“Go ahead, take it out.”
She carefully reached in and pulled out a dress, delicate white lace, with a high neck and leg-o’-mutton sleeves that ended in a point at the wrist, and a tiny waist that flowed into a full skirt.
“It’s a confection! Spun sugar! But Charles, I have the pale pink dress with the lace cuffs that you like so much. I was going to wear that.”
“I know you were, dear, but you are deserving of something more beautiful for our wedding. I selected it because I knew you would not buy one on your own. This dress suits you.”
She wrapped her arms around him. “How can I ever thank you?”
“You have already. I can’t wait until our wedding day.” He buried his face in her hair.
She squeezed her eyes tight. The world swam faster and faster toward a day she could not control.
Chapter 36
Kitty awoke at six that morning, in a half-asleep haze. She turned lazily away from the window and gasped. Hanging on a velvet hanger was her wedding dress. She bolted up.
With conscious effort, she took deep breaths, forcing herself to review the reasons why she had to marry Charles: the break with her father, the debt of her life which she owed to Charles, and Vittorio’s marriage to another woman. She slipped out of bed and began to pace. “It’s all very logical, the only thing to do under the circumstances,” she said aloud. “It could be much worse.”
She fingered the soft lace and imagined it was the blue dress with the tiny flower sprigs, the dress she was to wear… She whirled away. “Vittorio, why!” For the first time in months, she gave in to her fear and longing. She wept angrily, slumped on the floor, her fists beating against the bed, until her emotion had played out and she grew still, looking like a rag doll that a child had thrown carelessly to the floor.
She was unaware of the passing of time until morning noises outside—carriages and cars and people walking to church—roused her. For the thousandth time, she told herself, “Vittorio belongs to another woman. You can never have him. You must make a life for yourself.”
She padded into the kitchen, raised the shade to let the sun stream in, and made herself a strong pot of coffee. Many women would envy her for marrying a kind young doctor. No more self-pity, she promised herself. She called upon the strength that had seen her through her mother’s death, the same strength that kept her going through years of thankless chores and a life that signaled the abrupt end of childhood. She had to be strong. Strength was all she had.
Several cups of coffee helped her to move. In the bathroom down the hall, she drew a bath but didn’t linger in it. There was something sensuous about a bath, and she was not in an indulgent mood. She dried herself off and, in her robe and slippers, walked back to her rooms and took down the dress. It was a fairytale dress, just the kind she would have wanted… She caught herself this time and addressed the problem of how she was going to button the thirty tiny buttons that marched up her back from below her waist to the nape of her neck. It gave her something to focus on as she fixed her hair.
Sitting before the mirror, Kitty brushed her hair out long. It wasn’t elegant enough for the gown, she decided, and pinned it in an upsweep. She wove white satin ribbons and tiny white silk flowers into her hair, through the curls and around the back of her head, leaving the streamers to flow down her back. She wove carefully. She didn’t want any escaped curls drooping, like the time she had met Vittorio’s mother… Find more pins, she commanded herself, and jabbed a few more in. A mind can be a wayward thing, she knew, wandering down paths where it was not supposed to go.
She poked her upsweep to test its construction. Not a curl fell. “There,” she said aloud, and practiced a smile. She had fixed her hair in possibly the prettiest way ever. That should make Charles proud.
The wedding was to begin at one p.m. Kitty decided not to put the dress on too early, only to sit around and wait. Waiting proved her enemy today. Again and again her thoughts were drawn to Vittorio, his strong arms around her in hazy, rosy, endless summer days.
Sucking in her breath, she inched the dress around, a tedious process, for the dress fit her perfectly through the waist. After securing the top ten buttons, she smiled at her accomplishment. She allowed herself a brief look in the mirror, but that was all. The image of herself as a bride called up in her a longing for Vittorio. Always Vittorio.
