by Anya Seton
Myra rushed up first, and kissed Celia. “Oh, my dear,” she said, “so sweet, all of it, and thank you for asking us!” She glanced at Harry, who stood beaming beside her. “In this melting mood, I’m almost inspired to do likewise! May God bless you both,” she added seriously. “You’ve had a rough time since the house party in June. I’ve worried a lot about you.” Myra’s beautiful face looked surprised, for those words were not mere courtesy. She had inquired every day while Celia was in the clinic, she had had two unhappy dreams about Celia. “I’m very fond of you, hinny—as we say in the North.”
She moved back to let Nanny, resplendent in gray bombazine and a round flowered hat, extend her congratulations, and bridle happily as Richard bent to kiss her.
“That’s a guid laddie,” she murmured. “An’ I bless the luik in ye’re bonny face today.” She scurried off to help at the manor.
The next to come up was Igor, who was a gorgeous if startling sight in tight red velvet pants and a frilled white shirt. “Too utterly charming,” he said, kissing Celia’s hand. “The quaintness—touch of Merry England as it was—do we now have dancing on the green? I’d simply adore to trip the light fantastic in your honor—though actually I’d not live back in those days for anything. I’m satisfied with the present.”
“So am I,” said Richard. He put his arm around Celia and smiled down at her. She leaned against his arm, her face quietly radiant.
Akananda stood apart and watched. Though his soul was full of gratitude, he was staving off physical exhaustion. Even the walk out of the church was an effort, and he leaned against a buttress. He saw George Simpson hanging around the outskirts of the crowd, noted the mourning band on his sleeve and his puckered anxious face. Akananda smiled a greeting and George came over to him.
“Nice wedding,” he said. “Church looked pretty—Edna’d have liked it—she used to like to go to weddings, that is, way back when we were first married ourselves. The last years, she’d hardly go anywhere. But she would’ve liked this one at Medfield. She was so partial to Sir Richard.”
“Ah, yes,” said Akananda. He was almost drained of emotion, yet still capable of feeling pity for the good, bewildered little man who grieved for the woman who had caused so much suffering. No blacks, no whites were painted on the spokes of the eternally revolving wheel. Viewed in the light of evolution they all became gray, and eventually—eventually—transparent, when they merged with the light.
“Are you ill, Doctor?” cried George, putting his hand under Akananda’s elbow. “You look very seedy. Come and sit on that bench. We’re not as young as we were, are we? And all that incense in the church . . . stifling . . . don’t hold with that muck myself.” He propelled Akananda to the bench in the lych gate.
“Thanks,” whispered Akananda, collapsing, “I do have these—these spells, lately. It’ll pass.” He reached in his breast pocket and took out a nitroglycerine capsule, bit it, and put it under his tongue.
The wedding guests were leaving the churchyard, many on foot since it was less than a mile to Medfield Place. The Marsdons had gone on ahead, Myra and Harry went together in her car, and Igor followed in his new Isotta-Fraschini after good-naturedly offering lifts to first-comers.
The church bells pealed on, a joyous epithalamium.
Akananda sat on the bench beside George Simpson, who gnawed at his mustache and said in his squeaky voice, “Do you feel better? I’ve got my old Rover parked way down the lane . . . if you can make it? No, wait here—crowd’s thinned out, I’ll bring it up.” He trotted off.
Akananda sat huddled on the stone bench which had been built six hundred years ago for the resting of coffins before they were carried into church for burial rites. The stricture in his chest, the lancinating pain down his left arm began to ebb.
I sat here then, he thought, while Tom Marsdon was inside the church bullying the sexton about Stephen’s tomb, before we left for Ightham Mote. I was near to death then, too, but it was pneumonia that time. How very strange. His thoughts slid together, though he could watch them with some objectivity. The lych gate had not changed much in structure, new posts, a tiled roof instead of the thatch he remembered. Would the gate still be here after another four hundred years? Undoubtedly not. But something would—he looked out across the Cuckmere to the Downs. Would they be different? Engulfed, perhaps, in some unimaginable catastrophe? Eroded? Bombed? He thought not. There would still be the land, and wildflowers blooming on those quiet chalk hills, despite man’s violence and blind encroachments, despite pessimism, confusion and wars.
He raised his head at a touch on his shoulder. Lily Taylor stood beside him peering down anxiously. “You don’t feel well?” she said. “I thought you’d gone with the Duchess. There’s some mix-up. I came back—Celia missed you. She’s going to cut the bride-cake—all the old customs Richard wouldn’t have in London. Celia won’t start until you come.”
He said nothing for several seconds while she waited, much distressed.
“Here, let me take your arm,” said Lily gently. “I’m sure you can manage. You wouldn’t want to disappoint Celia. She’s so happy today, and she wants you beside her—so does Richard.”
Akananda rose from the lych-gate bench, he took Lily’s arm. “They and you shall be happy today,” he said, “I too. No matter what human errors may occur in the future, several tragic wrongs have been redressed by love, by knowledge, and by the Grace of God in whatever form we envision the Supreme Being.”
He paused and smiled at her. “These particular lingering debts from the past are finally paid.”
About the Author
ANYA SETON (1904–1990) was the author of many best-selling historical romances, including Katherine, The Winthrop Woman, Dragonwyck, Devil Water, and Foxfire. She lived in Greenwich, Connecticut.