Authors: Cynthia Bailey Pratt
"Why? Mayn't a man kiss his fiancee? And I've decided your father is entirely in the right. We shouldn't wait any longer to be married. June is the perfect month.” He smiled down on her, hoping she'd reassure him.
Lillian pushed him again with a new strength. He opened his arms to let her go. “Alaric, I ...” She grasped a chair back for support and then, shaking her head a trifle, stood on her own. “Very well. Come here and kiss me, then."
Confused, Alaric did as he was bid. He'd kissed many girls before, at his expense usually. He was used to the yielding sigh that went through them all, sooner or later. He put his arms around Lillian and touched her lips lightly with his own. There was a moment of cold hesitation. Perhaps she simply needed to get used to the idea. After all, he'd never made the slightest attempt to kiss her before.
But when the moment lengthened, Alaric began to feel ridiculous, and moreover, bored. It was exactly as though he were kissing a girl during amateur theatricals—less interesting, if anything. Lillian did not giggle or blush. She simply stood there, enduring his embrace in patience. Alaric lifted his head. “This isn't going to work, is it?"
Now she smiled as she slowly shook her head. “I knew, somehow, that it would not. I respect you, Alaric, and love you, but exactly as if you were my brother. I realized it, I think, three weeks ago, when Father made such a fool of himself, and of me and you. Standing in front of all those people, I did not feel pleased or excited, only tremendously embarrassed."
"Then you are much cleverer than I. I came here with every intention of encouraging you to marry me immediately."
"I thought you might. I meant to free you as soon as you suggested it, but you didn't grant me the opportunity. I'm happy you kissed me, as it makes explanations so much easier.” Alaric sat down, rather heavily, as Lillian returned to the desk in the corner of the room. She picked up a piece of paper and stood turning it in her fingers. “Alaric,” she said, as if bringing up a delicate subject, “I also know why you wanted to marry me at once all of a sudden."
"You know? Pray explain that to me, for I am not certain why myself."
"It wouldn't have anything to do with a young lady's departure for her home, would it?'’ She came and put the paper in his hand. Squeezing his shoulder, Lillian said, “I found this waiting in the post when I returned this afternoon. When you came in just now, I put one and one together, as you should do.” Leaving the note for him to read, Lillian crossed the room to ring for their tea.
Alaric frowned at the neat writing that covered the page. Though at times verging on incoherence, Sarah's regret for any pain she might have caused Miss Canfield came through clearly enough. The letter closed on a note of thanks for all Lillian had done for her. “This bracelet,” Lillian said, holding up the glittering strand, “was enclosed. I gave it to her at Hollytrees for nursing you so well. Please take it back to her."
"Take it back? I'm not going anywhere."
"Now you're being very stubborn. Listen to me a moment. When you offered your kind proposal to me, I knew you did not love me, although I was prepared to love you. I didn't understand then that love cannot be prepared for and cannot be arranged. It enters your heart like a king to command or it doesn't come in at all."
"Are you in love with someone else?"
"No. I don't believe I ever shall be in love. I am not one who accepts commands of any sort.” Lillian appeared to be gazing inward, and she smiled sadly. Then she looked at him, and he saw laughter sparkling in the depths of her brown eyes. “To tell the truth, Alaric, I'd not marry you if the Archbishop of Canterbury were to perform the ceremony and the Prince Regent were to give you away. When you think about my father, you'll see how positive I am that I could never be brought to marry you."
"What about your father? He'll kick up a deuce of a fuss. I'll see him before I go."
"Never mind. He's not your difficulty now. I give you your freedom. Please take it. There's a young lady waiting for you that you've made rather unhappy by being engaged to me. The sooner you clear that up, the sooner you'll be happy."
"Happy? Do you think I'll enjoy delivering Sarah from one scrape only to see her fall into another?"
"Enormously. Are you going?"
"May I have tea first?"
"No, you may not."
They laughed together, companionable as old friends. Lillian made him promise that he'd bring Sarah to dinner as soon as their honeymoon at his house in Essex was over. Alaric left, whistling. Lillian drank her tea, fortifying herself with several cups, then knocked on her father's door. No doubt he'd be noisy, yet she felt certain she'd bring him around in time. Despite his ambitions, she felt he'd never force her into a marriage that would make her unhappy, even if that meant no marriage at all.