****
Vittorio walked up the steps of Francesca’s tenement, his feet leaden. Why am I here? I have let myself be convinced by others. No one knows my heart as I do, and I do not want to be with her. He couldn’t explain why he greeted this day with dread. Silly, a beautiful, sunny Sunday just right for love. That’s the problem. It’s right for love, and the only one I love has rejected me.
He knocked on the door mechanically and was momentarily surprised when Francesca opened the door. What did you expect? Your mind is too much on Kitty.
She shyly extended her hand. He took it but quickly let it go. Her hands were too big for a woman. As he followed her into the house, he stole a glance at her feet. They were big, too.
In the kitchen, Francesca’s parents greeted him warmly. Her mother commanded him to sit, to eat, drink, talk. Vittorio was consumed by the urge to run. He imagined himself at the door, down the steps, running until he reached Boston harbor and inhaled the salt sea air.
He was aware that her parents were looking at him strangely. They seemed to be waiting for a reply.
“Do you?” her mother said.
“Ah.”
She nodded. “Do you want to take Francesca for a walk?”
“Oh, yes.” He smiled at the thought of freedom. If not from Francesca, at least from having to sit here and talk to the three of them as they eyed him like prey.
He said polite goodbyes and, taking her arm, led her outside. She looked at him expectantly.
“Would you like to go to the candy store? We could order ice cream.”
“I like ice cream.” She beamed. She chattered all the way to the store, about her sister and Paolo, her parents, about working in her father’s store. In the candy store, crowded with young people, they had to take a table in the back. Francesca almost shouted, as if to be heard, though they sat close enough that it wasn’t necessary. Vittorio gulped his soda, anxious to be out of a place that was too small, too hot, and away from Francesca, who was talking incessantly. She lingered over her drink, talking and flirting.
She seemed not to notice that he hardly spoke. Vittorio thought back to the days when he and Paolo went to the dances. His complaint then was that the girls didn’t talk enough. He would have welcomed that now. As soon as she finished, he jumped up and pulled out her chair. He couldn’t stand another moment.
“Let’s take a walk,” he said. “It’s a beautiful day.”
She continued to chatter outside. Vittorio was getting desperate. With a twinge of guilt, he decided to walk just to Beacon Hill with her, and then take her home. They had almost reached Beacon Hill when a flower seller in mid-street caught their eye. To assuage his guilt, Vittorio steered her to the flower vendor. “What would you like?” he asked. Beaming, Francesca chose a small bouquet of carnations. As he dug into his pocket to pay, he looked up absently at the sound of horses’ hooves.
****
The unexpected difficulty with the buttons on her dress had made Kitty finish with less than an hour to spare. She was about to put on a light coat and take a walk around the block when there was a knock at the door.
“Charles?”
“I know I’m early, but I couldn’t wait. Are you ready?”
The room was closing in on her. As if she were dying, her life flashed before her. She longed for her mother, for Dermot. Vittorio’s face flashed before her clearly, like a photograph. She was drowning.
“Give me a moment,” she said, and leaned against the wall. She took a deep breath, assumed a happy smile, and swung open the door.
Charles stood there holding a tiny bouquet of white rosebu
ds. He looked younger in his formal morning suit, more like a little boy playing dress up. His hair was slicked back and his shoes shone, the little boy image accentuated by his look of wide-eyed adoration. “I’m overwhelmed. You are an apparition.”
“Thank you, Charles.” She reached up and touched his face. “The fact that I’m not an apparition I owe all to you.”
He offered her the roses. “I thought we could ride around before church.” Smiling, he took her arm and led her down the steps. Outside, a carriage awaited, festooned with roses and ribbons.
“A chariot!” she said. “You think of everything.”
He helped her up, then slid into the seat next to her. The driver snapped the reins, and they took off, clattering down the street, the ribbons in Kitty’s hair flowing behind her.
“I told the driver we have a half hour,” Charles said, taking Kitty’s hand. “A half hour to show you off to every man on this side of Boston. You’ll leave a trail of broken hearts.”
