The Wedding Dress

by Mary Burchell

  This was her last model before the wedding dress. And, when she returned to the dressing-room, she found Florian himself waiting to see her arrayed in his final inspiration.

  Those who were no longer required to show the last few numbers crowded round to comment and admire. And Odette—the mannequin who had been longest with Florian and now showed the incredibly elegant clothes designed for the not-so-young—said frankly:

  “It is the most beautiful you have ever designed, monsieur.”

  “You think so, Odette?” He gave her that quick, boyish smile. “In the very last moment I never know if it is good or not.”

  “It is superb and yet touching beyond belief. Like faint mist at dawn, with that glow of shell pink just showing through the white.”

  “And there’s dew on it too,” said Loraine, softly touching the folds of the skirt, where an occasional paillette lent sparkle to the breathtaking clouds of tulle.

  “True,” said Florian. But she could not tell from his tone if they were really on speaking terms, or whether she had been forgiven for her outrageous piece of insubordination before the Show began.

  And then Madame Moisant gave a peremptory gesture and Loraine heard her make the last announcement, which heralded the entry of the wedding dress.

  “Slowly,” whispered Florian, “slowly. And remember that now you are not a mannequin showing a dress, but a bride going towards her happiness.”

  “Yes, monsieur,” she whispered in return, and her voice was faintly tremulous. Then she parted the curtains and stood there before Philip—for the others did not count—in all the touching glory of the wedding dress.

  With instinctive artistry, she made no conventional turn. She just stood there for almost a minute, her hands lightly clasped against her breast, her wide eyes looking with half timid rapture towards the future. Then, in the stunned silence which had greeted her entrance, she moved slowly forward. And, as she did so, the applause broke out like a thunderclap.

  She was aware that, incredibly, half the audience had risen to their feet and were waving their programmes in tribute. But she moved slowly on as though she saw nothing—nothing but the shining future in front of her.

  She had meant to break that rapt glance when she reached Philip and look at him with a faint smile which would tell him that this was specially for him. But, in some inexplicable way, she could not free herself from the spell which she herself had created.

  To look at anyone at close range would be to shatter the mood of rapturous isolation which was the keynote of her impression. She had no idea that, in that moment, she completely surrendered her private interests to the demands of artistic integrity. She only knew that she must continue to look ahead—which she did.

  “The child is wonderful—wonderful,” she heard Mrs. Otway say excitedly. “Did you ever see anything so lovely, Philip?”

  And she thought he said, “Never.” But she could not be quite sure because of the pandemonium around her.

  She moved through it all, and on the return journey too, serene and rapt. Then she was out in the corridor, looking down the full length of it, and perfectly naturally, her wide-eyed glance rested on her guardian.

  It was the most extraordinary experience. As though something or someone awoke her from a trance. And, as she awoke, she smiled.

  He got to his feet. He was not the only one. But he gave the impression of rising in the presence of something a little unearthly, and he did not shout or wave his programme. He did not even clap. He just looked at her, incredulously. And, as she passed, he said softly, “You darling!”

  She could not have said why, but that brought the tears to her eyes. And, although she was now too well disciplined to allow them to fall, by the time she returned to the dressing-room, tears were trembling on her lashes.

  “Not on the wedding dress! Not on the wedding dress!” exclaimed Madame Moisant, thrusting her handkerchief into her hand. “But you were splendid, petite, splendid. Now blow your nose and be cheerful, for all is well.”

  Loraine obeyed, submissively, while everyone crowded round to congratulate her, with the exception of Lisette, who stood aloof and remarked that they were there to display Monsieur Florian’s dresses and not to play theatre, which was what Loraine had done.

  “It is natural that you should be jealous, Lisette,” said Madame Moisant genially. “But you are stupid to show it. Now take off the dress, Loraine.”

  “One moment, madame!” Florian came in—having torn himself away from a storm of congratulations outside—and as the girls fell back respectfully, he came up to Loraine.

