have.’
‘All you have? All you have! Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘I make a concerted effort not to be,’ she answered. ‘You asked for table linen, and here it is. You didn’t specify a colour.’
‘But this is a wedding!’ he exploded. ‘A wedding, do you understand? Not a coffee-morning, not a barn-dance, not some grubby cheese-and-wine-cum-jumble-sale! This is unacceptable, Mrs. P!’ He screwed up a cloth and threw it on the ground. ‘I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect some regard for the importance of the day— if not for your own godson, at least for Daphne, a guest in your house, and an expectant bride! It’s clear that our wedding is nothing at all to you— a matter of complete indifference!’
Silas got to his feet with an angry warning word at this, and at the same time Daphne hurried to take her fiancé’s arm with an attempt to soothe his outrage. He paid no attention to Silas, but shook himself free of her grasp indignantly.
‘No, Daphne, I say this is unacceptable! What will people think, for goodness’ sake? Dirty-looking tablecloths at our wedding! We may as well use old sacking and be done with it!’
‘That’s enough, Phil,’ from Silas.
‘Please Phillip, I’m sure Mrs. Prothero—’ from Daphne.
‘Think of all the effort we’ve made to create the perfect day,’ he continued undeterred. ‘What was it all for? Why did we even bother, if the whole concept is to be ruined by these? Tell me at once,’ he addressed his godmother, ‘is this some joke, or are these really the only cloths and napkins you have?’
Mrs. Prothero folded her arms defiantly and said nothing.
‘I see,’ concluded Phillip. ‘No foresight, no thought, no care! I’d like to know how I deserved this, I must say! What possessed you to conceal this from me? So essential to the overall effect of the dinner! It’s inconceivable! To cheapen our entire wedding! I may as well come dressed as an urchin! Do you know who we’ve invited? Our guests are accustomed to the very finest dining, do you hear? How could you be so inconsiderate? Well? Answer me! How could you?’
The tirade had reached such a pitch that Silas stepped forward to physically remove him from the room; but as he did so, they were all distracted by a terrific hiss and the sudden acrid smell of burning. Every eye flew to the source of the sound, which was Smith’s ironing board. With mild, calm surprise, she lifted up her searing iron with one hand and the precious moss-green waistcoat with the other, revealing a blackened, scorched hole in the velvet plush.
‘Oh dear,’ she said quietly, gazing serenely at Phillip.
The groom-to-be was rendered incapable of speech at this, the prized centrepiece of his wedding wardrobe utterly defiled. He visibly shook with rage, eyes bulging and cheeks reddening almost to purple. The witnesses froze for a full minute, until, all at once, the furious victim turned on his heel to dash out of the kitchen, Daphne burst into tears and ran to pursue him, while Silas erupted into gales of laughter.
The rest of the company hardly knew how to react, except for Smith, who turned a sly glance towards her laughing cohort and dropped the ruined waistcoat into the bin.
‘Oh Silas! Be quiet!’ reprimanded Mrs. Prothero. ‘We’ll never hear the end of this! Smith— oh— Smith!’
Unable to think of anything suitable to add, she made to follow the unhappy couple, but Silas moved to intervene.
‘Let me go,’ he said, repressing his smiles. ‘I forbid you to smooth his ruffled feathers after a rant like that.’
He hurried into the hall, with Mrs. Prothero on his heels in any case, in time to see Daphne run upstairs with her face in her hands, while Phillip strode to the front door.
‘I’ll see to her,’ said Mrs. Prothero. ‘You can have him.’
Phillip had perhaps intended to leave directly, but the continuing deluge halted him, and he stood under the shallow colonnaded porch endeavouring to calm himself with deep breaths, while the rain spattered at his feet from the wet darkness beyond.
‘Phil, is the night air doing you any good?’ Silas asked, joining him. ‘Have you cooled down yet? That was quite a performance.’
‘Leave me alone.’
‘I won’t, Phil, until you go in there and make amends. Oh come on, it’s tablecloths. No man on earth ever lost his head about tablecloths.’
‘I don’t expect you to understand, Silas. Your wedding meant nothing to you. But mine is different.’
‘You’re right— it is! Yours is going to have cream-coloured tablecloths.’
He let out an irritated sigh. ‘I have a duty to make my wedding the best I can. A duty to my family, to my bride, to my own self-respect. You couldn’t comprehend the least of these.’
