A Rather Charming Invitation

by C. A. Belmond

  Then he turned to me and said softly, “So. Feel like getting married today?”

  “Actually, yes,” I said, a bit shyly, but without an ounce of hesitation. “Yes, I certainly do.”

  “Good,” he said with a smile.

  “And you?” I teased. “How do you feel about it?”

  “I feel fine,” he said tenderly. “You see, right from the beginning, I somehow always knew that we belonged together. I believe you’ll find it quite convenient. I’ll be here to kiss you every day . . . catch you if you stumble—as you are wont to do occasionally, when you’re off on one of your mad assignments—and, I can also offer a shoulder to cry on . . . a hug to protect you from the rain . . . that sort of thing. In short, to be here on call, at all times . . . just in case you need me.”

  “Oh, but I do,” I said. “I need you always. I need you to stick around for a long, long time.”

  “Excellent,” he said, as we finished our little glasses of champagne. “Then I’d say, it just so happens to be a wonderful day for a wedding.”

  And, as beautiful as the rest of the day became, I must say that my most vital memory, the one I cherish above all, is that sweet little moment alone that we had together, just the two of us, eating our breakfast, quietly listening to the others as they stirred and rose, and the house came to life. It is truly lovely to watch a day gently unfold, a perfect new beginning, every morning.

  When it was time to dress, we parted ways. After my bath, I spritzed myself with the cologne that Oncle Philippe had made just for me. Jeremy had been whisked off to one of the guest rooms to dress. That left me alone in the big bedroom, but not for long. I was standing there in my new satin lingerie, when Honorine, Aunt Sheila, Tante Leonora and my mother trooped in, chattering excitedly, to fuss over me. They were carrying my gown, which had awaited me overnight in the closet of the small guest room we called the Renaissance Room.

  The ladies all looked so pretty in their gowns. Honorine was in violet silk, Aunt Sheila in light yellow satin, Tante Leonora in a silvery pale green chiffon, and Mom in a dusty rose taffeta. They were like a bouquet of flowers, fragrant and bright-faced.

  Honorine had given me a customized box of cosmetics that looked like a painter’s palette, and now she helped me with my makeup, while the others carefully unwrapped the dress. Then they lifted it over my head, letting it descend all around me like a lovely white mist, its flowerlike folds drifting down to settle softly upon me. Aunt Sheila fussed with my hair a bit, getting it just right before my mother placed the cap-and-veil ensemble on my head, like a crown.

  “Regarde!” Honorine exclaimed, steering me toward the mirror.

  There was something very startling and dramatic, yet at the same time, natural, about seeing the dress in my own mirror, in my own home. While I stood there, my mother gave me the gift of a pearl necklace, from her and Dad. Then I stepped into the white satin shoes with gold heels.

  When I was all dressed and ready, everyone else stood back respectfully, as Tante Leonora moved forward to take a final look at the full ensemble. She did a few lightening-quick adjustments—a tug here, a flick with her hand there, a pinch of a seam, a fluffing of the skirt, a smoothing of the train . . . then she, too, stood back and surveyed it all. I still don’t know exactly what she did, but it made a visible, subtle improvement.

  “Someday, Tante Leonora,” I said, “you must tell me how you French women do it.”

  “One day quite soon,” she replied, “you will realize that you already know.”

  And then, as suddenly as the ladies had arrived, they all scurried away. I had that strange moment which many brides do, when everyone else was so busy getting ready that they left me entirely alone, and nobody seemed aware of this. So I stood there, listening attentively, as cars pulled into the driveway, and doors slammed, and there were footsteps everywhere—on the gravel path, in the hallways, out on the patio—and the musicians began tuning up, while the hum of voices downstairs grew louder and more excited, with the arrivals of more and more guests. I heard the classical trio playing a Beatles tune, In my life, I love you more . . .

  “Wow,” I said to myself. “That’s one big party going on down there.”

  Knowing I’d caused all this, I got a little scared. There was a knock at my door, and then my father came in. He was wearing his super-best suit, the kind that makes a man look seriously great, the one he uses only for extremely special occasions. This, too, thrilled me. It meant that my wedding really was a great big grown-up sophisticated deal.

