head’s so muddled. Whoever you saw last night in your room, it wasn’t Bianca. It’s impossible— and first and foremost you must acknowledge that. She’s dead, Silas. If it wasn’t another dream, it was Smith playing a trick. No matter what else, there’s no Bianca any more. I’m loathe to be so harsh, Silas, but you can’t carry on like this.’
He jumped up. ‘Look. I want to believe you’re right, I really do. It’s not easy, that’s all— I need convincing. Ask Smith to wear this dress for me. It’s so like the others, that I’ll know straight away when I see her in it whether I was dreaming or not. It’ll open my eyes. If she looks just like Bianca, then it proves she’s been fooling me; and if she’s not, then— then I’ll know I was dreaming.’
Mrs. Prothero folded up the ivory costume impatiently. ‘I can never persuade Smithy to wear anything she doesn’t want to, let alone Bianca’s old clothes. Besides, if she has been dressing up to annoy you, she’d hardly agree to do it again and spoil her own joke. You need to admit in your own heart that Bianca’s dead, Silas.’
But that was exactly what he could not do. Privately he was sure that he had seen her, and the existence of this dress in his hands lent weight to the feeling that her appearances were real, and not dream visions at all. He resolved to try and persuade Smith himself, by playing on her Smithish vanity. In this dress she would be Bianca again— there would be no Smith to hide behind.
Without further discussion he bundled it up, muttered an apology to Mrs. Prothero and left— turning immediately towards Bianca’s old bedroom. A cautionary call assured him that it was empty, and he went in. Flinging open the wardrobe he pushed aside the hanging clothes and hooked up the splendid gown among them. Then he nodded, half-satisfied. Now for the difficult part: to persuade her to put it on.
VII
When Phillip returned an hour later, his mood was no calmer. He had not been able to procure a thimble in the local vicinity, and began to question to himself why the preparations for his wedding day should hinge on the safety of Mrs. Prothero’s fingertips. Conveniently, he found a suitable outlet for his frustration as soon as he walked in, on meeting his best man, who he scolded thoroughly for allowing the precious wedding ring out of his sight, not only for a moment, but long enough for it to be baked in an oven.
Then, when he felt that the negligent fellow was suitably abashed, he proceeded upstairs to assume a similar repentance towards his future bride. Having been given an order by a higher authority such as his godmother, Phillip felt beholden to obey it, and knocked at several doors without entering before discovering Daphne’s whereabouts. The seamstressing halted, and the nervous girl donned a dressing gown to hear his grovelling apology for his earlier rage. Somehow, however, this ended up involving more apology on Daphne’s part, for daring to invoke his just wrath in the first place, which allowed him to generously soften, and forgive her for provoking him. Phillip felt appeased, and let her go; then he marched downstairs again to oversee another important matter: on entering the hall earlier, he had seen the results of Silas’s efforts with the trestle-tables, candles and garlands, and not a single item was satisfactory. This hardly surprised Phillip; after all, what could one expect in the way of tasteful wedding decoration from a man whose own wedding had been such an overture to disaster?
‘It seems I’ll have to do it all myself,’ he concluded, and summoning his groomsmen together, gave them explicit directions to rearrange everything.
Meanwhile, after some searching, Silas found his quarry in the garden, reclining on the seat of a rustic arbour, which overlooked a portion of the valley, and the rich foliage that hung upon its slopes. He could not help but admire her choice of retiring place— the sun was beginning to set, and red rays touched the treetops with glorious fire. Solitude, and such a scene, were ample luxuries after so busy and crowded a day, and she might well bask there in the declining heat while she may; nevertheless he meant to interrupt her, and approached, about to remark on the beauty of the view, when he discovered that the nymph of this grove was entirely oblivious to its lambent charms— her eyes were closed in a cat-nap.
He sat down beside her and she stirred slightly, taking a furtive glance at him. For some time they remained so, as if resuming their earlier impasse, until at last he broke and observed: ‘You’re well away from the chaos here.’
‘“Drink in silence, or in silence leave”,’ she replied.
‘Leave you alone? Not before I’ve pestered you out of temper. You taught me how to do that.’
‘I haven’t shown you half my tricks yet,’ she smiled, sitting up slowly. ‘How are your teeth and Phillip’s temper?’