"Yellow iris and white roses to match Harmonia's ribbons!” Lady Phelps said, with the air of a conjurer bringing a three-foot sword out of a six-inch handkerchief.
"Dorothea, how perfect!” Mrs. East said. She wrote a note on the sheet of foolscap by her elbow. “I shall tell Marsh to search by the stream. There should be plenty there. And, if not, I noticed this morning that my rose bushes are in bud. By next Wednesday, they'll bloom; no doubt about that!"
The two ladies smiled contentedly at one another. The happy tears of the return from London with the betrothed couple were past. Harmonia and Mortimer meandered about Hollytrees, holding hands, far removed in thought if not in distance from the hubbub of the library, where mothers made plans. After two days of brain-squeezing, they'd completed the list of food to be served out at the wedding breakfast and had turned to the question of decorations for the church and hall.
Lady Phelps said, “Dear me, there's still so much to be done. Sarah, how are you proceeding with those letters?"
Hearing her name called, Sarah began to drive her pen across the page with more industry. “Very well, ma'am. This one's to your cousin Cecilia."
"Oh, yes. She'll never come, but she always likes to hear about the children. Although, to think on it, she did come to Harriet's wedding and while suffering from a sprained foot. Perhaps she will make it."
"It's very short notice,” Mrs. East said reassuringly.
"Nevertheless, you'd better put her at the table with Mrs. Harleigh. They'll be able to compare doctors and have a lovely time.” Mrs. East nodded and scrabbled among the many pages of notes for the arrangement of the wedding breakfast.
Sarah bowed her head once more over the list of addresses. Her task was to copy the meticulous announcement Sir Arthur had drafted. The twins were supposed to be helping her, but they'd ridden off with Mr. Randolph to oversee the delivery wagon which was to bring the two kilderkins of rum ordered in for the wedding breakfast. There'd also be brandy, but that would be brought in at night, due to a small question of Revenue.
As the two mothers continued, discussing now how much white bunting they'd require versus how much the draper was likely to have, the rhythmic scratching of Sarah's pen slowed again. If they'd been planning a funeral, Sarah could have been miserable and caused no comment. But to be sad when everyone else is ecstatic smacks of rudeness, if not perversity. So Sarah struggled to seem as delighted with her brother and friend as custom demanded. Indeed, she was happy for them, but as though they lived in another country, separated from her by heavy seas and roiling mists. She sighed, and the salutation to a distant cousin blurred.
Lady Phelps stopped in the middle of a sentence. “Listen! Is that Mr. Gerard with the post? Yes, yes, it is. Hurry, Sarah. Take the ones you've finished in to Sir Arthur for his frank and we'll get them off.” Sarah gathered a rustling armload to her chest."And be sure to tell me if the bishop has sent the license. I'm so glad you arranged that before you left London, Marissa. What a clear mind you have!"
Sir Arthur happily complied with his wife's request, laughing that, “Those two years in Parliament are going to save me a fortune. Must all these people know about Harmonia's wedding?"
"Lady Phelps and Mother says they do."
"Then they do.” He signed his name to the last one. “There you are, my dear."
Outside in the sunshine, the postman whistled and scratched his head, shoving aside his three-cornered hat. “If I'd known about this, I'd of brung a bigger bag, Miss Sarah."
"It's very good of you to make the extra trip to pick it all up. I hope we'll see you and Mrs. Gerard at the wedding breakfast."
"Oh, she's looking forward to it mightily, Miss Sarah.” He opened his satchel, and Sarah helped him fit all the letters in. “They'll be twice as many for yours, won't there? I'll have to bring a wagon for all them invites.” He chuckled and remounted his nag, not noticing that the young girl had gone white.
Feeling as if her velvet slippers were anchors, she dragged herself back to the morning room. Flustered by Lady Phelps’ commands and with her hands full, Sarah had neglected to fasten the door securely. As she approached, she heard Lady Phelps say, “I just can't help wishing that there was to be another wedding after Harmonia's. Or even at the same time. I do love a double wedding. Sir Arthur and I were married at the altar with his older sister and her husband."
"Yes, I know. But, as I told you, things became very complicated for Sarah in London."