  “How are you, Penn-ee?” he inquired. He squeezed my hand.

  “Fine,” I said, still standing, so I wouldn’t crumple my dress.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked calmly, sitting down at the end of the bed, as if we had all the time in the world. At first I didn’t catch on. I was so accustomed to him telling me that Jeremy was a fine boy, so I was a bit surprised and amused by his next comment.

  “Are you sure this is what you want?” he said neutrally, as if it would be completely okay if I told him I’d changed my mind and wanted to fly the coop. If I’d said so, he probably would have serenely taken me for a long walk on the beach, and bought me an ice cream cone.

  I smiled. “Yes, Dad, everything’s okay.” Then I added, “But thanks for asking.”

  “A father must, you know,” he replied.

  There was another knock at the door. Honorine came rushing in, with a big, shiny white box.

  “Your flowers have arrived,” she said breathlessly. She put it down on the top of the chest of drawers. When she opened it, the scent of freshly cut roses filled the air. My bouquet had come from Philippe’s flower fields, arranged by a local florist. The roses were, just as I’d requested, a burgundy-red, with velvety green leaves, and little sprigs of white baby’s breath here and there. They were bound in gold and white ribbons, with white streamers edged in gold.

  “Your mother says be sure to hold it up, not down,” Honorine said with a smile, then went out.

  My father and I looked at each other. “Typical Mom,” I said.

  There was another quiet moment, during which a cool breeze came off the Mediterranean Sea, pirouetted across the lawn, twirled a little jasmine in its fingers, and then tripped lightly into the room, where it settled, warm and soft and caressing, like a veil across my skin. Someone knocked at the door, but did not enter. My father seemed to know what it meant.

  “It’s the message from downstairs. It’s time,” he said. He opened the door, stepped into the hall, and waited out there, leaving the door ajar for me.

  I took one last look at the room, for no reason whatsoever, except that, well, yes, I would be coming back . . . But I would return as a married woman. I wondered how it would feel. I felt a surge of anticipation now, a kind of flow of courage, you know, the courage that comes from moments when you feel you’re truly alive.

  I picked up the bouquet, and went out to the landing. My bridal party was standing there, poised as if on the brink of something very serious. No one spoke now. Honorine came over to carry the train of my dress for me, and she and I descended the left staircase—slowly, slowly, slowly—while everyone else went down the other staircase, on the right. I saw my old boss, Bruce, at the foot of the stairs. He was not only quietly “directing” my wedding video, but, with his camera on a tripod, he was shooting this part of the opus himself, covering the procession, as the bridal party gathered in the circular foyer. Bruce had discreetly placed two other cameramen in the corners of the drawing room.

  Honorine fluffed out the train of my dress again, and made a careful, last-minute check, in that earnest way she has of taking her assignments very seriously. Then, she went to the open door at the back of the drawing room, and nodded to the musicians, who began to play Handel’s Water Music. Honorine tilted her chin up, poised like a pearl diver about to leap, and then off she went, starting the bridal procession. She moved down the center aisle, very slowly, scattering pink and white rose petal
s along the way. When she reached the first row, she took her seat beside her family.

  Aunt Sheila was next. She was standing near Jeremy, and gave his cheek a light kiss. Then she turned and blew me a kiss, and went to the drawing room door. As she did, a very elegant-looking silver-haired Italian gentleman rose from a chair in a back row. Jeremy’s Grandfather Domenico had arrived from Italy, with a few of his relatives who were seated nearby, watching with delighted smiles. He wore a smart grey suit and vest, with a yellow flower in his buttonhole, and now, he stepped into the aisle, and offered his arm to Aunt Sheila, who took it gracefully. Together they went down the aisle, until they reached the front row, where they found their seats across the aisle from Honorine’s family.