‘Your duty is to make Daphne happy, Phil, and that one fulfils all your other duties at the same time. That’s all it takes— and I know, because that’s the one duty I failed to perform myself.’
‘Don’t compare my conduct to yours. I know what I should and shouldn’t do, without your advice. Not everyone blunders through life doing just as they please, Silas. My responsibility is to make this wedding everything it should be— in short, perfect.’
‘For God’s sake, Phil! What’s more important? Perfection or happiness?’
He snorted with disdain. ‘Who are you to give me advice on how to be happy?’
‘Because I know how to throw it away. Believe me, I know: nothing’s ever really perfect, so believing it will be, or expecting it, is a sure-fire way to be miserable.’
‘I’ll decide that for myself, thank you very much,’ Phillip replied moodily.
‘Good. But while you’re deciding,’ Silas patted the groom’s shoulder, ‘Mrs. P and Daphne are upstairs. They’re both upset. You know what you have to do.’
Phillip looked down on him frostily. ‘I will go in, but not because you tell me to. I don’t want to see you tomorrow, Silas, or your spiteful little friend. Go and create mischief together for some other hapless wedding party.’
With that he went indoors, and Silas, with a further smile and shake of his head, trailed slowly after.
IX
The house seemed to have emptied in the meantime. Disconcerted, all preparations had ceased; some had gone to lend their assistance or curious ears to the quarrel upstairs; others had retreated to their rooms for a drink and debrief; Smith was nowhere to be found. Silas wandered into the parlour, lit the fire, and threw himself into an armchair to await the outcome. After an hour he heard some commotion on the stairs, and soon saw the lights of a car pulling away down the drive. Then about an hour later, during which more such lights appeared, Mrs. Prothero walked in, looking exhausted.
Silas already had a large glass of wine prepared, and handed it to her as she sat down.
‘Well, that’s that,’ she announced, after a grateful pause. ‘They’ve gone.’
‘Phil and Daphne?’ He leaned forward. ‘Gone where?’
‘To Las Vegas.’
‘What! I don’t believe it!’
‘Believe. It was Daphne’s idea, bless her. She’s a wily little thing when she wants to be. She told him that if everything couldn’t be perfect she’d rather nothing was, and if he didn’t pull out his credit card and fly her to Las Vegas straight away, she wouldn’t marry him at all.’
‘And he agreed to it? No! What about the great and good he’s invited here?’
‘I suppose it came down to losing face or losing Daphne— and the good news is, he chose her.’
‘Well, well done Daphne! She has more spirit than I gave her credit for.’
‘It goes to show that everybody has a tipping point. When Daphne reached hers, she finally asserted herself. She could try tipping a touch sooner, in my opinion.’
‘Las Vegas! That was wicked, though— Phil will hate every minute of it.’
‘Yes, but I expect he’ll have a ball picking the place to bits. She knows her fiancé well enough.’
‘So it’s all settled for the best— thanks to Smith.’
Mrs. Prothero to
ok a fulsome gulp from her glass. ‘Smith! You know they say weddings bring out the worst in people, but with her the worst is so near the surface anyway it hardly needs bringing out at all. Still, she did the trick— but I won’t thank her for the trouble in a hurry. You can do that, Silas.’
‘She’s still here, then? I thought I heard people leaving?’
‘Most of them have decided to go home, since there’s nothing more to do here. But Smith’s staying until tomorrow morning, so she can get her “beauty sleep”.’
Mrs. Prothero soon felt inclined to sleep herself, and said goodnight. For his part, Silas was not tired, and strolled back through to the hall, where the abandoned setting for the reception stood forlorn. To shed some light on his thoughts, he took the matches he’d used for the parlour fire from his pocket and lit a candle or two; and then, absent-mindedly— or overfull-mindedly— continued lighting as many as he found.
He felt deeply disappointed. The wedding reception was supposed to be the occasion of his test— or trap— for Smith. Now he was cheated of the opportunity, and at the same time realised how formless his plan had been. Even if she had condescended to wear the gown he planted, and had appeared before him dressed in it (which was unlikely), what did he hope to prove? If she looked exactly like the Bianca of his late visions, that did not make her Bianca, but merely a fraud, an impersonator. And yet, and yet— hope would rise: perhaps she would have broken her disguise and revealed an elaborate ruse, revealed that she was indeed Bianca, alive and flourishing.
