Winter Wedding (15 page)

With no servant to assist her, she slipped into her old rose gown with the new lace, her pearls, and black patent slippers. She looked pale and drawn after her sleepless night. With a sense of daring, she dipped into her hostess’s rouge pot. A rankling resentment lingered that she should look her worst for this special occasion. Bad enough she had to wear a gown two years old—would he remember it?—but worse that she looked haggard from lack of sleep.

She knew Sir James had been dressed and out of his room some time ago. He was pacing the gold saloon, trying to get everyone to drink wine. She decided to have a glass to brace herself for the coming activities.

At ten-thirty, she went down and ran into Allingcote at the bottom of the stairs. Freshly barbered and changed into his formal suit, he looked like any young lady’s dream. He walked forward eagerly to meet her as she came down, as though he had been waiting for her. Clara felt a surge of pleasure when he smiled and reached for her hand. “Charming,” he said, running his eyes over her. His close examination made her acutely aware of her appearance and highly dissatisfied with it. Was he looking at the rouge? “I was wondering what you meant to wear. This is exactly how I remember you from the Bellinghams’.”

It was a perfectly innocent statement, even meant for a compliment, but to a young lady on the point of exhaustion, a reminder that she wore a gown two years old was not taken as high praise. “Your infallible memory fails you, my lord. Not
exactly
the same. The lace is new.”

He was momentarily stymied, but being fairly quick-witted, he soon deduced her meaning. “I was not referring to the
gown,
Clara,” he said, offended.

“Just another of your little gaucheries. They are becoming quite as noteworthy as your memory.”

“Do you have a ride to church?” he asked, checking the hot retort that was on the tip of his tongue, for his own nerves were ragged.

“Yes, thank you. And in any case, I would not wish to share a carriage with your friend.”

“Mama is taking Miss Muldoon.”

“I am going with Maximilian,” she said, and added to herself, “and will be black and blue by the time I get there.”

“My carriage will be empty except for myself—and
I
don’t pinch,” he added, trying to lure her into a smile.

She refused to be cajoled. “As you are in a generous mood, perhaps you will be kind enough to take the other dregs of society with you. Miss Georgiana and Miss Gertrude.”

“With pleasure,” he said, still keeping his temper, but with increasing difficulty.

Clara swept past him with a nod of her head. Allingcote stood looking after her, an angry glint in his eyes. There was no time for Clara to have her wine. The carriages were being loaded and starting to leave by turns, as the passengers were called forth.

Maggie, wearing a bright expression, came prancing up to Clara. “Do tell me what happened last night,” she said in an excited whisper.

“A little set-to with Miss Muldoon. She took ill, or so she would have us believe.”

“Oh Clara,
she
told me that much! What
really
happened to get Benjie in such a pucker? He positively is not speaking to Nel, and she has been winding him round her thumb any time these two years. He would not be raving about ‘unconscionable behavior’ and ‘whipping at cart tails’ only for that, but he won’t tell me what she did. Did she run off with Moore? Is that it?”

“No, certainly not. She didn’t leave her room.”

“She smuggled him in through the window then. That’s what it is! Oh, the minx! Just wait till I tell Mama.”

“No, you misunderstand. It was nothing like that, nothing to do with Moore—directly, I mean.”

“Come now, Clara. Ben isn’t in the boughs only because she let on she was sick. She’s always shamming. What did she do?”

Reality was bad enough, but speculation was so much worse that Clara gave some indication of the truth.

Maggie’s cheeks turned pink. “The trollop!” she said, furious. “I wish Ben had beaten her as he said he wanted to. Of course it would suit her down to the heels to have that scandal to spread about the countryside. It is really too bad of her, Clara, but frankly, if it has opened Ben’s eyes to what she is like, it was worth it. No one would believe a word of her story anyway. You, of all people, are so cautious and well behaved. Well, it is obviously nonsense.”

“I am happy to hear you say so, Maggie. Reputation is important to a lady in my—dependent position,” she admitted, struggling for the proper word.

“No one would believe that taradiddle if the Archbishop of Canterbury himself said it, much less Nel Muldoon. Ben always doted on her in the most foolish way, only because she’s as pretty as a little doll and he felt sorry for her being orphaned. Now he has come to see her in her true colors. I wish she’d run off with George Moore and have done with it. They are a good pair. Two monstrously handsome rogues.”

