by Balogh, Mary
Charles had understood immediately that life had been about to change very much for the worse for Matilda, who would no doubt have found herself constantly being compared unfavorably with her aunt’s ideal companion.
“I really do not know how I would have borne it,” Matilda had admitted to him when he mentioned what her mother had told him. “I would have gone mad. Adelaide Boniface is the gloomiest creature of my acquaintance. And she sniffs.”
“Now I know,” he had said, “why you accepted my marriage proposal.”
“Oh, absolutely!” she had assured him, and laughed gleefully.
He loved her laughter. He loved her happiness. Oh, she behaved in public with quiet dignity, though even then he was aware of an inner glow in her that warmed him too. In private she smiled a great deal, and the glow was brighter. Her eyes when she looked at him had a sparkle that made them appear to smile even if the rest of her face was in repose.
He felt awed and humbled by her happiness.
And by the fact that he shared it.
He had never given much thought to being happy. It was not a word much in his vocabulary—though he had been happy when each of his children was born and whenever he had spent time with them during their growing years. He had been happy when his daughters married and when his grandchildren were born. He had just not used that particular word to describe his feelings. He had not known the conscious exuberance of happiness since Matilda had disappeared from his life when he was still no more than a puppy.
Now he knew himself happy again. Even if he did spend great swaths of time shut up in his library during the month before his nuptials wishing he did not have the ghastly ordeal of a grand ton wedding to face before he could bear Matilda off home and live out his life with her there. He was even dreaming of happily-ever-after, though fortunately it was contained inside him. Sometimes he could still think and feel like that young puppy he had been. It was downright embarrassing.
He was going to be very glad when the wedding was over.
In the meanwhile, he was equally glad that Matilda, despite all her frequent misgivings, was at last going to have the wedding she ought to have had more than thirty years ago.
* * *
Charles was quite right in his perceptions. There had been no wrangling, no unpleasantness between his daughters on the one hand and the ladies of the Westcott family on the other as they planned the wedding. All of them, once the Westcotts had recovered from the shock they had felt upon learning that Matilda, that most confirmed of spinsters, was going to marry at last, had thrown themselves with enthusiasm into the planning of the wedding of the Season. And if Louise and Mildred, Matilda’s younger sisters, still felt wary of the bridegroom’s notorious past, they soon set their fears aside in favor of rejoicing that their precious Matilda, that rock of sisterly support upon which they had leaned since they were girls, was to find happiness of her own at last. The bridegroom’s daughters were genuinely pleased for their father, having concluded that Lady Matilda Westcott was vastly different from any of the other ladies he had escorted about London since their mother’s passing. And vastly preferable too.
There was no wrangling, then. There was, however, an awkward moment. It came when they were making lists of potential guests and everyone was throwing out suggestions, most of which were accepted without question. Viola, Marchioness of Dorchester, had suggested Harry—Major Harry Westcott, her son—who was not far away at Hinsford Manor in Hampshire, and Camille, her elder daughter, who was in Bath with her husband and family. She was interrupted before she could say more.
“I certainly hope Camille and Joel will come,” Wren, Countess of Riverdale, said. “But will they, Viola? With all seven children?”
All but one of those children were under ten years of age. Four of them were adopted, three Camille and Joel’s own.
“They came to Hinsford a few months ago to see Harry when he came home from war at last,” Viola said. “Whether they will now come all the way to London for Matilda’s wedding is another matter, of course.”
“They must be invited anyway,” Elizabeth, Wren’s sister-in-law, said. “It will be up to them whether they come or not.”
“That sounds sensible,” Mildred said.
“And what about Abby?” Jessica asked. “She and Gil must be invited too.”
That was when the suggestion of an awkward moment happened. Jessica and Abigail had always been the closest of friends. Jessica had been as hurt as her cousin when Abigail’s illegitimacy had been revealed just as she was about to make her come-out into society.