‘Both a little sore, thank you. Though Phil’s temper is a little less little every minute. Daphne’s mad to want him.’
‘No doubt. But there’s only one cure for that kind of madness, and that’s getting what you want.’
‘He’s such a bully to her!’
‘Perhaps she wants to be bullied? Anyway, he’s not so bad after all. If she made as much fuss about the wedding instead of him, you’d let her off for a bit of bullying. The day I get married I mean to be a terror.’
‘That I believe,’ he retorted; then stopped, unsure, and looked directly at her. ‘People said exactly the same before my wedding, you know: that Bianca was mad to want me. And they were right.’
‘Yes, but they were wrong too.’ She patted his arm in camaraderie. ‘They meant she was making a mistake— but it was a mistake worth making, for her.’
Silas tried to interpret both her veiled meaning and her lethargic expression, but drew no conclusions. He could not think clearly about her at all; but he had a plan to resolve that. He pointed down to a thick grove, which clustered upon the banks of the river.
‘Mrs. P used to tell stories about those woods when I was little. Did you ever hear them? I was too frightened to go there for years.’
She shook her head. ‘Tell me. Are they haunted?’
‘Sort of. She used to say that a beautiful fairy enchantress lived there, and if you ever strayed into her realm you’d fall under her power.’
‘An enchantress! Not a common-or-garden witch, then?’
‘Oh, no! Mrs. P would never stoop to a witch. She was an enchantress— and beautiful, mind you. I remember I used to get all the details over my cocoa: in spring she’d make her petticoats out of bluebell petals, and in summer she’d wear a bindweed flower.’
‘Very elegant. What else?’
‘She was quite the follower of fashion. In autumn her hat was a conker shell—’
‘Spikes! Daring.’
‘And for winter she had a smart glossy suit made from a holly leaf, fastened with a single red berry.’
‘I like her style! These stories wouldn’t keep me out of the woods!’
‘There’s more to it than that, of course. A tragedy, in fact. The enchantress fell in love with a strapping young lad who lived at Belmont— but he was in love with someone else, his childhood sweetheart. So while he was pining for her, the enchantress was pining for him.’
‘Dear me. What next?’
‘The enchantress lured the fellow’s poor sweetheart into the woods with promises of beautiful clothes to impress her man—’
‘I can understand the temptation.’
‘—and gave her a gown to try. But it was stitched together out of stinging nettles, and when she put it on, it stung her to death.’
‘No! But at least she died looking chic.’
Silas tugged at his forelock in thought. ‘Come to think of it, she might have eaten a poisoned pear.’
‘Oh, nevermind that,’ she enthused. ‘The point is, the enchantress got her, one way or another. I love unhappy endings.’
‘That isn’t the end, though,’ he countered, pleased to see her taken up with the tale. ‘The young man was so—’
‘Swain! Let’s call him a swain.’
‘Alright, the swain was so distraught at her loss that he lay down on her grave and wept eve
ry night for a year and a day, until the enchantress took pity, and let the ghost of the murdered girl speak to him at last.’
‘And what did she say?’
Silas folded and unfolded his arms. ‘I don’t remember. Anyway, it isn’t important. The main thing is that the enchantress took pity on him, and arranged it that the girl could come back to life for a single night, and dance with the swain at the ball.’
‘Wrapped in her winding sheet and reeking of the grave, no doubt!’
‘Certainly not! It was a children’s story, remember? The fairy gave her a beautiful new dress, the colour of the sun, so that she could dance with her beloved one last time.’
His companion looked bemused. ‘I must say I don’t remember any of this part.’
He turned to her. ‘You said you’ve never heard the story before!’
‘Oh! I haven’t. Carry on.’
‘Well have you heard it before or not?’
‘No, honestly. Go on.’
‘I won’t,’ he said, annoyed, ‘until you tell me whether you’ve heard the story before or not. First you say one thing, then you say another, so explain yourself. Which is the truth?’
‘Truth!’ She gazed at him innocently. ‘You won’t get any of that out of me. I never tell it.’
‘So you admit it. You were lying— you’ve been lying all along.’
She nodded, with a poor impression of a shamed face. ‘I can’t help it. Everything I say is a lie. Mrs. P thinks it’s because I’m a minx.’
‘She’s right about that.’
On hearing those words she smiled delightedly and sat up from her lethargic slouch. ‘Do you think I’m a minx too?’