“I understood Mr. Moore to be unattractive,” Clara said.

“Unattractive?” Maggie asked, staring. “Oh my no, he is a very Adonis. As handsome as any Greek statue, and as devious as a Greek, too. Or are they the devious ones? Odysseus I have in mind. Devious anyway, but fatally handsome.”

“Your brother said—but now I think of it, Nel
did
say he was handsome, only I was not sure I would agree with her taste.”

“Well, Benjie dislikes him. Most men do, for some reason. Jealousy I suppose, the same as women always dislike Nel, even before they discover she’s a shrew. Moore is tall, dark, handsome, with a divine smile—but it becomes less divine once you get to know him a little.”

“Ben called him a greasy hedgebird,” Clara said, confused at such conflicting descriptions.

“He calls him the hedgebird from his habit of lurking behind hedges, waiting for ladies to walk by. He also lurks behind potted plants at balls, and columns at church, and so on. Quite an accomplished lurker. I was in love with him myself one night. He’s a good dancer, and nice and tall, too. Not one of those odious little ankle biters that tall ladies like me have to stoop down to. He told me I have eyes like brown velvet, but when Nel told me he had said she had eyes like blue satin, and Miss Holyoake eyes like green velvet, and we all three had incomparable skin like a damask rose, I began to find him less handsome, and a little shorter. I wonder if he used to be a draper—all that insistence that we are made of cloth.”

“A dealer in fustian, obviously.”

“With ambitions to handle silks and satins. Oh, there is Mama. I must go.”

Clara prepared a smile for Lady Allingcote, but never delivered it. She was surprised to see Lady Allingcote was alone. “Where is Miss Muldoon?” she exclaimed. “Is she not going with you?”

“That was the arrangement, till she talked your cousin Ormond into taking her,” Maggie said. “She always prefers to go out with a male when she can—and she usually can.”

“We could not dissuade her, since we did not try,” Lady Allingcote added roguishly.

Clara’s racing heart settled down. Maximilian’s carriage was next in the line, and with a tingle of apprehension for her escort’s marauding ways, she went out on his arm. There was a Mr. Haskett, relative of Sir James, in the carriage with them. Clara took a seat beside him. Much as Max loved to feel feminine flesh between his fingers, he did not like to make a public spectacle of himself. She received no physical abuse till she was dismounting, when she felt a small wince, its strength diluted by layers of skirt and petticoat. She frowned at Max, and he winked merrily.

As she had to leave in the first carriage, Clara slipped into the backseat of the church. The guest seats were half filled, and she scanned them with interest, before turning her attention to the new arrivals. Her mind was a jumble. How would she talk herself into the first carriage leaving for Branelea? Supposing it were already full or the occupants unknown to her? It would have been better to make a definite arrangement. Herbert would have taken her back early—but she would not ask him today. She had no desire to be in the same vehicle as Nel Muldoon.

She should have accepted Allingcote’s offer of a drive; she would not have minded explaining her job to him. This line of thought was so agreeable that she found herself going on to examine his every utterance since seven o’clock that morning—and highly satisfactory utterances they were, too. Her natural pique at being called a loose woman or worse should not be laid at his door. He had been nothing but charming from the first moment he had come up to her in the gold saloon three days ago and shanghaied her onto his desert island. Only three days ago! Impossible she had only known him for three days. Twice three days—she had known him for three days at the Bellinghams’ as well.

He was very easy to get to know. Maggie was the same. She was already a friend, giving and inviting confidences. So unlike that sly Nel Muldoon and her George Moore. Strange what Maggie had said, “handsome as a Greek statue,” and “a divine smile.” As she mentally compared Ben’s greasy hedgebird to Maggie’s Greek statue, she concluded that Moore was probably one of those good-looking young men who lack any real elegance. He would have a flashing eye or a flirtatious smile to excite some interest from the fair sex.

Clara came to attention when Herbert Ormond was ushered down the aisle. On his arm was an elderly lady in peacock blue. There must have been four people in Herbert’s carriage, Clara thought. Nel had found herself a new escort. She would be coming down the aisle any moment now.

