by Karleen Koen
* * *
The Duchess stamped her cane impatiently against the floor.
"Never mind me! You are as slow as molasses! No one will be looking at me. I want to see her dressed! Hurry, Annie! Hurry!"
Annie slowly, deliberately, pushed another diamond–headed hairpin into the black lace cap the Duchess was wearing. She paid no attention to the Duchess's tirade, but continued her own task, that of making sure her Duchess looked as grand as possible. And she did. She was wearing a gown of dark green velvet, almost black the green was so dark, with an under-petticoat of black–and–green–striped satin. Over a chair lay a matching green velvet cloak lined with white fur. This was the first time since the duke's death that the Duchess had worn anything other than solid black or gray. Diamondheaded hairpins glittered here and there like tiny stars on her expensive lace cap. She wore diamond earrings, a diamond brooch, diamond rings, and diamond bracelets. As soon as Annie had brushed some rouge on her cheeks and set a patch against her temple, she waved her away and summoned a footman to help her to Barbara's room. Her legs were bad, as bad as they had ever been. After each outing—the signing of the contracts, the court appearance, this tea, that reception she had attended—she had had to spend hours afterward trying to endure her aching legs. Hot compresses, dandelion wine, laudanum. Then she could rise, with Annie shaking her head angrily, to do her duty to Barbara. Well, today was her last day. After tonight, she would crawl into her bed and stay there for days, gathering strength for the long journey home. She almost felt that once she got into bed, she might not be able to rise again. Already, her legs were beginning that tiny ache radiating from her ankles and knees and hips that would soon spread and devour her. But she had to see Barbara dressed. She had to see the child on her wedding day. She had to reassure herself once more that she had done the right thing.
"Grandmama!"
Barbara ran to her and hugged her. The Duchess sniffed and pointed to a chair with her cane. The footman helped her to it. Mary, Charlotte, and Anne, who were sitting on Barbara's bed, immediately climbed down and made respectful curtsies to her.
"Look at the flowers, Grandmama," said Anne, bobbing up and down like a cork, talking all the while. "They are so beautiful. I am to have flowers in my hair also. Barbara said so."
"Our gowns are green, Grandmama. Green is my best color. Barbara said so. She says it is Roger's favorite color. Barbara loves Roger. I do too," Charlotte said.
Only Mary was silent, having been raised in a household where it was unwise to address an adult unless the adult indicated interest. But even Mary's eyes were shining. Barbara is good for her, thought the Duchess, her mind for a moment leaving the figure whose red–gold hair was streaming down her back. For all the children. They need her.
Martha entered with a gown of heavy white brocade draped over her arm. The gown had a pattern of flowers embroidered with silver and green thread across the skirt, and there were flounces along its hem. A silver corded belt with long tassels at its ends tied about the waist. Barbara clapped her hands at the sight of her gown and danced around the room. She had on white stockings tied with green garters, a white corset whose stomacher was tied with green ribbons and a green-and-white-striped petticoat. Anne stepped into the white brocade shoes that Barbara would wear. She clumped over to Barbara.
"I am the bride. Look at me!" she said.
Martha frowned. Anne stepped out of the shoes. She looked as if she were going to cry.
"Martha," Barbara said, "send for my grandmother's tirewoman. I want her to do my hair."
Once Martha shut the door behind her, Anne, with a daring glance at her grandmother, stepped back into the shoes. Mary and Charlotte giggled. The Duchess chose to ignore Anne's behavior.
"Come here," she told Barbara.
Barbara came and knelt before her grandmother. The Duchess put her hand under her chin. Barbara's face was lovely, shining with happiness, almost full again. The Duchess kissed her on each cheek.
"Be happy, child."