‘Without a doubt,’ he answered flatly.
‘Wonderful! Finally! You’re finally satisfied that I’m not Bianca!’
‘Am I?’
‘You just branded me a minx, didn’t you? You’d never have said that to her. There was nothing at all minxy about Bianca.’
‘But you may be pretending,’ he rounded on her in turn. ‘You may be lying when you say you always lie!’
She rolled her eyes and threw herself back against the arm of the seat. ‘That’s too twisted even for me, Silas!’
‘You’re right, you’re right,’ he admitted, hunching forward to rest his head in his hands. ‘I just don’t know what to think anymore. I’m so far off track I’m lost in the wilderness. All I wanted to do was ask you for a dance.’ He turned to her. ‘At the wedding tomorrow. That’s what I came here for. Will you dance with me?’
She was rather surprised at this abrupt request, and said cautiously: ‘Forsooth sir, are you always so formal?’
‘Formality for a formal occasion. Mr. Phillip Pevensey’s wedding day, after all. Will you? It’ll be like the ball in the story: you can wear a dress the colour of the sun.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘And outshine the bride in it?’
‘The last dance, then?’ he pursued more eagerly. ‘The last of the night— when the happy couple have left for their honeymoon, and the party’s coming to an end?’
She nibbled on her bottom lip in consideration, clearly tempted. ‘I don’t have a dress the colour of the sun, though. Not with me. I packed it away for the winter.’
‘But it’s spring now. Maybe that old enchantress down in the woods will give you a new one— just for the last dance?’ He looked at her carefully. ‘With me?’
‘Wait a minute, you didn’t finish the story. What happened when she put on the sunny dress? I don’t trust that enchantress. The nettle one stung the poor girl to death. I’m very particular about how fashion kills me. What happened to her?’
Silas smiled resignedly. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know how it ends.’
She picked a stray fallen leaf from his shoulder thoughtfully. ‘It’s very old-world to ask me for a dance a whole day before the music starts. Why are you so keen?’
‘Oh, I don’t know— nostalgia, maybe— hope? To get a taste of what might have been, or at least remember better days. Just for the length of a dance— pretend there are no regrets, or remorse— like it used to be.’
‘But once the dance is over, what then?’
He sighed. ‘The spell’s broken, I suppose. Back to the regret and remorse.’
She tapped him reprovingly on the nose to break his depressed stare. ‘If you set your mind on being unhappy, you will be. Why not set it on something else?’
‘That’s easier said than done.’
‘Yes, but it’s worth trying. Look at me— I have more cause to despair than anyone. I’ve volunteered to spend the rest of the evening ironing. If I wasn’t determined to make some fun out of it, I’d be seriously contemplating incurable insanity.’
He smiled. ‘How are you going to make fun out of ironing?’
‘Like this: you’re going to help me, and I’m going to annoy you as much as possible all night long.’
‘And if I consent to that, will you consent to the dance? In the enchanted gown and everything?’
‘When I get the enchanted gown, Silas, you can get your dance,’ she said, meaning to defer the promise; but Silas was pleased, knowing what she would find waiting in her wardrobe later.
At that she stretched her arms luxuriously, and then drew her fur stole from the seat up to her throat like a collar.
‘That cloud looks like rain to me,’ she said, pointing behind him towards the house, where indeed a black mass was gathering over the chimneypots, and shadowing the blue brightness to the west. ‘Let’s go in before it starts. I’m not the kind of girl who likes to get wet.’ —with which she shook back her silky hair by way of explanation, slipped her fingers around his wrist and led him away.
VIII
The rain, once it set in, did not abate, and for the remainder of the evening the household huddled indoors, as the relentless drops dashed against the windowpanes. The party in the large, comfortable kitchen were quiet and occupied, but cheerful. The bridesmaids commandeered the food preparations, trimming fat, confiscating butter and halving oil, while Daphne stood hovering by; Phillip’s sisters and cousin sat polishing cutlery and silverware— dividing their time between that and emptying vodka into their dribbles of soda. Mrs. Prothero held court over the ironing, with Smith tackling the groomsmens’ shirts and other clothes while the mistress of Belmont pressed the table linen. Silas sat in a corner beside them, cleaning candlesticks and laughing at their jokes— wincing at the teasing of one, while shaking his head at the dry sarcasm of the other.
