by Sara Seale
“Lexiter is a big town. There are several good hotels,” the doctor replied stiffly, and Piers gave him one of his unexpected and totally disarming grins.
“Of course there are—and thank you for all your trouble, I’ll be back in the morning,” he said, and young Doctor Evans found himself shaking hands with an unaccustomed warmth, aware that the young nurse had already disappeared in a hurry, presumably to get a look at the bride.
Lou sat stiffly on one of the straight-backed chairs that lined the walls of the waiting room. People had offered her cups of tea and proffered magazines, but she just sat there staring at the blank wall ahead with eyes that no longer seemed to focus very well.
It was, she thought, trying to co-ordinate the day’s happenings into some sort of order, all part of the dream. Nothing had been real since yesterday, nothing, perhaps, would ever be real again. She had been calm when the accident happened because that also had seemed part of the dream, and because she was used to dealing with the misfortunes of daily life; leaking gas taps, recalcitrant tradespeople, minor disasters to life and limb, and the ever-present necessity for standing on one’s own feet because there was never anyone around to make things easy. When the little nurse looked in, accompanied by others to whom she had imparted the news, she was beginning to wonder if, indeed, she had been living in a state of trauma and quite soon she would waken to the dull but familiar life she had always known.
“Mrs. Merrick?” the first nurse said. “Your husband is just coming. We do think it’s a shame that your honeymoon should be spoilt like this, but he’s all right. You were going to your island, weren’t you?”
This time, Lou at least had the wit not to answer that she didn’t know, and on the face of it, it would seem sensible that Piers had abandoned his plans for a continental honeymoon.
“Yes,” she said, trying to smile, “we were going to the island.”
“It’s ever so exciting,” one of the nurses giggled. “Switching brides and all, I mean—it’ll be on the telly at nine o’clock—did you know?”
“No, I didn’t,” said Lou, who had been unaware of the television unit outside the church, and jumped more than the nurses when a biting voice observed from the doorway:
“What are you doing here? Kindly return to your duties at once, and report to me in the morning.”
“Yes, Sister,” they replied with one accord, and disappeared, leaving Lou with a middle-aged woman who, despite her starch and air of authority, suddenly twinkled at Lou.
“One can’t blame them being curious, Mrs. Merrick,” she said. “You and your husband have certainly made the headlines today.”
“Have we?” asked Lou vaguely, and the other woman gave her a quick, clinical glance.
“Well, of course, you must know that,” she said. “I think, in all the attention your husband has commanded, we’ve forgotten you might be suffering from shock. How do you feel, my dear?”
“Quite all right, thank you. I only want to—want to—”
“Want to what?”
“Just know where I shall end the day.”
Sister’s eyes rested with sympathetic but false understanding on the bride’s pale, childish face. What bad luck, she thought, to be stranded in a town like Lexiter for that all-important start to a marriage, when with a bridegroom like Piers Merrick, the honeymoon would have been planned with the maximum degree of luxury.
“Well, I’m afraid our best hotel is all that can be offered in the circumstances,” she said, “but the Queen’s is comfortable and too expensive for local pockets, so you should be all right.”
“It doesn’t really matter any more, does it?!’ said Lou in a thin little thread of a voice, and Sister was relieved to see the girl’s husband, preceded by the doctor, entering the room.
“Doctor—” she whispered quickly, “I think Mrs. Merrick should have attention, and perhaps a sedative. She seems—”
But Lou rose rather stiffly to her feet and held out her hands to Piers.
“They say you’re all right. Are you, Piers? The garage has overhauled the car and they say it’s fit to drive. Are we going on?”
He made a quick step towards her, taking her outstretched hands in his, and the two people watching received each in their different ways an uneasy feeling that all was not right, but that at the same time there was something rather touching in the way the weary-looking man had taken the hands of his young and unresponsive bride. Sister thought, with impatience, that the girl hadn’t the experience to deal with a situation which needed tact and understanding, the young doctor, with more perception, saw that the bride seemed in a state of suspension, and resolved to find out from the nurses what stories the avid press were putting about.
“You’re sure you feel all right, Mrs. Merrick?” he said. “You wouldn’t care to have the rule run over you, just in case?”
“No,” she said faintly, but quite firmly. “I’m only tired. It’s—it’s been a long day.”
“Yes, a long day, poor Cinderella,” Piers said gently, “but it will soon be over. Could I make arrangements with an hotel from here, Doctor Evans?”
“It’s already been done,” the doctor returned a little gruffly. “The Queen’s have reserved their best rooms for you—the hotels are fairly empty at this time of year. Now, Mr. Merrick, you’ll return tomorrow for that check-up, please?”
“Yes, I’ll be back,” Piers answered, and put an arm round Lou’s shoulders, guiding her to the door.
Lexiter was, as the doctor had said, a big town, and the hotel at which their taxi deposited them an imposing if hideous example of the Edwardian era. The interior was equally ugly with its marble floors and pillars, the plush and gilt which looked outdated and rather gloomy, palms in gigantic pots and tiers of stiffly planted flower-boxes.