Vittorio was about to pay for the flowers when an open carriage rolling through the intersection caught his eye. It was festooned with flowers, and sitting in the back was a man whose face was hidden. Nearer to him was a woman, a delicately boned woman dressed all in white. She looked straight ahead, and as the carriage sped across the street, the ribbons in her auburn hair flew straight out in the wind.
His heart leaped uncontrollably. “It can’t be,” he whispered, staring at her profile. At that moment, she turned her face in his direction as she threw a rose to a little girl who waved to her. There was no mistaking that face, those features, that hair with fiery highlights like the sun. In an instant, he knew.
As he looked, the carriage gained speed, flying past him, to be hidden by the buildings that lined the street.
“Kitty! Stop!” He flung change at the flower vendor without looking and bolted for the corner.
“Vittorio!” Francesca screamed, running after him.
By the time he reached the corner, the carriage was turning the next corner, approaching a steep downhill slope. The carriage would pick up even more speed going down, Vittorio knew, and he ran faster than he’d ever run. He flew across the street, ignoring Francesca’s cries, and careened around the corner. A newsboy had moved his milk crate of papers close to the building to avoid the wind, and Vittorio didn’t see it until he was upon it. At the last minute, he tried to clear it with a leap, but he caught his foot on the box and crashed down. He rolled, unhurt except for a few scratches, and leaped up, ready to continue the chase, but Francesca, screaming frantically, caught up to him and grabbed his arm with her two strong hands.
“Vittorio, what is happening? Are you all right? Tell me, please.”
“I’m all right.” He looked down the hill in the direction of the carriage, but by now it was out of sight. He was ready to continue to run, but Francesca. still holding on to him, was crying now, heaving sobs interspersed with pleas. “What have I done? Please, what is wrong? Please tell me.”
A few people stopped in the street and began to stare at the young woman clinging to the man who looked about to bolt from her grip. His heart still pounding a love song to Kitty, Vittorio was forced to pay attention to Francesca.
“I’m all right,” he said. “I thought I saw someone. I have to know…” He began to walk away.
“Why are you leaving me here? What did I do?”
“Nothing. I don’t feel well. Can you get home by yourself?”
She stood there, holding the flowers and crying, looking like a lost child.
Agitated, he took her arm and fairly pulled her to her door. He did not look back to see her give a tentative wave, hug the flowers to her, then enter the house. He was already loping down the street, heading for the hill where he last saw the carriage.
His mind raced in time with his feet, flying over streets as though he had taken wing. My God, it looked like Kitty was wearing a wedding dress. I won’t let it happen. I have to find her. If I don’t see her in the street, I’ll go to every church. St. Theresa’s is the closest; I’ll go there first. Then there’s Holy Trinity near the waterfront…
****
Just as the carriage turned the corner, Kitty looked behind her.
“What is it, love?”
“I thought I heard someone call my name.”
“Perhaps someone from the hospital, wishing us well.”
“Not like that. It was different.” Unsettling.
“No doubt another man consumed with jealousy.” His smile disappeared when he saw the look in her eyes.
“Do you want to go back?”
“Yes, please.”
“Driver, please turn here and go to the top of the hill again.”
He turned back to Kitty. “A bride, especially one as beautiful as you, should always get her wish, no matter what it is.”
Kitty looked straight ahead, unresponsive. He fell silent, not knowing where her heart walked, or with whom.
****
The pastor of St. Theresa’s was lighting a candle at the altar when the clatter of feet made him jump. A young man ran up the aisle. “Father, is there a wedding here this afternoon?” The words tumbled out between breaths.
“Why, no…” The sentence went unfinished as the man hurled himself toward the door. The priest thought he heard, “Thank you,” as the door banged shut. He shook his head. “The young people today are in a hurry.”
The route to Holy Trinity was downhill, toward the water. It’s a blessing on the way down, but it will be hell on the way up. Please, God, let Kitty be here.
