Lady of the Butterflies (23 page)

That seemed a little harsh, so that I knew Edmund was more disappointed than he was admitting, but I was very glad to learn that Richard could be unreliable. Even if he did not give that impression, or at least not to me, it was exactly what I needed to hear. For what would life be like married to such a man? Even the most adorable, fascinating man. I had promised my father I would choose a husband well. And what kind of lord would Richard Glanville have made for Tickenham?

I hoped for Edmund’s sake that Richard’s absence did not mar his enjoyment of the day, but all my own disappointment in the unprepossessing church vanished as soon as I saw Mary and John Burges, waiting round the side with a gentleman who, despite his much paler ginger hair, could be none other than Edmund’s elder brother.

“You look so beautiful,” Mary said admiringly, as she kissed me and pressed into my hands a little aromatic posy of rosemary and myrtle and daisies. “Do you know the great Sir Francis Bacon was married here?” she chatted on, linking her arm through mine. “In an extravagant purple suit, and his bride in a gown of cloth of silver that cost half her dowry.”

“Dear Mary, how is it you always know exactly what to say to cheer me?” I felt wholly better now. It seemed an extraordinary coincidence. My father had always commented on my inability to accept anything without evidence, and now here I was, about to be married in the very same church as Sir Francis Bacon, my hero, remembered as the inventor of the “Scientific Method” of testing a theory by controlled experiment. “If this church is good enough for Sir Francis, it must surely be good enough for me,” I said to Mary.

Edmund must surely be good enough for me. Until I had met Richard Glanville, I had wanted nothing more than him.

“Are you happy?” Mary asked.

“Yes,” I said, glancing at Edmund, who did look very grand and handsome as he strode ahead with his brother. “I am.” If I had never met Richard, I would have been blissfully happy this day. But I had managed to find happiness in far less favorable circumstances, had resisted unhappiness all my life.

Mary was looking as radiant as a new bride herself. “City air’s obviously good for you,” I told her.

“Hackney’s far from the city. But it’s home to me now.”

I thought with a pang of Tickenham, which I had left behind for the first time, and which in a matter of minutes would be mine no longer. “Have you any pupils for your boarding school yet?”

“Two keen girls.”

I stopped walking, looked at her. “Girls!”

“Of course,” she said, pulling me on. “What do I know about boys? We’re not the first. There’s two Quaker establishments and a fine girls’ school in Chelsea that’s already quite famous.”

“Am I too old to go?”

She laughed. “In a few minutes you’ll be a wife.”

“And wives, of course, can never pursue their education, Heaven forfend.” I do not know if I sounded resentful, did not mean to, but it did feel for a tiny moment as if my life, in a way, was ending instead of beginning.

Mary relinquished me to Mr. Merrick, who took my arm as we all walked into the chapel. The heavy doors swung closed behind us with a resounding clang. The interior smelled musty and damp and was very dim after the brightness of the spring sunshine, so that for a few seconds, until my eyes adjusted, I couldn’t see where on earth I was going. I walked slowly past the boxes of locked pews toward the altar as one who is blind, my footsteps ringing down the stone nave.

Eventually I could see enough to make out that the little church was in a very poor state of repair. The banners and escutcheons were dusty and faded. The monumental slabs we walked upon were crumbling. The Apostles’ Creed was marked with damp and there was a dusty spider’s web over the poor box. Not a particularly auspicious start to my marriage at all. I saw also that the stone commandments upon the wall were riven with a great diagonal crack, and it made me shudder in premonition.

The plain little altar had at least been adorned with bays, but I yearned again for Tickenham. I thought of the golden morning on which we had left it and I wished with all my heart that we were marrying in the familiar surroundings of the church of St. Quiricus and St. Juliet, sharing this day with our neighbors and household family, with Mistress Keene from the kitchen, with Bess’s parents. I even found myself thinking quite fondly of Thomas Knight and Susan Hort. I should like to have had Reverend Burges officiating, or even the new young curate, John Foskett, and blessings and psalms of rejoicing and a procession of pipers to lead the way and make the occasion feel festive and joyous, instead of rather furtive and solemn, as it did now.

The minister was waiting with his service book already open, two worn hassocks placed at his feet in readiness for us. He looked extraordinarily old and as worn as his church, his hair wispy and white and his eyes almost lost in the deep wrinkles and furrows of his face. He spoke in a hushed voice more suited to a funeral than a wedding.

But the marriage service is a grave and somber affair, though beautiful and dignified nonetheless, for all that it comes from the notorious Book of Common Prayer.

“Not to be entered into unadvisedly, lightly or wantonly . . . those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder
.
”

With a monumental effort I pushed away the thought that it should be someone else standing by my side at this altar.

The minister read the part about “accustomed duty” and Edmund dutifully fished in his pocket for a five-shilling piece, which he placed on the minister’s service book to pay him for marrying us. Then came the ring, and Edmund found it in another pocket and placed that, too, upon the pages of the open book, a band of gold, set with many jewels. Considerate of my background, he’d asked me if I would find the ritual of the ring offensive, as did scores of Puritans who saw its part in the marriage ceremony as a relic of Papistry.

He could not have been more wrong. I had secretly dreamed of the day when the man I loved would place the ring upon my finger, from which it was said a certain vessel ran directly to the heart.

I looked at it, gleaming with jewels in the dim light. The symbol of my transformation, its placing upon my hand as powerful as the placing of a crown upon the head of a new queen. The ring. Token and symbol of constancy, of a love that has no end but death, a heart that is sealed from even the thought of another man.

