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Matilda shook out the heavy garment. The footman carried the dress as they descended through the house and returned to the family salon where tea had already been set. Holly, her mother, and Matilda pored over the material. The previous colour showed bright along some of the hidden inner seams. It was evident the gown had once been a vibrant yellow with silk panels embroidered with flowers. The cloth had turned a soft gold, while the lace appeared more cream than the original white. The maid suggested various alterations which could be made to the ancient garment.
“But it is all faded and horrid!” Holly complained.
“I promise I can do something with this garment, milady. It is not as damaged as first appears, and the lace is now a charming colour. Once sponged and starched, I can sew a new panel into the stomacher. Let me take the gown away and alter it.”
“An excellent plan, Matilda, and if Holly still dislikes the dress after you have finished the alterations, why then she can wear one of her ballgowns bought for her season,” Hetty enthused.
“Yes, Matilda, take it away and do what you can with it, and thank you,” she conceded. Still not convinced it would do. “Oh, Mama, this wedding is going to be a disaster!”
Her father returned for his tea. “Your stepmother is correct; this is a very good marriage. As your parents, we want the best for you, my dear. I insist you accept that we have your interests at heart and enter the match we have brokered for you. Now be a good girl and pour me my tea… Oh, and pass me some of that fruit cake if you will, Hetty dearest.”
Oscar crossed the floor and, flipping out his coat tails, seated himself before the fire. Holly knew from his tone that it was his final word upon the subject and resigned herself to the inevitable.
Rolling the fruit cake around in her mouth, she reflected that this was not at all how she imagined her wedding would be. Tears of self-pity swam in her eyes, and she asked to be excused and went to her chamber where she indulged herself with a satisfying temper tantrum that involved thumping her pillow shams with closed fists and weeping noisily. Once the maelstrom had passed, Holly realised the expended emotion hadn’t helped her feelings one bit. She still felt depressed, alone, and rather lost.
When next shesaw the wedding gown, she had to admit that Matilda had done miracles with the archaic dress. The maid had replaced the central panel with one of Moiré silk in a soft primrose yellow. Touches of primrose-yellow ribbon and the addition of some creamy faux pearls added to the front of the exposed inverted ‘V’ of the under skirt made all the difference. The lace panels and froth of lace at the wrists had been sponged and starched.
“Matilda, you are a genius!” Holly praised as the maid helped her into the delicate garment. It flowed over her crinoline and fitted her like a glove. It was not a dress she would have worn by choice for her wedding day, but it was unusually pretty, and she rather liked the style. Instead of the prim neckline she was used to, the gown hugged her breasts, displaying their plumpness in a daring décolleté. Holly was delighted. The garment may be old-fashioned, but it showed her feminine assets quite provocatively. She rather thought Lord Caulderbury might appreciate her in the dress. Irritation prickled at her mother’s loud intake of breath.
“I do not remember the dress being quite so risqué. I remember now that I wore a fichu. I also have a lace mantilla that will cover you, dear. Matilda, could you fashion a fichu for Holly?” Hetty fussed.
“No! I will agree to wear a shawl or mantilla, but there will be no fichu, Mama!” Holly was determined that having been forced into such an unseemly fast wedding, she was going to have her way on this point of principal.
“Well, well, we shall see,” Henrietta prevaricated.
Holly spun about to face her stepmother.
“I have no trousseau, no guests, and no time to enjoy being courted throughout a normal-length betrothal. I am forced to wear an outmoded, hand-me-down as my wedding dress and rushed to the altar as though I was some sort of fallen woman. I refuse to wear a fichu, Mama!” She stamped her foot with emphasis.
Clearly somewhat taken aback by her stepdaughter’s unusual ferocity, Hetty readily agreed.
CHAPTER5
Good grief, whatever is the chit wearing?
A character from the newly bought series and recently read, Charles Dickens novelGreat Expectationscame to mind—Miss Havisham. He stifled an undignified chortle with a cough when the lace-enshrouded figure made her way down the aisle towards him followed by her pretty, much younger, half-sisters acting as bridesmaids but wearing ordinary dresses. He supposed that was his fault for insisting on a hasty marriage, but he had his reasons for needing to be back at Lamberhurst before Christmas. Three very good reasons which he did not wish to disclose to his newly betrothed until he was ready. He gave Oscar a glacial, calculating stare as the man placed his daughter’s gloved hand onto his arm. Had the man broken his word? Her innocent gaze gave nought away.
The light within the church was dim, the air arctic, his breath vaporised into clouds in the chill. It didn’t help that the pews were only half full on the bride’s side and totally empty on his; bodies generated heat and warmth. Still, the gloom of the place reflected his mood. Gregory was swamped with guilt. The overwhelming sense of duty barely outweighed his sense of disloyalty to Bunty.
His bride stood at his side, and he met her nervous glance. Neither smiled.
The rector began the address.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”
He tuned out the man’s sonorous words, struggling with overwhelming memories of a far happier wedding day, one in June that seemed not so very long ago…
A bride dressed in pink and white, her head piled high with gleaming mahogany curls that tumbled from an impossible height; Bunty holding a fragrant bouquet of pink and white roses almost as large as herself. Her bow lips parted in an engaging smile. Soft sherry-coloured eyes that looked up at him as though he had just slayed the proverbial dragon for her.
Oh, dear God…what am I even doing here? Bunty…
“My lord, I ask again, do you take this woman to become your lawful wife?”
He came back to the present with a jolt that the rector was prompting him for a response.
“Err, yes, of course I do,” he replied.
After that, Gregory forced himself to concentrate and follow the service to its conclusion. As they left the church, it began to snow. It seemed to him that everything about this day was arctic and grey.
