The Wedding Dress

by Mary Burchell

  “Cherie, we all have to grow up,” he said kindly, “and part of the process is nearly always painful. But console yourself, for remember that your basic instinct was singularly correct.”

  “My basic instinct, monsieur?” Loraine, who was not feeling particularly proud of her instinct just then, looked surprised. “What do you mean? When, for goodness’ sake, did I show wise basic instinct?”

  “On the opening day of the new Collection. Remember?

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

  And, smiling a little to himself, Florian passed on, leaving Loraine to gaze after him with a startled expression.

  For almost half a minute she stood there on the famous staircase. Then she went on slowly, up to her own floor, in a great confusion of mind.

  Florian, of course, was over-simplifying things. He was also, apparently, overlooking Elinor’s part in the general picture. What if—just for the sake of argument—some inner, wiser self had prompted her to look at Paul on that great occasion? The practical result amounted to very little. Paul and she were simply guardian and ward. Devoted guardian and ward, it was true, during recent weeks. But that was hardly a relationship which carried any element of romance.

  Or did it?

  “Loraine, attention, please!” Madame Moisant’s sharp voice recalled her to humdrum reality. “To be allowed to come late is already a privilege. To go to the Fete tonight may make you feel important. But neither of these privileges entitles you to ignore me when I speak to you.”

  “Oh, madame, I didn’t mean to!” Loraine was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry. I think I was just in—in a brown study.”

  “Dreaming of the prince or count or whoever it is that Monsieur Florian has secured for her tonight,” jeered Lisette. “Too bad that your own beau preferred not to go with you after all.”

  “That will do, Lisette.” Madame Moisant, who could scold with energy, had really rather a soft spot for Loraine and came to her aid immediately. “This is no business of yours. You have been eavesdropping as usual, I suppose, and misinterpreted what you heard. Loraine is the guest of Monsieur Florian tonight. You may envy her if you wish, but not insult her.”

  Lisette lapsed into silence. But she could not resist one or two other pinpricks during the day. To her surprise, however, Loraine found that they caused her singularly little unhappiness, which was, she supposed, the full measure of her cure.

  Incredible though it might seem, she no longer cared that Philip had stayed in London. In a curious way, what had loomed as a major tragedy yesterday was now shrinking to the proportions of a minor inconvenience. And even that Monsieur Florian had now set right.

  Late in the afternoon Gabrielle arrived, and she and Loraine were arrayed in all their festive finery and allowed to parade for the inspection of all. Loud were the exclamations of praise and congratulation—and indescribably smug and satisfied the expressions of those who had actually been responsible for the making of the dresses.

  Then Florian swept them both off in his car, and Lorraine felt that the full glory of the evening had begun.

  She wished Paul could have seen her—for no description, however detailed, could give any real idea of the beauty of her dress. But thinking about him made her recall that he was going out with Elinor instead, and somehow that made her feel so unhappy that she tried to think of something else. Leaning forward from the back seat of the car, she asked:

  “Whom did you choose for my escort in the end, Monsieur Florian?”

  “A very good friend of mine.” Florian spoke briefly over his shoulder, most of his attention on the madly speeding traffic. “I think you will like him and find him a satisfactory substitute for Monsieur Philippe.”

  Then he resumed some discussion with his wife, and she found she could not ask any further details. But—she sat back and relaxed—she could wait for those until the moment of introduction.

  Loraine had never been to the Florians’ apartment before and was, like everyone else before her, enchanted by its beautiful position, at the top of a high, luxury block, with breathtaking views of Paris from every window.

  Gabrielle took her to a charming bedroom and left her there, with instructions to go into the drawing-room when she was ready, as Georges would be looking after the drinks there, and she herself had one or two last-minute instructions to give in connection with the small dinner-party to be given before the evening’s festivities.

  Loraine completed her few running repairs in a leisurely way, and then stood by the window for a while, watching the first faint veils of summer dusk gathering over Paris.

  What a beautiful city it was! And how many things had happened to her in the months she had been here. She had come as a wide-eyed unknowing schoolgirl. And here she had experienced romance and heartache, found her place in a glamorous, competitive world—and come to know the dearest, most worth-while person she would ever meet.

  Half charmed, half scared, she found it was Paul who dominated the picture as she looked back. Paul, remote and chilling when he met her at the station, startled and moved when she had put her cheek against his arm and coaxed him to let her go to work at Florian’s. Paul telling her that her capacity for enjoying herself was a delicious discovery for him. Paul—teasing her, consoling her, encouraging her, reassuring her that his home was hers. Paul rising to his feet and murmuring, “You darling!” as she passed him in the wedding dress.

  Insensibly, he had become so much a part of her life and her daily joy—and she had taken it all for granted. As one took the sun for granted, or the lovely miracle of the twilight moving softly across the city now, as she stood looking down upon it.

  “I can’t imagine life without him,” she thought, in sudden panic. “I—I couldn’t bear it.”

  And because the discovery and all its implications terrified her, she thrust it from her and, turning from the window, went quickly from the room. She would find Florian and let him give her a stiff drink, and tomorrow she would worry about the fearful new problem which was already casting its shadow upon her.

  A little breathlessly she entered the long, lovely drawing-room with windows at both ends. And because the setting sun was shining into the room she was dazzled at first and thought the man standing by the, window must be Florian.

  Then he turned. And it was not Florian at all. It was Paul.

  For a moment she almost thought she must have conjured him up in person by the sheer intensity of her thoughts and her feelings. But then the absolute joy of his presence swept everything else aside, and she cried, “Paul—Paul darling!” and ran to him.