  “Thank you, chérie,” he said, and, taking her hand, he kissed it.

  “Oh, monsieur!” To her dismay, Loraine felt quite tearful again. “Am I—am I forgiven?”

  “For what, petite?”

  “Oh, you know! For the—the awful things I said to you before the Show,” Loraine exclaimed remorsefully.

  “Once success is assured, I forget everything which happened before the Show,” Florian assured her, his grey eyes glinting with amusement.

  “Oh, monsieur, how—generous of you!”

  “But perhaps I should remember to tell, you that your guardian has already safely left.”

  “Left?” Inexplicably, she was stunned with disappointment. “Left—without a word to me? Oh, but I wanted—”

  “You wanted to make sure that he and Monsieur Philippe did not meet, at any cost,” her employer reminded her drily.

  “Yes—of course.” She tried to remember how unspeakably important that was.

  “By careful arrangement, I kept them apart before the Show. And, by assuring your guardian there was no chance of speaking to you, I sent him briskly on his way once more. I hope,” said Florian, a trifle maliciously, “that you are properly grateful.”

  “Oh, I—I am. But—did he want to come and speak to me?”

  “Very much.”

  “Oh, I wish you had let him!”

  “At the risk of his running into Monsieur Philippe?” She did not answer that immediately. She stared at Florian instead, as though she had recalled or discovered something which had given her a great shock. Then she said, quite irrelevantly:

  “I didn’t look at Philip after all. I—I looked at Paul.”

  “Ah,” said the great designer softly. “That is indeed interesting. Now take off the wedding dress. You have a busy day in front of you, and I think your friend Mrs. Otway is hoping to have a word with you.”

  He left her then, and she carefully divested herself of the wedding dress, with the brisk assistance of one of the principal vendeuses, who already wanted her to come and display a couple of her models for a customer.

  “They are for a prospective bride,” she explained to Loraine, “so she may want several designs for her trousseau. But not the wedding dress, I think. That would not be her style.”

  “Who is she?” inquired Loraine, pausing in the act of changing to a midnight blue cocktail dress.

  “Mrs. Roye. Her future mother-in-law is a very good customer of ours.”

  “I know them,” Loraine said briefly. And she accompanied the vendeuse to one of the larger fitting-rooms, where she found not only Elinor and Mrs. Otway but Philip too.

  They were all congratulatory—even Elinor in a cool, impersonal sort of way—but it was Mrs. Otway who did most of the talking. Philip was quite extraordinarily silent, once he had expressed his admiration of Loraine’s part in the Show, and she had the impression that he was deeply troubled.

  Well, perhaps that was the way it had to be. It could hardly be easy to watch one’s fiancée choosing things for her trousseau if one had just made the shattering discovery that one loved someone else.

  Only—was that the discovery he had made?

  As she went through the motions of being intelligently interested in Elinor’s choice, Loraine found herself desperately trying to decide what that moody silence of Philip’s meant.

  In all her hopes and anticip
ations, she had never faced the fact that she might be no nearer the truth even when the great dress show was over. But then, of course, when it came to the point, she had not put the issue to the test.

  She could hardly believe it now. And certainly she could not explain it to herself. Why, why had she not looked at him at that vital moment when she appeared before him in the wedding dress? That was to be the test, and on the result of it she was to be able to base all her future actions.

  Instead of which, she had not even looked at him. She had looked at Paul instead.

  And Paul had said, “You darling!” and brought the tears to her eyes. Which had nothing whatever to do with the present situation but seemed curiously important, all the same.

  “What do you think, Philip?” Elinor turned suddenly to her fiancé. “We haven’t heard your opinion. And if you’re going to live with these dresses, you’d better have some choice in the matter. How do you like the blue cocktail dress?”

  “It looks lovely to me,” Philip said slowly. But he looked straight at Loraine as he said it.