But as I held out my hand for Edmund to slip the ring onto my finger, I suddenly remembered how it felt when Richard Glanville encircled my thumb with his lips. I remembered the caress of his tongue upon my skin as he tasted my blood. How ever was I to vanquish such thoughts?

As I made my vows, I turned my head from the ominous tablet of stone upon which were engraved God’s Ten Commandments. I did not want to see how the sacred edict had been broken, split asunder as if by a wrathful bolt of lightning.

WE WENT DIRECTLY from the church to the Rose of Normandy public house on Marylebone Lane, the oldest building in the parish, or so we were told by the landlord, set inside a brick-walled garden with fruit trees and broad walks and a square center bowling green, edged with quickset hedges.

Our small wedding party was served a good dinner of rabbit fricassee, and we started to work our way merrily through several flagons of claret and ale.

I sat on the bench beside my new husband in the pale, smoky rushlight and we held hands beneath the table. Though I convinced myself I had to be happy, I seemed bent on self-destruction, oblivion, on blotting out all thought. I must have drunk more wine in that night than I usually drank in a month. As the evening wore on, I felt my cheeks grow very pink, and when the room started to spin around me, I tilted my head against Edmund’s broad shoulder.

“You make a pretty sight.” Mary smiled. “It puts me in mind of my own wedding night.”

“Oh, do tell.” I giggled and then hiccupped behind my hand. Which made me giggle all the more.

“Perhaps it is time to show a little restraint, Eleanor,” Mr. Merrick suggested reproachfully.

I giggled again. Hiccupped again more loudly and didn’t even try to be polite and conceal it. “I’m afraid I don’t know the meaning of the word, sir.”

“Neither do I,” Bess said, taking it literally. “You should though, miss. You read enough books.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Beg pardon. Is that supposed to be a secret now?”

“Restraint means moderation and self-control, my dear,” Mr. Merrick answered patronizingly.

“How dull,” I replied. Hooking my foot around Edmund’s ankle, I let my satin brocade slipper slide off and wiggled my toes against his silk stockings. He gave a little jerk of surprise and then smiled at me, rather drowsy-eyed. “I do not believe in moderation,” I whispered to him. “Or self-control. Especially not on my wedding night.” I clapped the palm of my hand against the table. “Now, all of you be quiet and let Mary tell us about hers.”

The look Mary gave John was so loving and devoted that it pierced through my fuzzy brain. “I was very gauche and green,” she remembered softly, her eyes lowered. “I was marrying a man of the cloth, so I assumed we’d be very chaste and only be able to kiss and touch in the dark. You can imagine my surprise when I went to sit beside my husband in an inn much like this and he pulled me down into his lap and fondled me all evening.”

“Dearest John,” I said gushingly. “God bless you. I do believe you are blushing as pink as does Edmund.”

I was overcome with a rush of affection and wanted to fling my arms around both John and Mary and hug them. But I saw that they only had eyes for each other. So I sprang onto my rather wobbly feet and promptly flopped in a puff of petticoats into Edmund’s lap, much to his surprise and everyone’s amusement.

“That’s it, Eleanor.” Bess clapped. “You lead the way. I was starting to worry the pair of you were just going to hold hands all night long.”

“That’s all you and Ned did after your nuptials, I’m sure?”

“He wanted me to hold a lot more of him than just his hand, I can tell you.” She winked at me and burped very loudly. “I was more than happy to oblige.”

Uninhibited with wine, I lunged across the bench, nearly upsetting a glass, and smacked a kiss on her cheek. “Bess, you are so perfectly coarse and shocking.” I gave another loud hiccup. “Have I ever told you how much I love you for it?”

“You love everyone tonight, I think, Ma’am. But you best save some of it for your new husband.” She smiled at me warmly as I twined my arms around Edmund’s neck. “Mind, you do have more of it to give out than most people I know. I hope Mr. Ashfield appreciates that.”

Drunk as I was, I was concerned for a moment that he would disapprove of a maid speaking so out of turn, but I should not have worried at all. As I felt his arms go around my waist he looked at Bess and a playful look came into his clear gray eyes. “Tell me, Bess. Is my wife wearing a garter?”

“Certainly, sir. I helped her put it on myself.” She grinned at me, then at him. “Now I’d say it’s high time it came off, wouldn’t you agree?” She made a grab at my skirts. “Come on, Mistress Burges, lend me a hand. It’s about time we brought these two to bed, don’t you think?”

I giggled and squirmed and kicked on Edmund’s lap and he did not help me at all, but only laughed delightedly as they started pulling at my laces and ribbons and the silk sashes tied below my knees.

Bess started singing a bawdy song and Edmund’s brother joined in. Then they all grabbed my hands and Edmund’s hands and dragged us both, still giggling and protesting, to our small sloping room at the top of the inn.

Mary and Bess had conspired to make our own Hymen’s revels to compensate for my wedding being so quiet. They had bedecked our half-tester bed with ribbons, scented it with essence of jasmine and strewn it with violets. Mary had even gone so far as to ask the landlady to make up a sack posset for us to drink and I swigged it down, barely savoring the delicious combination of wine and cinnamon and egg.

Bess took charge of flinging the garter and John helped Edmund undo his buttons and stumble out of his breeches.

“Time to leave you in peace now,” Mary said, kissing my forehead.