Barbara hugged her tightly. "I am. I am so happy I could burst. Thank you, Grandmama—"
Annie came in. She barked for Anne to get out of her sister's shoes, and immediately ordered Barbara to sit down so she could begin the task of brushing and curling and braiding Barbara's glorious hair. Everyone became involved. Charlotte ran to put the curling tongs in the fire; Mary held Barbara's hands while Annie brushed and pulled her hair, Anne held the ribbons and pins which would hold it all together. Annie deftly braided the sides, then she curled the back and joined the two side braids there, weaving them together with green and silver ribbons. One braid now, they lay atop the long, curling, thick red–gold hair that trailed down to the middle of her back. The Duchess unscrewed the diamond earrings she wore and motioned Charlotte to take them to Barbara.
"Oh, no, Grandmama. I could not!"
But in spite of her protests, Annie screwed them into her ears. They sparkled like giant teardrops in each ear.
"How can you bear all the noise?" Annie asked irritably.
Anne and Charlotte were quarreling over who should take Barbara her shoes. Barbara only smiled. But Annie sent the younger girls from the room. It was time they were dressed. They left after kissing Barbara.
"Promise we will live with you," said Anne at the door.
"Promise," said Barbara.
"You are lucky," Mary said to Anne.
"The gown," the Duchess said. "Put the gown on. Let me see her in it."
The Duchess's hands, folded over the top of her cane as she watched Annie fluff out the skirts of Barbara's wedding gown and petticoat, worked convulsively. The girl looked an angel.
"You are certain?" she asked gruffly, knowing there was nothing they could do if Barbara did have any last–minute doubts, and seeing with her own eyes that of the two of them, Barbara was by far the more calm. But that was because Barbara had never been married before. The Duchess had, and knew there were moments ahead in which Barbara would be greatly hurt, whether Roger grew to love her or not.
"Remember what you read to me when I left, Grandmama?"
The Duchess nodded her head. "Keep thy heart with all diligence," she had read to Barbara from the Bible, "for out of it are the issues of life."
"Well, that is what I am doing, Grandmama. Keeping my heart."
The Duchess nodded again and pursed out her lips. She would not cry, not now, when she had the ceremony and reception to get through. Sweet Jesus, the child looked like Richard.
"I wish your grandfather could have seen you today," she said gruffly. "He would have been so proud."
The servants of Saylor House, chamber and kitchen maids, ladies' maids, the footmen and butler and porters, the stableboys and coachman, the gardeners and cook, the laundry maids, the housekeeper, the grooms, slowly began to fill the hall, along with the family already waiting. It was tradition that they see the bride, that they strew herbs and flowers before her. They had already sprinkled rosemary and bay and dried lavender and rose petals on the front steps and inside the carriage she would ride in to the church. Now they waited expectantly to see her, and as she left, they would cheer for her and throw their flowers and herbs after her.
Again there was a commotion on the landing. The eyes of everyone in the hall, except Diana, who had found a mirror, turned to the stairs expectantly. The Duchess appeared, Annie at her side. Slowly, she began the descent down the stairs. Behind her came Anne, Charlotte, and Mary. They wore small wreaths of roses in their hair, which was brushed long and full onto their shoulders, like Barbara's. All three were obviously proud of their new gowns and shoes and could not resist she nodded his head, as if to say, The old woman looks grand, as grand as she has ever looked.
A kind of sigh arose. Everyone was staring up at Barbara, waiting there at the top of the stairs, so that everyone could see and admire her. (The servants would talk about how she looked for weeks. For some of the serving girls, it would be the single most beautiful memory in their live
s.) Barbara smiled all her love and joy at the family waiting down in the hall for her. Then slowly, grandly, with more dignity than she had ever shown (the Duchess was continually amazed at these glimpses of a more mature Barbara, glimpses of the woman forming inside), she walked down the stairs. Even Abigail's face softened as she watched her, until she happened to glance toward Tony and see the expression on his face. As Barbara reached the last step, her brothers and sisters surrounded her.
"Bab!" said Tom, bowing over her hand, and in an unusual gesture, kissing it. "You look beautiful."
"You do," echoed Kit, behind him. "First rate!"