“They have only recently gone home to Gloucestershire,” Louise said quickly. “It is too much to expect them to return so soon. I am sure you will write to them with the news, of course, Viola, if you have not already done so.”
“But—” Jessica said.
“Who else?” her mother said more loudly than seemed necessary, directing a pointed look her daughter’s way.
There was an awkward pause before Mildred rushed in with a new suggestion. “How about—”
But Barbara Dewhurst interrupted her. “No, really,” she said. “We are quite well aware of who Gil Bennington is, are we not, Jane? He is married to the former Abigail Westcott, your daughter, ma’am.” She nodded in Viola’s direction. “And he is our father’s natural son.”
“There is really no need—” Louise began.
“No, there really is no need to hush up all mention of his existence, ma’am,” Jane, Lady Frater, said, interrupting her. “We know of him. Our father has told us. We also know that he will have nothing to do with Papa. That hurts him, though he has not openly admitted it. Our brother, Adrian, however, is determined to meet him sometime. It has been a shock to discover this late in our lives that we have a half brother. But we do feel as curious about him as Adrian does.”
“We do,” Barbara agreed. “And now there is this extraordinary circumstance of our father being about to marry Abigail Bennington’s aunt.”
“He has a young daughter,” Jane said, sounding almost wistful. “Our niece. I do long to see her.”
“Are you suggesting, then,” Anna, Duchess of Netherby, asked, “that they be invited to the wedding?”
“Well,” Barbara said, frowning, “our father would doubtless be horrified. And it seems almost certain Gil himself would refuse to come. But—”
“Perhaps Abigail will come alone,” Wren suggested. “Though it would be a shame.”
“Shall we invite them?” Anna asked.
“I really do not see why not,” Jessica said. “Abby is as much a part of our family as any of us.”
“And we are inviting Camille,” Elizabeth said, “even though it seems equally doubtful that she will come. Perhaps we ought to send an invitation and let Abigail and Gil decide for themselves.”
“What do you think?” Viola asked Charles’s daughters. “Please be honest. And will you inform your father if we do invite them?”
Barbara smiled. “He has told us,” she said, “that we may do anything we wish for this wedding provided we do nothing of which Lady Matilda would disapprove, and provided we do not expect him to have his ears assailed with details.”
“Ah,” Mildred said, smiling back. “Then we need to consult Matilda, do we? And let her decide.”
“We know what her answer will be,” Elizabeth said.
“Do we?” Mildred asked.
“Of course,” Elizabeth said, laughing. “Matilda is a romantic. She always has been. She will certainly want them to be invited to her wedding.”
“Oh, I hope so,” Jessica said. “I do hope they come.”
Matilda had asserted herself, something she had rarely done all her life, at least on her own account. Oh, she had allowed the women of her family and Charles’s to organize her wedding according to their wishes, it was true. She had made the decision to have a grand society wedding, despite the fact that privately she changed her mind at least once every waking hour. Having done s
o, she was content to leave the details to the grand committee—of which she would have been a leading member if it had been anyone else’s wedding.
But she had asserted herself in other ways. She had selected an outfit for the occasion, a simple, elegant walking dress of pale blue when her sisters had wanted her to wear a finer, more elaborate gown, one more suited to the occasion. And they had wanted her to choose a more vivid color, since pastel shades were associated with youth and she surely would not wish to be accused of trying to minimize her age.
She was now—on her wedding day—wearing the pale blue walking dress. She was also wearing a straw hat—not a bonnet—which was held on her head with pins and was tipped slightly forward over her eyes. It was trimmed with silk cornflowers, which were a slightly darker shade than her dress. Louise had described it as frivolous, and Mildred had suggested that she change the trim to a simple ribbon instead of the flowers. Matilda was wearing it this morning—complete with flowers.