“What a joint!” exclaimed Piers softly, but Lou could see he was amused. Perhaps for him, she thought, this unlikely setting was a freakish jest to be laughed over later, but to her unaccustomed eyes, the place seemed very grand, the deserted lounge a rather awe-inspiring pattern of rich respectability, and themselves the somewhat embarrassing centre of attention as manager and staff hastened to welcome them.
“We have given you the Bridal Suite, naturally, Mr. Merrick. Such an unfortunate setback to your plans but, if I may say so, a fortunate turn of events for the Queen’s—ha, ha ...” the manager said, conducting them personally to their rooms.
“Why? Do you propose putting up a plaque stating that Mr. Merrick slept here?” asked Piers innocently, and the manager laughed again somewhat nervously. He and his whole staff had been delighted at an unexpected share in the publicity following the wedding of the year, but the legendary Piers Merrick hardly looked his best with lint and plaster over one temple, and the bride, for all her mink and expensive accessories, had the air of a dressed-up child obediently following instructions. Plain, washed-out looking, thought the manager, who had admired for weeks the glamorous photographs of Melissa which had appeared in the press, and he told his staff rather darkly that in his opinion there was more than met the eye in this last-moment exchange of brides.
“Well,” said Piers, surveying their quarters with a quizzical expression, “I’ve never occupied a bridal suite before, have you?”
“Of course not,” Lou replied, thinking the question foolish in the circumstances, and he stood watching with a faint smile, while she tentatively explored the suite’s potentialities. Sitting room, bedroom, dressing -room displayed the same faded grandeur as the rest of the hotel, but the manager must have sent out hurriedly for flowers, for they filled the suite in hastily arranged abundance, and their heavy scent reminded Lou of the funeral impression she had received yesterday from Cousin Blanche’s decked-out drawing room.
“It feels like a conservatory,” she said, and he opened a window.
“Central heating going full blast, but it’s preferable to freezing in the arctic chambers of most provincial morgues,” he said, and watched her eyes sl
ide from the vast double bed to their joint possessions already unpacked and distributed in appropriate places.
“How have they been so quick when we’ve only just arrived?” she asked, but she was not really surprised; just another transformation scene, she thought, following the pattern of make-believe.
“Our stuff was fetched from the garage while we were still at the hospital. Somebody there evidently made lightning arrangements for us,” he replied, but she was beginning to realize that it would be the same wherever Piers went; somebody would always be on hand to make arrangements. The Merrick wealth and Merrick legend would smooth the roughest paths.
“Can you remember a time when you hadn’t all this, Piers?” she asked, observing with surprise that whereas all her expensive toilet accessories were new and clearly meant to impress, his brushes and other masculine requirements were well-worn and unpretentious.
“Oh, yes. We were comfortable, I suppose, but not well off until my father inherited from that forgotten black sheep of the family who took himself off to the wilds of Australia or somewhere and made a fortune no one believed in till he died. I must have been about twelve or so. The principal difference it made to me then was the fact that my father altered his original plans for my education and sent me to a famous public school he could never have afforded otherwise—a fact, I may say, not at all appreciated by me at the time.”
He was talking easily and with patience, for he thought, watching her changing expression as her gaze wandered round the room, that she was just beginning to realize that she was irrevocably committed, that their intimate possessions cheek by jowl together bore mute testimony that the pretence was over, that reality must be faced, and that for her reality might be frightening.
She was still wearing her coat and he slipped it gently off her shoulders, letting it fall in a rich, supple heap on the floor as he turned her round to face him.
“Lou—” he said, “—are you scared?”
He could have shaken her as her eyes met his rather blankly. Couldn’t she understand that he was trying to make things easy, for her? Then she confounded him with one of those calm flashes of maturity he had not yet come to expect from her.
“Yes,” she replied quite simply. “I’m scared. Not for the—the conventional reasons, but because you’re a stranger, and someone quite out of my world. I may not measure up.”
He should, he knew, have felt compassion, even been touched by a humility he had not met with in other women, but his head was beginning to throb unmercifully and he was merely irritated.
“Don’t be humble, Cinderella,” he said a little harshly. “I wouldn’t care for a sacrificial doormat, however pleasing to one’s ego for a time.”
Her eyes flew open in sudden shock, or perhaps it was simply hurt surprise, but she said nothing and he observed more gently:
“I suppose we should be thinking about dinner. No doubt our rather fulsome manager would be delighted to serve us something in our rooms, but I think we’ll grace the public dining room just the same.”
“Should I change?” she asked like a child unsure of correct procedure.
“If you like,” he replied indifferently, and reflected that she was again like a child, stripping off her suit without embarrassment, wandering about in her slip, apparently unconscious of the fact that he stood and watched her. She was most delicately made, he thought, observing the small bones, which, like those of a young cat, lent grace to movement, even though not fully matured, and he began to regret his decision to dine in public.
III
When she was ready she slowly turned herself about for his approval, and looked disappointed when he said briefly: “Not your color.” No, she thought, it was Melissa’s color, it was part of Melissa’s trousseau; the very brushes she had used, the scent from the jewelled-topped flask, were all part of the extravagant luxuries meant for another bride. If, thought Lou unhappily, I had just something of my own that wasn’t bought for someone else ... then she remembered her shabby slippers and was comforted.