"Oh, Bab," cried Anne, "You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."
"I love you, Bab," said Charlotte.
"I must have a kiss," Barbara said, opening her arms, seeming not to mind that her lovely white gown might be crumpled. "A kiss from each and every one of you while I am still a maiden. The next time you address me, Thomas Alderley, you must call me 'Lady Devane.'"
"Never! I will not do it."
"A kiss, please."
The servants let out a cheer as her brothers and sisters surrounded her and she kissed them. Even Mary, greatly daring, ran forward and kissed her cheek. Tony was last.
"A kiss for me, Bab?"
"Of course. With all my heart."
She kissed him heartily on the lips, and he blinked (to Abigail's irritation, he looked stunned) and then offered her his arm, with herbs and flowers falling on them like rain. The family assembled themselves into groups for each carriage. As the carriages drove through the gates, the people who had gathered outside to watch let out a ragged cheer.
"What is it?" asked Barbara.
The Duchess patted her hand. "It is for you, chit. For your wedding day."
Chapter Eight
I have forgotten something. I know I have." Montrose, Roger's favors pinned to the sleeve of his new coat, paced up and down near the front of St. James's Church. It was the most fashionable church in London, and on Sundays its pews were crowded with those who were truly religious and those who always showed up where it was fashionable to be, and today its altar and pews were wreathed with white roses and ivy and rosemary, an extravagant frivolity, since the wedding would be attended by few people, although already a crowd was outside in the churchyard, waiting to catch a glimpse of the bride, and of the king, who was rumored to attend. Roger, splendid in a dark blue coat and French wig, was talking with the curate. Robert Walpole, who was to be his best man, was beside him.
"How can he be so calm?" exclaimed Montrose, patting at the perspiration that dotted his upper lip, while White, beside him, smiled at his friend's complaints. "Are you hot, Caesar? I am hot. This church is too warm."
"Everything is fine, Francis. It is not too hot. You are nervous. And naturally. But do try to remember that it is Lord Devane, and not you, who must make the responses to the bride."
Tommy Carlyle appeared, blinking for a moment in the dimness under the church gallery. He wore a white satin coat and a blond wig. His notorious diamond blinked in his left ear. Roger, seeing him, left the curate. The two men shook hands, and Carlyle looked Roger up and down.
"I must say, dear one, you look quite well. I thought bridegrooms suffered from nerves."
"Not this bridegroom. Tommy, I think they have arrived. If I am not mistaken, there is Tamworth and his grandmother. Let me go and greet them."
Carlyle sighed and looked around him. Some distance from him sat Walpole's wife, Catherine. Her pretty, sulky face was turned toward the front of the church, where Roger was now busy greeting Barbara's relatives. Carlyle pushed the handkerchief back into his cuff, flicked at a speck of dust on his black velvet breeches, sat down and sidled over toward Catherine Walpole.
"I love weddings," he said to her. "Do you?"
Roger kissed the Duchess heartily on both cheeks and shook Tony's hand.
"You be good to that chit of mine—" the Duchess began, but her sister– in–law, Louisa, Lady Shrewsborough, thrust her thin body between Roger and the Duchess. With her was her sister, Lizzie. Aunt Shrewsborough poked at Roger's ribs with a gloved finger.
"She is my niece, Roger! Full of vim and vigor. I hope you can please her where it counts!"
Both the great–aunts cackled. They sounded—and looked like—welldressed witches from a Shakespearean play. Roger chucked each of them under the chin. They loved it. The cackles rose again. He moved skillfully, gracefully, to Fanny and Harold, standing behind the aunts, and swept Fanny into his arms.
"I always make it a point to kiss my relatives, particularly when they are as pretty as you," he said as he kissed her on the cheek.
Abigail stood stiffly behind her daughter and son–in–law. A flush on her cheeks, she held out her hand to Roger, but he leaned forward and kissed her cheek, also.
"The best man of us won, Abigail," he whispered, and before she could answer, he moved on to Diana, who looked him in the eyes, seemingly not one bit ashamed of herself.