She was also wearing silver gloves and silver slippers and silver earrings, something she rarely wore because after an hour or two she invariably found that the earrings pinching her earlobes caused excruciating pain if she did not pull them off. But that always left the lobes red and painful-looking, often with the imprints of the earrings upon them. This morning she had donned the earrings the last of all her accessories in the hope that she could get through her wedding and maybe even the breakfast afterward without screaming in agony. They were in the form of bells and tinkled slightly when she moved her head. Another frivolity.
And she had asserted herself over Abigail and Gil. Of course they must be invited, she had assured the delegation that had come to put the question to her—Viola and Anna and Louise and Mildred. It was very probable, she agreed, that Gil would refuse to come and that Abigail would not come without him. And it was altogether possible that if they did come, Charles would be horribly embarrassed and perhaps Adrian and Barbara and Jane too despite what the latter two had said to the contrary. But of course they must be invited. Rational adults ought to be allowed to make up their own minds about what they wished to do with their lives. It ought not to be up to their families to try to live their lives for them.
“Matilda,” Mildred asked, looking thoughtful, “is that what happened to you? Was it Mama and Papa who tore you away from Viscount Dirkson when the two of you were young?”
“What happened more than thirty years ago no longer matters,” Matilda told her firmly. “It is now that matters. We are together now, Charles and I, and we are to be married, and I want a wedding day that is perfect. Will it be more perfect if Gil and Abigail are the only family members not present or if they are? It is impossible to know the answer. But the decision ought not to be ours to make. It must be Gil’s and Abigail’s.”
“Not Viscount Dirkson’s?” Viola asked.
“He will say no,” Matilda told her, “while his heart will yearn to say yes.”
“We must do all in our power, then,” Anna said, smiling, “to make sure he gets his heart’s desire. And you too, Aunt Matilda.”
“Well, I do want them to come,” Matilda admitted, “though I would ask that the invitation not be sent until tomorrow. I ought, I suppose, to call upon Barbara and Jane first.”
But those two young ladies, as well as Adrian, who happened to be with his sisters when Matilda called first upon Barbara, were genuinely curious to meet the half brother of whose existence they had not even known until recently.
“And if they come and Papa does not want them here,” Adrian said, “I would really be very surprised. I believe he longs to be reconciled.”
“But that would not make you unhappy?” Matilda asked.
“No.” He frowned in thought for a moment. “Papa said something the day he told me about Gil Bennington. He told me how he had fallen in love with me the moment he saw me after I was born. And I daresay he fell in love in just the same way with my sisters. All my childhood memories confirm me in the belief that he was telling the truth. He spent more time with us than most fathers of my acquaintance spend with their children, and he always gave the impression that he was as happy with our company as we were with his. I do not believe love has limits. Do you, Lady Matilda? I mean, the fact that there was always Gil and that our father obviously cared for him does not mean he cared the less for us. If Gil comes back into Papa’s life now, it will not mean that we are diminished. Will it?”
“Not by one iota,” Matilda assured him, remembering how, when Anna arrived unexpectedly in their family at the age of twenty-five, it had seemed at first that Humphrey’s newly illegitimate offspring—Camille and Harry and Abigail—would be displaced. It had not been so. Just the opposite had happened, in fact. The whole family had bonded more firmly than ever before under the threat of attack. They had routed the threat with love.
Matilda did what never came quite naturally to her. She got to her feet and hugged first Adrian and then his sisters. And because Mr. Dewhurst, Barbara’s husband, was also in the room, she hugged him too.
“Diminished,” she said. “What a foolish notion. Your family love is about to expand, not contract. Your father is about to marry me, is he not?”
At which they all laughed, Matilda included.