  “You don’t feel it’s a trifle—ingénue for you, dear?” That was Mrs. Otway, being disparagingly helpful. And, not for the first time, Loraine felt unhappy and ashamed to be in any sort of alliance with her, however involuntary.

  “I hadn’t thought so,” replied Elinor drily. “Would you like me to have it, Philip?”

  “If it pleases you.”

  “But I was asking if it pleased you,” Elinor said, gently and firmly.

  Philip had always, in Loraine’s experience, been completely at ease in any situation. But now he actually, looked faintly harassed, as he laughed impatiently and said:

  “If you like it, my dear, I think you should have it.”

  “Which means that you don’t like it very much yourself?” she pressed him.

  “I must confess I find these dress shows rather more confusing than you women seem to do.” Philip shrugged but made an effort to show something of his usual good temper. “Once I’ve seen someone in a dress—particularly a clever dress—it seems odd to me to transfer it to someone else. For me, that’s Loraine’s dress and—”

  “I know just what you mean!” his mother cut in brightly. “But then that’s partly the clever way our little Loraine wears her things. They become essentially her. I thought that was particularly so with the wedding dress, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Philip, without elaboration, and for a couple of seconds that monosyllable seemed to hang significantly in the air.

  Loraine found that she could not look at the other girl. In this moment, which should have been her own moment of triumph, the things she was most aware of was the mortification of her rival and, from the bottom of her heart, she was sorry for Elinor.

  “Perhaps,” murmured the vendeuse tactfully, “the models worn by one of the other girls—one that he does not know personally—might please Monsieur more. I will see.”

  She melted away discreetly, and Loraine supposed she was expected to do the same. But she stood there for a moment longer, unable to do. And then, just as she was secretly pitying Elinor for her defenceless state, the other girl drew the most dangerous weapon she possessed.

  “It would be hard on Florian if all the menfolk thought as you did,” she told Philip, with an almost affectionate and indulgent little laugh. “If no one wanted to see Loraine’s models on anyone but Loraine, who would buy them? Even the man she lives with could hardly be as generous as that.”

  “The—What did you say?” Philip turned on his fiancée almost fiercely. “Who on earth are you talking about?”

  “Why, Paul Cardine, of course.” Elinor opened her eyes quite wide. “Didn’t you know? But you must know that Loraine is living there in his flat. He calls her his Ward, I believe.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  FOR the second time that day Loraine found herself the cause of a stunned silence. But this was very different from the enraptured hush which had greeted the appearance of the wedding dress. This was something so appalling and so totally unexpected that she felt herself pale.

  Then Philip said, with a deadly sort of calm:

  “Are you mad, Elinor? Loraine is one of our closest friends and it’s simply impossible for you to make such a statement about her.”

  “But she is living in Paul Cardine’s flat,” reiterated his fiancée, unmoved. “Ask her, if you don’t believe me. Or ring her up at the telephone number she gave you. That’s Paul’s number. I should know!” And she laughed shortly.

  “Loraine—” Philip turned almost appealingly to her and she saw him start slightly—perhaps with shock at the sight of her pale face and curiously guilty demeanor.

  “Paul Cardine is my guardian,” Loraine said, in a breathy little voice. “I do live in his flat. But Elinor’s implication of—of anything else is, of course, ridiculous.”

  “What am I supposed to have implied?” murmured Elinor, with a deprecating little shrug. But Philip was not even looking at her. He was still looking, in incredulous dismay, at Loraine.

  “But, for heaven’s sake, why didn’t you tell me? Why this disquieting mystery?”

  “There was no mystery,” Loraine began desperately. But before she could say any more, or in any way remove the unfortunate impression which Elinor had created, the vendeuse came hurrying back into the room, accompanied by Madame Moisant, who immediately addressed herself apologetically to Mrs. Otway.

  “You must excuse us, dear Madame Otway, but Loraine is needed by Monsieur Florian. The wedding dress is already to be photographed for the Press. In any case, I understand that Mademoiselle Roye would rather see some models on one of the other girls.”