"I would strangle you with my bare hands," Roger said softly, kissing her lips, smiling into her eyes; "but it is my wedding day."
There was a loud cheer from the outside of the church, and Roger was past Diana at the doorway, greeting the king, Melusine von Schulenburg, and two attendants. Everyone in the church rose. The curate nearly tripped over his black robes running to the front of the church to greet the king. Roger kissed Melusine on the cheek and offered her his arm, and with the king following, escorted the royal party to the first pew. He looked completely natural and unselfconscious. King George nodded graciously to those standing around him before he sat down.
"Showy!" sniffed Abigail to Fanny, as they sat back down.
"Superb!" Carlyle whispered to Catherine Walpole and the Duke and Duchess of Montagu, who had taken their seats.
White knocked on the door of the small room in which Barbara and her sisters and Tony were waiting. Barbara stood at once.
"They are ready," White said softly. "And may I say, Mistress Alderley, that you look lovely."
As she walked down the aisle on Tony's arm, her sisters before her, Mary holding the long train of her gown, Barbara felt as if her moment in life had finally arrived. She was the center of everyone's attention, even the king, who was smiling at her. She stopped at his pew and curtsied. She knew exactly what to do and how to act because Roger, in one of the few times he had talked with her, had told her how she should behave. But of her own volition, as she rose, she plucked a flower from her posy and offered it, with a smile, to the king's mistress. The king nodded his head approvingly.
Her sisters and Mary were now clustered at the first pew. At Barbara's nod, they filed in beside the Duchess. Barbara leaned over and kissed her grandmother. The Duchess sniffed loudly.
"Dearly beloved," began the curate. (His voice carried. Christopher Wren had built this small church with its side galleries and rounded baroque arches to allow worshippers to see and hear clearly.) "We are gathered here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God…."
The Duchess stared blindly at the altar, seeing not Barbara and Roger, but other couples—herself and Richard, her sons and their brides, Diana and Kit.…
"Wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to love together after God's ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?" the curate was asking Barbara.
"I will," she said clearly, her voice low and throaty, like Diana's. It did not tremble or shake.
"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"
Tony looks ill, Abigail thought to herself, her eyes on her son's face. He had not taken his eyes from Barbara since the ceremony had begun. His response was inaudible, but he was placing Barbara's hands in the curate's who wo
uld eventually place her hand in Roger's, symbolic gestures showing her obedience and dependence upon others for the marriage. The curate, as God's minister and priest on earth, would deliver her to Roger's care, through the power of God, as God had provided a wife for the first man who had walked the earth.
Tony sat down blindly by his mother, who reached over and patted his hand. Both his hands were gripping his knees so tightly that his knuckles were white. He was concentrating on Barbara. These last weeks he had shown a maturity that was new, and while annoying in some ways, it was encouraging in others. Abigail felt furious that his energies should be wasted on Barbara, who was not the wife for him. She was too lively, too headstrong, too…yes… say it, intelligent. Yet it hurt to love someone who did not return your love. Abigail could sympathize with her son's feelings. She had loved William, not deeply, of course. Passion had no place in marriage, which was based on respect and regard. But she had had some strong feelings for him at the beginning — how could she not?—he was handsome, virile, amusing. She had soon realized, however, that he would never care for her deeply, and she had been glad to know, thankful that she had realized in time, before she could have felt more and embarrassed both of them. She had been content with their relationship. The hurt had only been a little one; she had too much pride, too much self–worth to brood over it; she had duties and responsibilities. Still, seeing the look in Tony's eyes reminded her of those first few months when she had thought that, possibly, William might care for her. It was a painful time, a humiliating time. Her ups and downs, her ridiculous, girlish hopes. Thank goodness only she knew of it, and she did not like to think of it, even now. Well, she was going to find Tony a nice little wife. An obedient girl. A good girl. She would make up for Barbara. And Bentwoodes.