Before Nel showed up, Allingcote came in, with Georgiana on one arm and Gertrude on the other, the two little gray mice. Clara’s attention was easily distracted. She watched as Ben took his place on the bride’s side of the church, with his mother and Maggie. He leaned over and spoke to his mother. Perhaps he didn’t know Nel had arranged to go with Herbert. Clara was still watching when his head turned and he began scanning the pews behind him. She took the foolish idea he was looking for herself, but when he saw her, his eyes just hesitated a moment before moving on.

Soon he left his seat and walked back to the rear of the church. At her seat he stopped and sat down, frowning. “Where’s Nel?” he asked. “Mama said she came with Ormond, but she is not sitting with him.”

She might have known it would be Nel he was looking for. “Ormond just arrived. I expect she’ll come down the aisle with whatever other gentleman shared the carriage.”

Clara watched as Allingcote went to the rear door and peeked out. He was still frowning when he went forward to whisper something in Herbert’s ear. She saw Herbert shake his head. On his face was a look of frowning incomprehension. Clara felt an awful turmoil building inside of her. Herbert knew nothing about bringing Nel! She had lied to Maggie and Lady Allingcote. She wasn’t coming to the wedding at all. She was running away with George Moore.

Allingcote’s frown was deeper as he came down the church aisle at a fast pace, heading for the door. Clara looked a question at him as he passed. He just looked and kept going. It required an extraordinary effort to hold her seat, but she did it. What was he going to do?

More importantly, what had that wretched girl done? Panic rose like an angry tide. Nel was an unconscionable hoyden, but still—she was young. Clara had no wish to see her destroy her reputation, maybe her whole life. She told herself it was early to panic, and besides, Nel was not her responsibility. Carriages were still arriving. Nel might be in any one of them. Some difficulty with her toilette might have detained her. Ben would wait and bring her to her seat.

For five full minutes Clara sat on nettles, waiting expectantly and glancing frequently toward the door, while the incoming guests dwindled to a trickle. Nearly the entire congregation was looking toward the door now, with the hope of seeing the bride make her appearance. Oglethorpe was already at the front of the church, also looking over his shoulder. He looked very pale.

The organ swelled, and an excited babble passed over the gathered throng. Prissie, her face as white as her gown, began her trip down the aisle on Sir James’s arm. Lady Lucker had intended to rouge her cheeks, but must have forgotten. Both bride and groom looked as though they had been leeched for the past month.

The nuptial trappings looked fine though. Prissie’s veil, bought at reduction for nine shillings, had been starched, garnished with fish-paste pearls from an old gown, and looked splendid. Maximilian’s pearls were quite lovely. They were almost invisible against her gown, but would look well later with colors. One would never guess to look at Prissie’s stylish gown that it had seen duty before. Countess Kiefer’s wedding gown had been altered beyond recognition with a more stylish set of sleeves and a new sash.

Sir James had fortified himself for the ordeal by sufficient wine to make his cheeks glow, or perhaps it was pride that did it. While all these details were being taken in, there lurked at the back of Clara’s mind the fact that Allingcote had not returned, and Nel had not shown up at all. Herbert, looking back, caught her eye and raised his brows in an unspoken question. Clara shrugged her confusion, he frowned and turned his attention to the bride and groom.

When at last the ceremony proper began, Clara paid only scant attention to it. Her eyes flew often to the door, and Herbert’s went often to her. Just before the “I do’s” were exchanged, Clara heard a click at the church door. Turning once again, she saw Allingcote enter alone. His face was white with dread or anger. He looked at Clara a long moment. She shook her head to indicate Nel had not come. He looked to the front of the church, his only glimpse of the wedding, just as the couple turned to leave. Ben slid into the backseat with Clara, to leave the aisle and church door free. “She’s gone,” he said in a quiet undertone.

The first words that occurred to Clara were “good riddance,” but she was too discreet to utter them. She sat silent while the bridal couple went past, then went out into the throng, conscious of Allingcote’s arm on her elbow, wondering what he would do now.

Chapter Fourteen

The churchyard was a scene of happy confusion. Everyone was rushing up to the bride and groom, congratulating them as they shivered in the brisk winter winds. Lady Lucker was struggling to get a wrap over Prissie’s shoulders, for though the sun shone, that wind was piercing through her own sable. Sir James waved his arms at the wedding carriage, trying to work its way through the crowd to the couple. Clara and Ben took one last, long look over the group, in case they had missed seeing Nel in church. They soon realized she was not present.