  This was not exactly what Mademoiselle Roye had indicated, but she immediately said accommodatingly that she would be interested to see some of Lisette’s models. And, before Mrs. Otway could protest, or Philip insist on finishing the discussion—which would have been useless in any case—Loraine was whisked away and once more arrayed in the gorgeous wedding dress.

  No form of mockery could have been more cruel, and it was all she could do to hide her unhappiness and despair. But she was, after all, a vital part of Florian’s great day. There was no question of her allowing her inconsiderable little private affairs to interfere with the natural course of events. She had tried that once—and been forgiven. She could hardly expect to be indulged any further.

  “You need not look so serious, petite,” Florian told her. “A bride should show happiness, even if she is also awed and un peu exaltée.”

  So Loraine did her best to look as an awed and happy bride should look. And she must, she supposed, be more of an actress than she had known. Because everyone seemed very well satisfied and a great many photographs were taken.

  Then she was seized on immediately to display the yellow and green evening ensemble and two of her day dresses for a young South American heiress, to whom time and money were apparently of equally little importance. So that, by the time Loraine had finished that assignment, there was no sign of the Otways or Elinor and, on inquiry, she found they had gone at least half an hour ago.

  There was nothing she could do about it. This day—or what was left of it—belonged to Florian. And all that afternoon, and quite far into the evening, she patiently posed and changed and posed again—for customers, for photographers, for Florian himself, when he required her in order to reinforce some viewpoint he wished to put over to the Press.

  She was deadly tired by the end. So tired that it was difficult to say if her head or her back or her legs ached most. But, far more than any physical ache, was the dull, despairing knowledge that, on this day to which she had pinned so many bright and secret hopes, she had only succeeded in creating doubt and dismay in Philip’s mind.

  “There will be a chance to explain,” she kept on telling herself, in the intervals of smiling and looking bright and attentive. “Of course there will! He didn’t really believe anything questionable about my presence in Paul�
��s apartment. It’s only a matter of having a quiet talk with him and explaining everything.”

  But she knew uneasily that, all the while she was rooted here in Florian’s salon, time was going on, unfortunate impressions were being confirmed, and Elinor was undoubtedly using every advantage she had so ruthlessly snatched.

  It was over at last—though one or two of the girls were actually going on to show their models at a midnight charity affair.

  “You have no need to drop and look pathetic,” Lisette told her briskly. “You are not wanted any more and can go home. Me, I am still needed for further display.”

  “Good luck to you,” replied Loraine, who knew she was supposed to feel mortified by this slight. “My only concern is how to get home. If I can’t pick up a taxi, I think I’ll drop in my tracks.”

  “You cannot get your boy friend to fetch you in his car?” asked Lisette contemptuously.

  “No,” said Loraine, not bothering to inquire which her boy friend was supposed to be.

  But when she came out into the street, the most beautiful, welcome sight met her eye. Paul’s car was drawn up by the curb, and he was sitting at the wheel, patiently reading an evening newspaper.

  “Oh, Paul!” With what strength she had left, she ran across the pavement to him.

  “Hallo, darling—” He leant over and opened the door for her. “Slip in. I expect you’re pretty whacked, aren’t you?”

  “Nearly dead,” she assured him. “How did you know I needed a lift so badly and would be coming out just at this moment?”

  “I guessed it would be a tough day and reckoned I’d better come and wait for you.”

  “You angel! How long had you been waiting?”

  He glanced at his watch and said, in some surprise: “About an hour, I suppose.”

  “About an hour! How kind of you to waste your evening like that.”

  “I didn’t think of it as a wasted evening,” he told her, with a quick smile. “I couldn’t wait to tell you how wonderful you were, Loraine. Florian wouldn’t let me have so much as a word with you when the Show was over, and I’ve been bottling it up ever since. I had no idea I was harboring a minor genius in my home.”