  “Loraine,” he laughed, caught her up in his arms and kissed her once or twice with the utmost tenderness, “what a delightful welcome.”

  “Oh, but I’m so glad—so happy! It’s the most wonderful surprise. How did you come here?”

  “Florian asked me to be your escort for the evening.”

  “Oh, but—but you were going out with Elinor, weren’t you?”

  He shook his head and smiled.

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “Florian told me you were.”

  An odd look come over Paul’s face at that, and he said gravely, “Even Florian makes a mistake sometimes.”

  “But he was so positive. He said Elinor told him. Oh, it doesn’t matter, of course. Only,” a twinge of conscience invaded the security of her happiness, “you aren’t just letting her down, are you? I know what that feels like.”

  “No, darling. That isn’t my way of doing things. And, since this seems to be one of those things which need exact definition, the last time I went out with Elinor was the evening you and Philip visited our restaurant. We had a frank discussion, which ended in our deciding that there was no point in our seeing each other again.”

  “But you said—when I asked you if it had been a satisfactory evening—you said it had been very satisfactory.”

  “From my point of view, it was,” he informed her
with a dry smile. “That was another situation which I wanted dearly defined.”

  “You mean—you didn’t want to see her again?”

  “I mean I didn’t want to see her again. Or rather, that it was a matter of indifference to me whether we ran into each other or not, but that I had no intention of arranging any meeting.”

  “Paul!” She looked at him in incredulous delight “Wasn’t this all—very sudden?”

  “No.”

  “But,” she frowned, in an effort to recall what had left her with the complete conviction that he had continued to love Elinor and rejoiced when she was free again, “but when I told you that the engagement between Philip and Elinor was broken, you agreed that was the thing you had most wanted to hear.”

  “We both put it in the past, darling,” he reminded her. “It was once the thing I most wanted to hear. For some time it had already ceased to be so.”

  “Oh, Paul,” she gave a smiling, reproachful little shake of her head, “you did give me a lot of wrong impressions quite deliberately, didn’t you?”

  “What else can a man do when the girl he adores insists on telling him she’s in love with someone else?” he countered smilingly.

  “When the girl he—Paul!” Her hand tightened suddenly on his arm. “S-say that again.”

  He laughed softly and kissed the side of her cheek, just where the excited color was beginning to deepen.

  “Suppose I say it in another form,” he suggested teasingly. “What else could I do when my heart’s darling kept on telling me she was in love with Philip Otway?”

  “Paul!”

  She put her head down against his shoulder and for a long moment nothing and no one else existed. Not Paris, Philip, Florian, the Fete, Elinor—anything. All she knew was that she was safe and that everything was all right.

  Paul loved her and his arms were round her. The rest of the world, and all her life, could wait while she savored the perfection of that magic moment. Paul loved her—and she was safe in his arms.

  Then at last she said wonderingly:

  “Am I your heart’s darling?”

  “Yes, Loraine.”

  “Will you think me silly and shallow and—changeable if I tell you that you’re mine too?”

  “No, my darling. That’s the thing I most want to hear now. So you see, I too must admit that I’ve undergone a great change. You’re not alone in that.”

  “Oh, Paul, you do have the most comforting things to say!” She hugged him gratefully. “Almost anyone else would tease me and make me feel small.”

  “I love you,” he reminded her simply. “I don’t want you to feel small. I like you to feel and look wonderful. That time I saw you in the wedding dress—”

  “Oh, then! That was the moment,” she exclaimed in delight. “That was when it really happened to both of us, whether we knew it or not. Oh, clever, clever Monsieur Florian!”

  And, as though on his cue, Florian came into the room at that point, and smilingly asked:

  “What have I done to evoke this charming tribute, ma chère?”

  “I’m sure you know,” Loraine laughed across at him in her happiness. “And, although I suspect that you told one thumping lie in order to achieve your purpose, I think I must forgive you. You always backed Paul to marry me, didn’t you?”

  “At least I felt that my wedding dress would be sadly wasted if Monsieur Philippe succeeded,” the great designer admitted drily.

  “It was not wasted,” Loraine told him with a smile. “Remember? I didn’t look at Philip, after all. I looked at Paul.

  “I remember.”

  “What’s this all about?” inquired Paul, looking amused and intrigued.

  “Loraine will tell you in detail another time,” Florian assured him. “I think I hear our other guests arriving just in time to drink a toast to our newly engaged pair.”

  And even as he spoke, Gabrielle entered, accompanied, to Loraine’s most genuine pleasure—by Marianne and Roger Senloe.

  “Dear Florian.” Marianne kissed his cheek lightly, while Roger shook him warmly by the hand. “Not match-making again, surely? This is becoming a habit.”

  “A habit which you should be the last to deplore, my dear Marianne,” retorted Florian, handing round glasses.

  “I don’t deplore it. As a satisfied client, I'm interested, that’s all.” Marianne laughed and looked with kindly curiosity upon her one-time bridesmaid.

  “An engagement? This is the first I’ve heard of it,” Gabrielle exclaimed. “Is this really an engagement party?”

  “Loraine’s and mine,” Paul explained, drawing Loraine into the circle of his arm.

  “But how lovely!” Gabrielle kissed Loraine impulsively. Then she raised her glass and said, “To you both, my dears!”

  “To the match-maker!” added Marianne, raising her glass mockingly in Florian’s direction.

  But, with a reflective smile, Florian disclaimed the tribute.

  “To the wedding dress,” he said. “The symbol of our art—and of the magic which each one of us here has found.”

  THE END