But he frowned as he struck another match. Was that what he wanted? Bianca restored— Bianca cunning, deceitful, sporting with his peace— no, that could not be Bianca. He did not want that to be Bianca. Yet, yet— he did not want to lose those beguiling traits in her either. He thought of her half-smile after her lesson to Phillip in the kitchen. He could have kissed her for it— but if Bianca would never have done such a thing, then he was smitten with Smith. No, surely not— the thought did not bear investigation.
It was all for the best then: the cancelled wedding, the missed chance, the lost last explanation— all for the best, because he no longer knew what he wanted to prove, and was unprepared for what might be proven in spite of him. Even so, he was disappointed. He shrugged his shoulders with a sigh. It was too late now. There would be no reception, no dance, no recognition, no revelation.
He looked around the room, surfacing from his inward monologue. On almost every side, gleaming points of light and their warm, fluctuating haloes created just such a dim, enchanted atmosphere as the groom and bride must have wanted. Above him, in the gallery, he had been distantly aware of passing steps and closing doors as the remaining guests retired; now the silence of a country night and sleeping house settled over the hall, and the quiet, steady candle flames seemed to secure a realm removed from the world beyond.
He yawned, knowing that next he must destroy that charmed space and go to bed himself. He moved to blow out the nearest candle, and noticed a final movement in the gallery, where the stairs turned— a shadow passing there, nothing more: but he stopped— it was not a shadow, quite the reverse: a glow. And it continued to move, glancing across the walls, shimmering on the banisters as it went, as though catching the soft light of the candles and casting it forward and down in reflected, darting shapes. Silas held his breath, guessing what it must be, and gazed steadily into the shaded zone above the burning illumination, waiting for its reappearance. Again it showed, nearer, lower than before, and vanished round a turn of the staircase. He switched his scrutiny to the arched doorway beneath the gallery overhang, near the fireplace, where the foot of the stairs gave into the hall.
A pale line emerged at the top, where the steps passed out of view, and a glossy streak flashed across it: a hemline, richly reflective silk. It ebbed lower and lower, the shadows retreating from the swimming creases of the fabric, and as the gentle light of the room revealed its splendour, a responding brightness seemed to radiate the space framed by the arch, and the figure centred in it.
Somehow, somehow, the dress really was the colour of the sun, the colour you see for a fleeting moment before its brilliance blinds you, but ripened, burnished as it is when setting— or just rising on a clear morning. The lady adorned there was indistinguishable at first, but with the next gentle tread towards him Silas was elated to recognise her: the same, the very same face he had almost seen beneath the stars on that solitary hilltop, almost discerned in the white beams of moonlight through his bedroom window— the same, he was sure, but now, turned fully upon him, rich with subtle blushes, lips ready to speak or laugh, eyes sparkling with attention, he was bewildered.
Holding out his hand to lead her into the room, he opened his mouth to greet her with her name— but voiced nothing. He could not, at last, decide between Bianca and Smith; he could not, at last, care less which it was.
She placed her fingers between his, and glided into the hall, watching him as intently as he watched her, and always on the brink of smiling. There was no music for a dance, so they merely stood, hands clasped, until Silas made to release her and step back for further admiration. She would not release him, however, and held him fast, so fast and tight that a sharp pain sprang into his hand. He looked down, and saw, with abrupt, dizzying horror, that his hand was on fire: a blistering flame shot up from it. He gave a cry, and tried to pull free, but realised with panic that the flames had spread, and that her whole form, to his dazzled eyes, was ablaze.
X
I have often heard Mrs. Prothero tell this tale to strangers, and sometimes she claims that the couple were both consumed in a raging bonfire, which burned away all Silas’s bad temper, to leave her listeners, like some Scheherazade, impatient for a sequel. But since it would be far too fictional to claim that a bad temper could suddenly become a good one, I will be kinder, and reveal how it all concluded. Mrs. Prothero awoke to the smell of smoke, and roused the whole house with calls of alarm. They ran downstairs in a gaggle to find the hall unharmed but full of a sooty odour, some signs of an accident and a host of unextinguished candles. Clearly, something had caught alight, however, and they were attracted by the sound of voices to the front door, which stood open. Outside in the rain, Silas was anxiously rolling a large bundle in the wet grass, from which shrieks emerged at intervals.