  From the foyer, Jeremy moved forward. In his pocket he wore a silk handkerchief of the same burgundy color as the roses in my bouquet. Now he looked at me intently as he passed by, and I got a brief, reassuring whiff of the cologne he’d gotten as a gift from Oncle Philippe. I smiled at Jeremy, and I saw, reflected in his smile, that he had seen what I wanted him to see. He turned, very serious, and went through the doorway, into the drawing room, then, slowly, went down the aisle alone. When he reached the end, where the tapestry was, he turned, faced the crowd, and waited.

  My mother took my hand in hers, squeezed it, then released it. My father offered her his arm, and the two of them went down the aisle, walking in perfect time with each other, until they reached the aisle seats in the front row on the bride’s side.

  So, then it was just me. I stepped forward, pausing at the threshold of the room.

  The music changed. You know what it was. The pretty little classical trio played it very sweet and light, and the charming melody wafted across the room to me, as if it were beckoning me to come.

  La-la-la-LA,

  La-LA-la-la . . .

  Suddenly I felt myself floating forward, gently, on the balls of my feet, as if I were propelled by a puff of air, like a sailboat, now drifting down the aisle, past all those familiar faces to my right and to my left, which were so startling to see, after the heightened moment of solitude I’d just experienced. It was like watching my past life go by, as I spotted my girlfriends from the States, smiling at me with excitement, and Jodi from the charity group, who gave me a conspiratorial wink; and then I saw Diamanta’s face in the crowd, having come over from Corsica. The Count von Norbert and his son Kurt were there, too. And sweet Simon Thorne, looking dapper as ever—I think that Great-Aunt Penelope surely liked having her old dancing partner here again. Then there was Thierry and Monsieur Felix, looking spiffy in suits; and Charles and Rupert, apparently each unaware of the other’s significance to Honorine . . . and Harold, Jeremy’s old boss from his law office.

  It seemed as if they were drifting past me faster now, but they were all there . . . Erik and Tim, looking so proud, as if they might bust their buttons; and Tante Leonora, Oncle Philippe, David and Auguste, making such a beautiful row of family with Honorine; and Guy and Rollo, and even, by God, there was Great-Aunt Dorothy, appearing so impressed that she looked like a canary who’d swallowed a cat.

  I saw, across the aisle, Uncle Giles and Amelia beaming at me from their seats alongside Grandmother Margery, who appeared rather pleased and proud; possibly because Clive, the English photographer who’d photographed the Beethoven Lion, had been aboard the Wedding Train, snapping away madly, taking shots of all the guests on the train, whose faces then appeared in the newspapers’ society columns . . .

  But while I was moving past them all, there was one face that was like a bright, guiding light throughout, steering me across the gulf . . . Jeremy, waiting for me there, standing before the tapestry. Next to Jeremy was our captain, Claude, who stood ready to perform the ceremony. I came floating up and took my place beside Jeremy, landing as softly as a feather, borne on a breeze. The music stopped, and I heard our words reverberating in that lovely room.

  I, Jeremy, take thee, Penny, to be my wife and partner in life . . .

  Jeremy, with this ring, I thee wed . . .

  “And now,” said Claude, “you may kiss the bride.”

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Penelope’s Dream pulled away from the harbor, leaving a trail of flowers in its wake. Our voyage began just cruising along the French and Italian Riviera, finding secret, private little coves where we could row ashore for romantic picnics. For a charming while we turned off all the phones and radios, allowing ourselves to just be lovers alone and away from the cares of the world. Well, not quite alone. There were ducks that swam beside us for awhile, and real swans, too . . . then gulls swooping overhead.

  One afternoon, we were lying on our backs in the steamer chairs, gazing idly at the sky, watching the clouds to see what pictures we saw in them.

  “Hello, wife,” Jeremy said, as we lay there sipping our drinks, inhaling the fresh salty air.

  “Hello, husband,” I responded, feeling more contented than even I had ever dreamed possible. (And ya know I do like to dream big.)

  “Well?” he joked. “Has marriage changed us?”

  “Too early to tell,” I replied playfully.

  “Perhaps now we can finally settle into some quiet domestic bliss?” Jeremy murmured.

  “For years and years,” I agreed.