“I believe you’re vain, Cinderella,” Piers teased, trying to guess from her changing expressions what she was thinking. “Are you hurt because I don’t care for your dress?”
“Why should I be? It was made for Melissa,” she replied, and as the amusement left his face, wished she had not pointed this out. He, no more than she, would care to be reminded that he should have married someone else.
“I—Cousin Blanche didn’t think my own clothes would be suitable, you see,” she said, trying to explain what must seem to him a liberty, but he merely looked bored.
“My dear child, you don’t have to apologize. As I gather I’m being soaked for the lot, I couldn’t care less. Come on, let’s go down. I shall be intrigued to find out what the chef has thought up as a honeymoon offering.”
“Will there be something special, then?”
“I don’t mind betting there will. This rather dreary hotel will flourish for weeks on tall stories circulating about the Merrick’s bridal night. Come on.”
She went with him to wait for the lift to take them down, feeling at last that she wanted to weep, to plead, not for consideration in the expected culmination of the day, but for comfort. She would have liked him to understand that although she wore Melissa’s clothes, and used her expensive appointments, she was still herself, Cinderella perhaps, but not liking or wanting her borrowed finery. She wished that Piers’ unfortunate accident gave her the right to comfort and cosset in her turn, but he did not seem receptive to sentiment, neither was he prone to weakness. For him the interruption of his plans amused rather than upset him, for a honeymoon designed along quite different lines could no longer have any importance for him.
They sat in the lofty, almost deserted dining room, making polite conversation. The chef, as Piers had surmised, had surpassed himself in the dishes that were offered. Lou, who was now too tired to be appreciative or, indeed, to enjoy the inspired creations of the cuisine, picked at her food and earned frowning disapproval from Piers.
“They really have rather excelled themselves,” he said. “Make a pretence of eating, Lou, or the chef will be, not unnaturally, insulted.”
She made a pretence, hoping that the bits she hid under her knife and fork would not be noticed. She was, she thought, looking at her husband’s frowning face, going to find it difficult to acquire his epicurean habits when her own tastes in the matter of food had been so sadly neglected.
He had ordered champagne because, he said, it was expected of him. For his own pleasure he would have preferred a vintage claret.
“Then why didn’t you?” she asked, and he smiled that little twisted smile that, this time, held no tenderness.
“Champagne is what you expected, too, isn’t it? You have got to be educated in the matter of wines.”
“Of course,” she said, clinging on to the tattered remnants of her past self, “you must remember that I’ve had little opportunity of being educated to your standards. In my parents’ lifetime, a cheap sherry was all we could afford.”
His look of amusement vanished and, for a moment, she thought his eyes were humble.
“You put me in my place very neatly, don’t you, Cinderella?” he said gently. “I wasn’t, you know, trying to point out your mistakes.”
“Mistakes? Am I shaming you, then, already Piers?”
“Don’t be so idiotic! I hoped I might put you at ease, that’s all. What’s wrong with cheap sherry if you can’t afford anything else?”
“Nothing, I suppose,” she replied nervously. “Only—”
“Only what?”
“Only you don’t put me at ease when you pounce and bite.”
“Pounce and bite—is that what I did?” He sounded surprised and his eyes softened into tenderness.
She saw the tenderness, but it was too late now to set any store by it. She had, she told herself with wry humor, married above her station, as the gossip columns would surely imply; Cinderella would have
to look to herself for wisdom in dealing with her Prince Charming, for there was no one else to advise.
“What were you thinking?” he asked, but she smiled a little uncertainly and shook her head. Such thoughts were hardly to be expressed with any clarity, neither did she feel he would understand. She did not understand a great deal herself, now she came to think of it, only a firm resolve that he should not find her wanting when it came to the test, that whatever his reasons for so casually putting her in Melissa’s place, he had still been the first man to stir her.
He did not repeat his question when she did not answer, but caught the head waiter’s attention with a small, imperious nod. The chef was summoned and graciously congratulated, the wine waiter rewarded and dismissed with pleasant thanks, even the scullery hands were fetched from the kitchen because, said Piers, they really did all the work. It was the first time Lou had witnessed the famous Merrick charm turned on like a tap, and she watched and listened with a twinge of embarrassment. They might have been royalty, she thought, and indeed royalty could not have been more obsequiously received.
“Do you always do this?” she asked as they left the dining room, and saw one eyebrow lifted in wry amusement.
“You think it was a bit overdone?” he said. “Perhaps it was—still, we’ve inadvertently made their day, and they’ve all been falling over backwards to please.”
“People always fall over backwards for you, Piers, I imagine,” she said, and he made a small grimace.
“Well, money buys most things, I’ve always found. You’ll learn that too when you’ve got used to being the wife of a rich man,” he retorted with a certain astringence, but if he thought he had dashed an ill-timed hint of criticism he had misjudged Lou’s innocent tenacity.
“I don’t think I’ll learn easily. I wouldn’t want bought affection,” she said, and looked surprised when he stopped dead in their leisurely passage towards the lift.