‘Isn’t Smith just the angel of the hearth, Silas? You’d think in this day and age those boys would do their own ironing, but she insisted.’
‘I came down to help you with the wedding, Mrs. P, and that’s what I’m doing,’ she replied serenely. ‘Would you rather have a string of grumbling groomsmen to share the ironing with you, whinging about cuffs and steam settings, or a beautiful angel of the hearth to gladden the heart and eye?’
‘“Angel of the hearth” I’ll allow— you added “beautiful” yourself.’
‘I add beauty to everything, don’t I, Silas?’
‘Do you really expect me to answer that?’ he asked, looking up.
‘No, don’t ruffle yourself. You can continue in dumbstruck admiration of my domestic glamour.’ She hung the final shirt and took up a rich, mossy-coloured velvet waistcoat from the pile of unironed clothes.
‘Be careful with that one!’ Daphne called plaintively across the room. ‘It’s Phillip’s— he had it specially made. It just needs a press on the inside— I managed to crumple it in the suitcase, he was so annoyed— please be careful— perhaps I should do it?’
A confident wave of the hand was the reply. ‘It couldn’t be safer if I was going to wear it myself,’ she said in reassurance.
‘And from Smith, that’s the best guarantee you can get,’ seconded Mrs. Prothero. ‘Don’t worry, Daphne, Phillip won’t have anything to complain about.’
Just then, the man himself ma
rched into the room, with his shirtsleeves rolled up and a harassed-but-triumphant expression.
‘I’m glad to see everyone so calm and content in here,’ he announced dryly. ‘You’ll be glad to know I’ve set the hall to rights. I don’t know whose idea it was to arrange it without any consideration for the presentation slides to accompany the speeches, but nevermind, because I’ve sorted everything out.’
He deliberately avoided noticing Silas as he broadcast this to the entire kitchen.
‘I’m sure it’ll be perfect now, Phillip,’ said Daphne hastily.
‘I’d be delighted to think so,’ he returned with sarcasm, ‘but the whole effect will be ruined without more candlesticks. Candles we have, almost too many, if I’m honest with you, but nothing to put them in. Unless we use eggcups, I suppose. How nice that will look.’
Those guests involved in silver polishing redoubled their efforts at this, except for Silas, who tossed his candlestick down with a clank.
‘Oh, I’m sure there’ll be enough,’ pleaded Daphne. ‘They just need cleaning, to look just how you want them. It’s taking a little longer than we hoped, Phillip, but—’
‘Well you wanted candlelight, Daphne,’ he interrupted coolly. ‘Don’t blame me if the room looks ridiculous, that’s all.’
‘I thought it’s what you wanted, that’s why I suggested it,’ she cried in an agony. ‘Do you think we should do without, after all?’
‘What, and waste everybody’s time? No-one will thank you for that, I’m sure.’
She had no opportunity to respond before he was distracted by the industry of Mrs. Prothero, and eyed the cloth stretched over her ironing board in something like horror.
‘What is this?’ he demanded, marching over and snatching away her work.
‘It’s the last of the tablecloths, Phillip,’ she replied with a deep breath, indicating the folded pile she had already completed. Then she pointed to a basketful of crumpled linen. ‘And I’m doing the napkins next.’
Phillip picked up a pressed tablecloth from the top of the pile, by its very corner between his forefinger and thumb, with an expression of contempt to match the gesture. ‘Why are you ironing them?’
‘Well, I didn’t think you wanted them creased,’ she said patiently.
‘But this is— this is—.’ He flung out the cloth, and clutched its fabric up to his eyes. ‘What colour is this? Ivory? These are ivory, Mrs. P. What are you frittering away your time for? Ivory?’ He plucked another cloth from the completed pile to ascertain if it was the same, and then rifled through the remainder. ‘These are all ivory— they’re— they’re— cream!’ He darted to the unironed heap in the basket and began flinging the napkins out onto the floor, one by one. ‘Cream— cream— this one’s practically yellow! What were you thinking? Get out the white!’
‘White?’
‘Yes! White! Of course white! Don’t stand there looking at me like that! Where are they? All the table linen must be pure white!’
‘That’s unfortunate, Phillip,’ his hostess returned evenly, ‘because these are all I
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