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Only the thought that Alex was not going to be seeing any of this outrageous underwear—not at least, for some time—calmed Hebe’s hectic colour.
The next day her aunt declared she must stay at home and rest while Miss Bennett and her younger sister attended her. The new fabrics were spread all over the salon while the long-suffering Mr Fulgrave was forbidden the house, William was banished to the park with his tutor and Joanna was instructed to sit in the corner and not touch anything.
Hebe had not imagined that black was such a variable colour. The fabrics, each with their own texture—from the sensual softness of the silks, through the imposing sheen of the satins to the dull glow of the bombazines or the ridges of the twills—made blacks the colour of a magpie’s wing, of a thunderous sky, of the gloomiest shadow and the sparkling dark fire of jet.
Contrasting was the crispness of a white ruff or edge of cotton lace; the softness of a fine lawn fichu or the merest peep of a white rouleaux edging against a neckline. Grace and Hebe bent their heads over sheaves of fashion plates, the Misses Bennett and Mrs Fulgrave draped fabrics, held up trimmings, disagreed politely about the exact fullness of a skirt or the length of a cuff, and all thoroughly enjoyed themselves.
When the post arrived in mid-afternoon Hebe seemed to wake from a dream back to reality. None of this luxurious preparation really seemed anything to do with her, more an enjoyable game, but the post brought two letters from Alex, one for Mrs Fulgrave, one for Hebe.
Her aunt handed her the letter saying, ‘I really do not feel I need to read your letters, dear, now you are about to be married.’ When she opened it, Hebe was profoundly relieved at this indulgence.
Are you still so sad? it began without preamble, as though he were speaking aloud to her. I wish I could find words to comfort you, but I do not think there are any, only time. I know you think me overbearing and unkind to force you to this marriage, but believe me, Hebe, it is the right thing to do. I want you to be happy here: I think you will enjoy the countryside, the fresh air, the change. And, as you feel ready for it, there is much I would like your help with, in the house and on the estate. I meant what I said, there is no need to fear that I will make any demands upon you. Alex.
Hebe read and reread the short note. Surely he did not mean ‘no demands’ ever? Of course not, she was being foolish. Giving herself a little shake, she waited while Aunt Emily read her own letter, which she handed over for Hebe to see.
Obliging and reasonable in every word, it left the Fulgraves to arrange matters exactly as they saw fit, confirmed the name and direction of his only guest and groomsman, and requested politely that the wedding breakfast be finished by two o’clock so that he could ensure Hebe did not arrive at her new home too late that night. If there was any matter in which he could assist, he would be only too happy and remained their most obedient servant, etc., etc.
The three weeks sped by, marked only by the daily delivery of completed garments or parcels arriving from the shops that Emily and Grace visited for yet more essentials. Hebe’s toothbrush would never do; had she no more than a dozen lawn handkerchiefs? How many fans had she? No black ones? That would have to be remedied, with two black and one purple one. Gloves, stockings, toothpowder, sponges, veils, shawls and hairbrushes heaped up in the spare bedroom and new luggage had to be bought. Hats of the utmost elegance from Madame Phanie jostled in their boxes next to silver paper packages containing lace and artificial flowers.
Finally, the day before the ceremony, Aunt Emily declared herself satisfied and gazed wearily, but triumphantly at her niece and daughters. She, Grace and Joanna had used the opportunity to extract new gowns and hats from the indulgent Mr Fulgrave and all the ladies felt that however quiet the ceremony, at least the splendour of their outfits would lend it distinction.
Major Gregory, Alex’s friend, called as he had done almost every day since hearing the news that he was groomsman, to enquire if there were any ways in which he might make himself useful. He had, without in any way putting himself forward, become an instant friend of the family. ‘What a thoroughly nice young man,’ Mrs Fulgrave commented, observing the patient way he allowed William to bombard him with questions about the war.
She did wish he did not look quite so dashing in his scarlet coat, though; Joanna had taken to slipping into the room the moment he arrived, and her mama had a feeling it was not to listen to tales of piquet duty and camp life. Oh, well, doubtless she would fall for many a young man before her affections were settled; it would do her no harm to indulge in a little puppy love with this one.
Giles Gregory appeared to treat her as a slightly older version of her little brother, which, as she looked such a schoolroom miss still, was not surprising. Hebe, when her aunt had discussed Joanna with her, had made the perceptive observation that she was growing into her looks. Looking with fresh eyes at her daughter’s straight black hair, her big hazel eyes and emphatic dark brows she thought her niece was probably right.