  “Let’s make some ground rules for the future,” Jeremy offered. “One, no more cases involving relatives.”

  “I agree!” I said wholeheartedly. “Two,” I contributed slyly, “no more weird ‘invitations’ for awhile from the big movers- and-shakers of the world.”

  “Deal,” he said. “Maybe we should try a little gentleman farming.”

  “Yes,” I sighed happily. “Gardening is good for the soul.”

  Well. Little did we know, of course, as we lay there watching the sunset and making our best- laid plans, that even as we spoke, back in London, a letter was being slipped through the mail slot of the firm of Nichols & Laidley. It dropped on the floor with a conspicuous clack. Honorine wasn’t there anymore, so the letter lay there for some time, awaiting our return. This one was on very fancy, official stationery—a heavy cream-colored vellum, embossed with initials: “H.R.H.”

  We would like to engage you on a matter of great importance to us, which also concerns a relative of yours . . .

  The clock on the mantel chimed knowingly. Well, so much for ground rules. Life is what happens to you when you’re making them. But after all, I never expected to go through my days without breaking a few. Now and again. Very soon indeed.

  THE END

  READERS GUIDE

  A Rather Charming Invitation

  C.A. Belmond

  This Conversation Guide is intended to enrich the individual reading experience, as well as encourage us to explore these topics together—because books, and life, are meant for sharing.

  A CONVERSATION WITH C.A. BELMOND

  Q. This is the third book in your “Rather” series, which began with “A Rather Lovely Inheritance” and its sequel, “A Rather Curious Engagement”. What’s it like to follow your main characters through three novels? Did you plan this to be a series at the onset?

  When I began writing A Rather Lovely Inheritance, I was completely focused on telling the story of an American girl who unexpectedly inherits a windfall that requires her to go to Europe, prompting a personal journey as well. I loved the idea of a modern-day girl taking a “Grand Tour” abroad, while delving into her family’s history in London, France and Italy. Once she accomplished her mission at the novel’s end, well, there was still so much for Penny to do, see, and experience, that it seemed as if her story was really just beginning. To my surprise, the same thing happened at the end of the sequel, and at the end of this book, too! I just follow the trail, as Penny and Jeremy do whenever they are on a “case”, yet, at the same time, each novel feels like its own complete and unique world to me.

  Q. Throughout this novel, “A Rather Charming Invitation”, there are various examples of very different m
arriages and couples. Was this deliberate?

  Oh, yes. I had great fun with Penny behaving as a “bridal anthropologist”, that is, allowing her to “research” marriage by taking a closer look at the other couples she meets, while she’s trying to figure out if a wedding will be a good thing for her relationship with Jeremy. I think most brides go through this at some point; they suddenly become more acutely aware of how other marriages seem to be working ... or not working. So, in her Charming adventure, Penny is introduced to marriage in all its permutations: arranged marriage, shotgun weddings, unfaithful spouses, marriage of convenience, marrying-for-money ... and, the dearest of all: marriage of mutual love, passion, respect and companionship. Penny is an observant but nonjudgmental woman, so she notices the wistful, touching aspects of humanity as well as the hilarious. And of course she uses it all as a way of puzzling out what she wants for her own marriage. Or, as Penny herself defines the task: “How to tie the knot . . . without unravelling the unique love that brought us together in the first place.”

  Q. How does it feel for you as the author to have your main characters, Penny and Jeremy, get married? What was it like to write about their wedding?

  Very satisfying, actually. When I set out, I knew one thing for sure: Penny and Jeremy would have to find their own unique way to marry, in a style that suits their newfound, jaunty life. Penny is such an earnest “seeker” that she would naturally resist anything about a wedding that’s inauthentic, superficial, egotistical or grimly dutiful. Also, I wanted to indicate that marriage wasn’t going to spoil their fun. So I especially enjoyed having Penny and Jeremy attempt to plan a wedding smack-dab in the midst of one of their typical adventures. It’s my way of saying that life goes on even while you’re on the road to taking this big step, and the wedding can be part of the pleasure of moving forward together.