Mrs. Prothero, terrified, ran to them, recognising the skirts of Bianca’s gown as the bundle; but her terror vanished when she realised that the shrieks were laughter. A candle had indeed caught the delicate material, and set a flame that Silas’s fears had magnified into an inferno. Without wasting a moment he had caught her up in his arms, flown outside and begun smothering the fire in the wet grass— which, being an apparently ticklish procedure, had sent Smith, who was otherwise quite unharmed, into fits of giggles.
‘Silas! Silas! Leave her— she’s not alight!’ cried Mrs. Prothero in relief, holding his arm. ‘There’s no danger— Silas, you’ve rescued her.’
He paused, panting, and stopped to look at the poor bedraggled woman sprawled before him. She struggled to sit up, thoroughly drenched, muddy, unkempt and disordered, only to discover the sleep-startled audience assembled to see her indignity. She darted an accusatory look up to Silas’s anxious face, but at the sight of each other’s earnest expression, they both broke into ungovernable laughter, which continued in starts long after the alarmed guests had stumped back upstairs to their beds.
The rain was so heavy and persistent that it was almost exhausted by morning, leaving only a damp, overcast sky over Belmont. Silas rose early, having rested thoroughly for the first night in what seemed like a lifetime. He dressed quickly and rushed downstairs, anxious not to miss any farewells, or one in particular. He discovered Mrs. Prothero in the Breakfast Room.
‘Look at that face!’ she hailed him. ‘I haven’t seen that face in a long while.’
‘It’s the same one I had yesterday, Mrs. P.’
‘No it isn’t, Silas, it’s got a smile on it. Just a
n ordinary, easy smile. On your face, and first thing in the morning, it’s quite a transformation.’
‘I shouldn’t smile, though— I’m here to say goodbye.’
She held out her arms to him, and they made their farewells.
‘Come back soon,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll need to, after you’ve been told off by every one of Bianca’s family and your own. They won’t spare you, I’m afraid— but let this be your escape.’
‘I’m braced to do the right thing at last, I really am. I’m a new man to go with my new face.’
‘I didn’t say your face was new, Silas. Perhaps you’ve just remembered the man you can be.’
He gave another smile to oblige her, and hesitated. ‘There’s only one person left to say goodbye to.’
Mrs. Prothero raised an eyebrow and sat down to pour her coffee. ‘I suppose you mean Smith. Well, you’d better be quick— she’s packing up her car as we speak.’
Mrs. Prothero pointed out of the window, where the lady in question was indeed depositing her suitcase in the boot. Without a further thought but to kiss his godmother quickly on the cheek, Silas ran outside to intercept her.
‘Were you leaving without me?’ he called as he approached. ‘I mean without saying goodbye?’
She paused as she opened the driver-side door, and looked around innocently. ‘Do you want me to say goodbye?’
He took courage at that, and shook his head. ‘Not for good. Will I see you again?’
‘Will you see who again?’ she countered, with an arch smile.
‘You— whoever you are. As long as it’s you.’ He held her arm with his hand to prevent her bending to get in.
‘Oh, me,’ she said, turning towards him fully. ‘You’ll certainly see me. I mean to haunt you, Silas, whether you like it or not. And I’m rather hoping you won’t.’
‘I’m rather hoping I will. I’m getting a taste for it.’
She reached up and touched the crease of his frown line with her finger. ‘So I see.’
‘I’ll call you, then?’
She laughed a little, and asked: ‘But call me what, Silas? Have you decided that yet?’
‘Whatever you tell me.’
She did not reply immediately, and he haltingly added: ‘It doesn’t matter anymore who you are— Smith or Bianca or someone else entirely— you’re you, and that’s enough for me.’
‘But aren’t you curious, Silas? Don’t you want me to finally reveal the truth, tell you who I am— explain everything away?’
‘I doubt you will. That’s not your style.’
‘Oh! Well if you can guess my style I’d better change it. I can’t bear to be predictable.’
‘So you will tell me? You really will?’ He smiled doubtfully.
She considered for a long moment, studying the ground. Then at last she nodded once. ‘I will. When twelve months and a day have
The Burning Bride Page 10