Then it was the day itself, dawning bright and clear and with a promise of warmth and light winds. Hebe was ordered to stay in bed, her face white under Mrs Fulgrave’s favourite skin cream for at least an hour while the other ladies hastened about, their hair still in curl papers hidden under turbans. The servants spent the time sighing heavily as they received one contradictory order after another, the limits of Cook’s patience being reached when that Spanish lady—not that she isn’t very nice, mind, but she is foreign—instructed her to accommodate in the pantry all the buckets of fresh flowers that Miss Grace was about to arrange as the yard was too hot for them.
Somehow by ten o’clock it was all done: the flowers arranged, the table laid, the ladies in their gowns, Mr Bruning the coiffeur administering the last tweak to Hebe’s hair before Charity, her new maid, pinned a spray of roses in it and Mr Fulgrave left with nothing to do but to ensure his son and heir kept his new suit clean and under no circumstances brought a frog, spider or interesting toadstool to the church.
The carriages arrived at half past the hour: two closed barouches, for there was no desire to call attention to what was afoot. Mr Fulgrave assisted Grace and Hebe into one while his wife, Joanna, Anna and William took the other.
‘You look lovely, my dear,’ he said with affection, for he had grown very fond of his niece in the past three weeks. And he spoke only the truth, for Hebe’s new gown was a triumph, the colour glowing against her creamy skin. Her hair was piled and twisted into an elaborate mass with one long ringlet lying on her shoulder and little curls around her temples and forehead, the only place she had allowed Mr Bruning to cut it.
Cream roses nestled at her breast and in her hair and her simple pearl earrings and necklace were her only jewels, except for the ring that glowed on her left hand. Captain Gregory had brought it the day before, expressing himself deeply relieved to have discharged his errand and safely delivered it from Rundell and Bridge where it had been to be cleaned and have its settings checked.
With it had been a simple note: This was my mother’s, A. The single large diam
ond surrounded by rubies had slipped on to her finger as though it had been made for it and now Hebe kept touching it as she fiddled nervously with the ribbons of her bouquet of cream and pink roses.
Grace touched her hand and smiled reassuringly as the carriage moved off and Hebe took a deep breath. My wedding day. How strange it seemed to be saying it. That day in the garden in Malta, when she had been sure Alex was going to make a declaration, seemed a hundred years ago when she had been an innocent, sheltered girl. Now she was indeed marrying him, not because he loved her, but because duty compelled them to it.
Would Mama and Sir Richard have received her letters yet? How happy they would be at the news, how unsuspecting of what lay behind what must seem to them a simple love story.
The carriage turned into Hanover Square and drew up before the pillared portico. Aunt Emily, Anna, Joanna and William went up the steps into the church, then Peter came and let down the steps to help Grace out. Before an interested crowd of passers-by she smoothed Hebe’s skirts, twitched the ribbons of her bouquet, cast a harassed glance over the set of her father’s coat and finally gave a satisfied nod.
Feeling as though she had drunk too much champagne, Hebe took Uncle Hubert’s arm and slowly they began to climb the steps, Grace following. The church was cool and shadowy, echoing because so few people were in it. She could see the Fulgraves in the front left-hand pew and the scarlet of Captain Gregory’s uniform on the right-hand side at the altar rail.
Then they began to walk down the aisle and through her veil Hebe could see Alex in immaculate black coat and cream pantaloons, his shirt the whitest thing in the church, his hair ruthlessly cropped, his face as pale as she thought hers must be.
As she got closer she saw his face, but could not read the look in his eyes. Was he imagining the lovely Lady Clarissa with her dark chestnut hair walking towards him in a church full of well-wishers?
He turned to face the altar as she drew level with him and the clergyman stepped in front of them and began to read. ‘We are gathered here together… Who givest this woman?’ Uncle Hubert transferred her hand from his to Alex’s cool fingers, which tightened momentarily on hers. ‘…speak now or forever… With my body…’ A blush sprang to her cheeks: she did not dare glance at Alex. And finally, ‘I now declare you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.’
She turned and looked up at Alex as he lifted the veil, carefully placing it back over her hair. His blue eyes suddenly blazed as he saw her face for the first time that day and, as though he could not help himself, he whispered ‘Circe!’ Then he bent and kissed her, very lightly, on the lips.
Hebe shivered violently at the touch, so light, so restrained. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck, force him to kiss her hard and deeply, but he seemed to register the shiver, for he withdrew at once, formally offering her his arm to guide her to the vestry to sign the register. As he handed her the quill, she sensed the care with which he avoided touching her hand and Hebe wondered if it were possible to feel any colder than she did at that moment, carefully inscribing Hebe Annabel Eleanor Beresford for the first time.
