across the middle of the bed and into Brian’s waiting arms. He kissed her, more deeply than he had ventured before, but then he stopped. He slid a gentle hand down to rest upon her belly, which had rounded only a little further, despite Arden’s recent problems with corsets.
“I don’t wish to harm the child,” he whispered against the nape of her neck.
“Don’t worry,” said Arden, guiding his hand up from her abdomen. “I don’t think you have to worry until I’m so large you won’t want to touch me anymore.”
“I can’t imagine that,” Brian replied, caressing her breast. “Not wanting to touch you, I mean.”
Even through the white flannel, his touch caused Arden’s body to flood with warmth. As a soft moan escaped her, Brian found the bottom of the gown with his other hand and moved under it, sharing her thought. Soon he massaged her naked flesh with both hands, while Arden sought with her own to overcome his garment. She found the object of her quest respectfully erect, and it ripened further in her grasp. Brian’s voice registered the intensity of his sensation. “Oh, Arden, that God has been so good to me!”
Arden had to pull him to her, help him to enter her. She sighed with relief as they accomplished it. Once inside, whether by instinct or multiple doses of advice, Brian needed no further urging. As he pumped against her hips, he covered her face and upper body with tender kisses. As he pushed himself in and out of her welcoming warmth, both his movement and his breathing hastened. Arden’s own breath came faster as well, and she pressed him closer, hungrily gathering him in. When she brought him deeper within her, though, Brian gasped her name once more and shuddered, collapsing upon her.
Arden forced herself back to more even breathing, trying not to betray her frustration with as much as a sigh. Her body strained like a catapult lashed tight, just before the rope is cut. But Brian, still inside her, raised himself on one arm. He stroked her cheek with his other hand and held her gaze with his own.
“Stay put, Arden, love,” he told her with a wry smile. One of his brown curls had stuck moistly to his forehead. “I’m told young men of little experience have one great ad-vantage.”
“We are fast ready to try again,” he replied solemnly. Careful not to break their fragile union, he bent his head to her breast, caressing her darkened nipples with his tongue. Arden had thought the tension within her body could not be increased, but her breasts had grown more sensitive with pregnancy and Brian’s suction caused her desire for release to escalate. She moved beneath him.
Her husband had been correctly informed. Truly, little time elapsed before Arden became aware of the longed-for hardness coming to life again inside her. “Thank you, Brian,” she whispered, and she felt his own lips curving in a smile against her cheek. This time he loved her slowly and steadily, like a gentle country stream, with no end to the flowing in sight. Oddly, the moderate rocking relaxed Arden, and when her climax finally eased her, it was a thing of surprising gossamer softness. She held her friend and husband to her as it passed, but when she loosened her grasp upon his slight backside, Brian continued in the rhythm. When Arden cried out again, he allowed himself to move more quickly upon her until he was spent once more. They slept peacefully in each other’s embrace, their abandoned nightclothes in two small, crumpled bunches on the floor beside the bed.
*****
As Arden gave herself to her new husband, Lord Robert Courtenay sat eating a late supper in a Lisbon inn. The officers of the ship ate with him as well, enjoying as he did the plaintive fado strummed by the innkeeper’s son. Courtenay gathered the last of the Portuguese spiced beef on his plate onto some fresh-baked bread. The inn’s fare proved a savory and welcome change from even the better sea rations to which his station entitled him aboard ship. He watched the officers, and even the captain, making accommodations for the evening with variously young and not-so-young serving wenches. He smiled at this, and at the beautiful dark girl who danced before his table, twirling her skirts enticingly. To the question in her deep black eyes when the dance finished, however, Courtenay firmly shook his head. Odd how after so much time at sea he did not want the girl. After all, she was comely enough, and looked too young and fresh to be diseased. He checked the fastenings of his sword’s scabbard, and prepared to return to the ship alone. Courtenay knew the green-eyed vision so often in his head would not let him sleep well tonight. He would be glad when they pulled out of Lisbon in a few days and headed for Tangier.