And she asserted herself over which man of the family would give her away at her wedding. Thomas, Mildred’s husband, had offered. So had Alexander, as head of the family. Harry—Major Harry Westcott, the eldest of her nephews—had written from Hinsford to offer his services. Avery, Duke of Netherby, had informed her one afternoon that she doubtless had dozens of family members fighting duels over the honor of leading her along the nave of St. George’s, but if not—or if she did not much fancy any of the contestants—he would be happy to make himself available. Colin, Lord Hodges, Elizabeth’s husband, had offered, as had Marcel, Marquess of Dorchester, Viola’s husband. Even young Bertrand Lamarr had offered, grinning at her cheekily as he did so.
“After all, Aunt Matilda,” he had said, “I believe I started the renewal of your romance when I agreed to escort you to Viscount Dirkson’s house when you wished him to attend the custody hearing for Gil’s daughter.”
And since he had spoken publicly, the whole secret story came out and the family discovered that not long ago Matilda had taken the truly scandalous step of calling upon a gentleman in his own home with no one to chaperon her except a very young man who was not even related to her by blood.
Trust the young to keep a secret!
Matilda made her choice and announced it during the family dinner that preceded the betrothal party Avery and Anna gave for her at Archer House.
“Thank you to all of you,” she said, looking at each man in turn—though Harry had not yet come up from the country. “I am touched that each of you is willing to stand in place of my father. However, I am fifty-six years old. The notion that someone—someone male—needs to give me away is a strange one. Give me away from what? I have been of age for thirty-five years. Although I have always lived with Mama, I have independent means. I can and will give myself away to the man of my choice. So I shall walk alone along the nave of the church.”
“Matilda,” her mother said, reproach in her voice. “It just is not done.”
“It will be done by me,” Matilda said. “And that is my final word.”
“Oh, bravo, Aunt Matilda,” Jessica said.
“Jessica!” her mother said.
“I say,” Boris said. “You are a jolly fine fellow, Aunt Matilda.”
“A fellow, Boris?” Mildred asked. “A jolly fine one? Wherever do you get such language?”
But her son merely grinned at her and waggled his eyebrows.
“It cannot be allowed, Matilda,” Louise said firmly. “You will be the—”
“I believe,” Avery said in his usual languid voice, his jeweled quizzing glass in his hand, though he was not actually looking through it, “there is a little-known statute on the books to the effect that after the age of
—ah—fifty-five, a woman must be considered entirely her own person and may do whatever she wishes without running the risk of being exiled for life for doing what no one has done before her.”
“Oh, Avery,” Estelle said, giggling. “You made that up on the spot.”
“Well, of course he did, idiot,” said her fond twin.
“Then that settles the matter,” Matilda said. “Thank you, Avery. Though I would have done it anyway, you know, even if there had been no such statute.”
“Quite so,” he said.
And so here she was now, dressed in pale blue and silver, wearing a frivolous hat at a jaunty angle on her head, knowing—though Charles did not—that Gil and Abigail and Katy had arrived late yesterday afternoon at Viola and Marcel’s London home, and knowing too that no man awaited her downstairs to offer her a steady male arm to help her totter her way along the nave of St. George’s to meet her bridegroom.
Her bridegroom! Her heart leaped within her bosom and performed a couple of headstands and a number of tumble tosses before leaving her simply breathless. Surely he would have changed his mind at the last moment and would not be there awaiting her when she arrived.
What utter nonsense and drivel!
Her bridegroom! Charles. Ah. At last. At long, long last.
And if she stood here, one glove on and one off, still in the hand of her maid, and entertained more of such idiotic thoughts, it was she who would not be turning up on time. Not that brides were expected to be on time. But she was not just any bride. She was Matilda Westcott. And Matilda had gone through life being punctual, on the theory that it was bad mannered to be late and waste other people’s time when they might be using it to better effect elsewhere.
She was not going to start being late with her own wedding. She was not going to be early either. That would be embarrassing. She would be on time. To the minute.
And it was time to leave.
“Thank you,” she said, taking her glove from her maid and pulling it on as she drew a few deep breaths.
Her wedding day!
Perhaps she would perform a few twirls on her way along the nave. Now that would make for a memorable wedding.