He reached the church in record time and found a man sweeping the sidewalk in front. “Any weddings here today?” Vittorio rested his hands on his knees while he raised his sweating face to the groundskeeper.
“Not a one.” The man chuckled. “You looking to get married?”
There was no response from the young man, who already had run halfway down the street.
It has to be St. Patrick’s. It has to be. Vittorio’s thought kept time with his feet, urging him on as he sprinted the grueling uphill terrain. St. Patrick’s, St. Patrick’s. He could see the church spires from blocks away. Adrenalin pumping, he took the hill. The church’s sloping lawn spread before him. In front of the church, a wedding carriage and cars. “Oh, God, I can’t be too late,” he said aloud, and hurtled toward the church’s Gothic doors.
****
The carriage retraced its route, rumbling over the cobblestone streets, past a curbside flower seller, and around a corner just beyond. Kitty asked the driver to stop, and she stood up in the carriage to look around. Curious passersby tipped their hats and children waved, but there was no one she knew.
“Drive on,” she said, and the carriage rounded the corner atop a steep hill. On the corner Kitty noticed a boy selling papers. “It was probably the paperboy that I heard,” she said, and gave Charles a reassuring smile, though someone calling her name echoed plaintively in her soul.
The carriage continued on to its destination. Charles’ face glowed as he helped her down.
Why can’t I love you even half as much as you love me? You love me, I love Vittorio, Vittorio loves… Stop! I must concentrate on lifting the hem of my dress as we enter. I must think of every little, inconsequential detail that will take my mind off my marriage to a man I do not love.
Charles’ closest friend at the hospital, Dr. Arthur Winthrop, waited to give Kitty away. As Arthur held out his arm for her, Charles blew her a kiss and went through the double doors. The strains of the wedding march played softly. Kitty was rooted to the spot, but Arthur patted her arm. “I think it’s time.”
The doors swung open, and Kitty took in the guests: Charles’ doctor friends and nurses from New York City, who had taken care of her there; doctors and nurses from the Boston hospital, some of whom she had met in the weeks just past. As she walked up the aisle, she concentrated on them. Nurse Whitemore has a new hairdo. It becomes her. I’ve never seen most of them not wearing h
ospital garb; how strange. Dr. Altman looks thinner. He’s been working too hard. The roses on the altar are beautiful.
Arthur’s slight pressure on her arm told her to stop. Charles waited by the altar. Smile. You owe it to him.
She took Charles’ arm, and they stepped toward the priest. “We are gathered here today to join in holy matrimony Charles and Catherine. Is there anyone here present who knows any reason why they should not be joined in holy matrimony? If so, please speak or forever hold your peace.”
An unreasonable hope surged through her. Had Papa and Dermot come, her father to protest their union? Was Vittorio or his mother sitting in the back, waiting to stand and speak? She had to restrain herself from turning around. Did she hear a rustle, someone standing? She held her breath.
Silence.
‘‘Let us proceed. The vows you are about to make are most sacred and most solemn.” The priest went on, but the words “sacred and solemn” clung to her consciousness, reproving her and, at the same time, giving her strength. She was about to make a solemn promise and commit herself to a sacred union, but for her, it was a solemn union, with none of the anticipation that she had felt about marrying Vittorio, none of the happiness. God forgive me for my unyielding love for Vittorio. She bowed her head and promised to devote herself to Charles. It was a sacred promise, and one she vowed she would keep.
“Do you, Charles, take Catherine to be your lawful wedded wife, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?”
Charles looked deep into Kitty’s eyes. “I do.”
“And do you, Catherine, take Charles to be your lawful wedded husband, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?”
****
Vittorio leaped up the steps and exploded into the church. The bride and groom stood at the altar. He had no idea how far the ceremony had gone.
“Stop!” He stood at the back of the church, his arms out beseechingly.
A startled congregation turned to stare.
“Don’t do this, Kitty.”
The bride and groom stood open-mouthed.
Choices of the Heart Page 23