"It's a great shame the advantage those dreadful men take of young girls. One of my boys would never do such a thing. Was he really pledged to another?"
"I'm afraid he was. I can only hope that, in time, she'll see that other men have merit and not waste her youth dreaming of something that can never come true.” Her mother sighed, and Sarah forgave her for telling Lady Phelps about her disappointment. She could only hope that the name of the gentleman had been kept from her mother's friend. Sarah knew she'd hate to be the cause of Alaric's losing even a jot of his reputation.
Though the ladies were unaware that she'd overheard their conversation, Sarah did not feel that she could face them so soon after being intimately discussed. It would be impossible to meet their eyes. Remembering her other commission, she went in search of Smithers. Finding him in the kitchen, the air steaming and fragrant with smells of baking, for Mrs. Smithers was hard at work creating the wedding breakfast, she asked if anything had come in the post from the Bishop of London. The butler regretfully said, “Nothing as yet. Miss East."
"But that's dreadful. He promised ... I shall have to tell Lady Phelps."
She went, leaving the butler to shake his head and say to his wife, “Miss East lost all her bloom in London."
"Late hours,” the sweating lady cook said with a censorious sneer.
"Lost love,” her husband replied. “I heard Mrs. East telling her la'ship the entire tale. They never said the name of the fellow it was, but I can guess."
"Who?” Mrs. Smithers leaned nearer to him across the work-scarred table, holding up a dripping spoon.
"Never you mind. And watch it! You've got batter all down your arm."
Upon hearing the news, Lady Phelps beat her hand on the leather blotter. “They must have a license. If only Mortimer had applied for one while he was here."
"Considering he did not know he was going to marry Harmonia before he went to London ..."
"But it's the sort of thing a man may find himself needing at any moment."
Sarah said, “Good, here's Father."
"Why, do you need me?” Mr. East entered and stooped to kiss his wife.
"Oh, Edgar, you always know when to arrive. The license hasn't come
yet.
The bishop promised it would be here by today. Whatever shall we do if it doesn't arrive in time?"
Mr. East said, “I don't know. But Sarah has an idea. What is it?” He turned his bright blue eyes on his daughter and a smile of pure pride lit his face.
Sarah responded to it with something like her old spirit. “I'll tell you in two words: Baggers Ashton! I've heard you mention him often."
"Old Baggers?” her father asked, a frown rumpling his shaggy blond eyebrows. Then his expression cleared. “You're right, of course. How clever of you! My dear, don't you recall my telling you that old Baggers had made bishop at last? It took him years, as he knows rather less about Scripture than my boot. Where was he promoted to?"
"Blanstonbury, wasn't it?” Mrs. East said.
"That's right, that's right. I remember him telling me in his last letter how splendid the hunting was. Very good, Sarah. All our problems are solved! I shall ride over at once."
"But,” Lady Phelps said, rather hesitatingly as though bringing up a subject of doubtful respectability, “isn't Blanstonbury thirty miles from here?"
"Something like that,” Mr. East agreed. “Don't worry about me. Fathers aren't much use at weddings, especially a son's. I shall enjoy seeing old Baggers again. I last saw him ... let me see ... at about the same time as I saw my last nappy."
Mrs. East said, “It's three days to the wedding, Edgar. You don't have to leave at once. Why not wait until tomorrow to see if the Bishop of London has sent his license? Then you'll have enough time to ride over to Blanstonbury, collect a license, and still be back in time. No, I forgot. The first license might come before you came back, and then you'd have had your trip for nothing."
"Not for nothing. I'd see my dear old schoolmate, which is worth something any day. And, at the worst, Harmonia and Mortimer will have two licenses which, as we all know, is better than none."
Their minds relieved, the ladies went on with their plans. Mr. East came to Sarah's side and peered over her shoulder as she worked. “How many of those have you done today?"
She checked the addresses. “Twenty-four."
"Twenty-four! Your poor hand must be aching. Let me take over for a little while. I'm used to writing long screeds; these will take me no time at all. You go out and get fresh air into your lungs. We can't have you falling ill."
"There's no danger of that."
"Go along, go along,” he said, scooping the air with both hands. With a slight smile at this pleasantry, Sarah stood up. Her father sat down at once, reaching out to dip the pen in the chased silver inkwell.