The Wedding Portrait

by Fiona Hill

  It was not long after dinner when Miss Lavinia Webb came down from her chamber and knocked timidly at the drawing-room doors. Upon hearing Laura’s voice call out permission, she entered cautiously, closing the doors behind her. She stepped nervously in her little half-boots to the writing desk where Laura sat, and begged to be allowed to disturb her. She held in one hand a small piece of gilt-edged notepaper, covered with her spidery script, and this she waved suggestively at Miss Fieldon.

  “It will only take a minute, my dear, and I think you will wish to hear it,” she said. “It is finished—my poem, you know!”

  “Your poem?” Laura repeated vaguely.

  “For the masque, Miss Laura. Do you not wish to hear it?”

  “Oh, indeed! Let me but end this line…” she bent again to her work and then laid her pen down.

  In the interval, Miss Webb had become aware that they were not alone in the room; Mr. Ashley Lowland was seated in a chair facing the bright fire, sketching upon a large paper held upon his knees.

  “Oh, I am so terribly sorry, Mr. Lowland!” she exclaimed. “Lady Eleanor told me I should find Miss Fieldon here, but I did not mean to intrude upon you! But here I am, interrupting you. You must be wishing me at Jericho, I daresay.”

  “I protest, it is no interruption at all. I have just been dreaming, anyhow—staring at the fire, you know. Please, do not regard me.”

  “Yes, but—you are very good, but—” Miss Webb stammered, “but I had meant to read my—my sonnet to Miss Laura, and surely that will disturb you?”

  “No, pray believe me, it will not!” he disclaimed. “Unless perhaps I should be disturbing—” he paused, looking at her timid countenance. “Oh, yes, I see how it is. Stupid of me not to have realised…” he murmured, rising and going to the door. “Will you ladies be kind enough to excuse me for a moment or two?”

  “Such a gentleman!” Miss Webb cried, as Ashley shut the door behind him. “I declare, I do hate to impose upon him, but—well he is quite right; I shouldn’t like him to listen while I read my poem. Not but what he shall hear it soon enough! Still, you must hear it first, and tell me if it is—if it is satisfactory.”

  “I shall be happy to hear it,” said Laura, “but perhaps it would be better if I merely read it to myself?”

  “Oh, no!” cried Miss Webb anxiously. “It will be much better if I read it aloud! The proper inflection, you know…you might not—”

  “Very well then, read it aloud.”

  “Oh dear, shall I? Just like that? But what if—?”

  “My dear Miss Webb, there is no need for such fretting! I am sure I shall like it very much.”

  “Really, it is only the humblest thing,” Lavinia apologised, “but I trust it may do. I am not much in the habit of writing poetry, you know, though there was a time when—”

  “Miss Webb, pardon my interrupting you, but had not you better read it before Mr. Lowland returns?”

  “Yes, of course, if you—” She cast one more pleading glance at Laura, breathed deeply, and began:

  Ah Love! Is anything more pleasant than

  To see two people joined in wedded Bliss?

  Can Nature offer sights more sweet? How can

  A vista hold a candle to a Kiss?

  Nor does Love fade, though Age may fade the cheeks

  And rosy lips of he who is his slave;

  Love laughs at Time; the years and days and weeks

  Pass by, but Love endures beyond the Grave!

  Can any Force resist the pow’r of Cupid?

  Nay, even Chance must bow before his sway!

  And in the grip of Love, all men are stupid:

  We kneel before the altar and obey.

  And dare you set your mind against his dart,

  He scorns your will and enters by the Heart.

  “Two of the lines are too long,” she said nervously, when she had finished reading it. “I could not quite make them fit. And I was not sure if ‘stupid’ was quite appropriate, but you know how much licence is granted to poetry these days! Do you like it at all?”

  “I think it is lovely,” Laura answered, for she realised that the old lady’s heart would break if she said anything else. “And I should not worry about ‘stupid’. It is exactly the word that is needed. May I look at it?”

  Miss Webb passed the masterwork to Laura gratefully. She had read it standing in a formal attitude, her tiny, booted feet pressed rigidly together, but she took this opportunity to sit down, relaxing visibly as she did so. She had looked for all the world like a schoolchild, reciting her lessons to her mamma, and it was all Laura could do to keep her countenance. One line, however, had particularly caught her attention, and it was for this reason that she asked to be allowed to examine the sonnet. Yes, she thought as she pored over it; it was just as she had suspected! “Even Chance must bow before his sway,” the poem read. Chance! Laura reflected. There could be no doubt of it; Miss Webb had a tendre for the Reverend. Odd that she had taken this means of communicating with him! It was so very similar to her own scheme! She hoped that the rector would catch Lavinia’s hidden meaning, for she had no notion that Mr. Chance was as much taken by Miss Webb as she with him. She returned the page to her former governess and smiled at her.

  “Indeed, it is an admirable sonnet, and it will blend well with the theme of the masque. I thank you very much. Would you be so kind as to make a copy for me?”

  “I should be delighted!” exclaimed Miss Webb, exhilarated with the heady excitement of successful creativity. “If you will excuse me, I shall see to it directly,” she added, quitting the room. She ran into Mr. Lowland in the doorway, and cast him an excited look while he bowed and let her pass by him. “So kind of you,” she murmured, and ran up the stairs.

  “How was it?” he inquired of his beloved. “Quite dreadful?”

  “Oh no! It was—well, passable, I suppose. Actually,” she confessed with a trace of a rueful smile, “it is rather silly. But how much can one ask? And only think!” she continued, “there exists an intrigue of which we had no notion! Miss Webb is enamoured of the rector!”

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, my love, but I’m afraid I already knew that. And you will be happy to hear that her affection is returned!”

  “Is it? How do you know?” she demanded.

  “One has only to keep one’s eyes open,” he answered vaguely. “I fear you have been too much occupied with your own activities to have noticed. How does it, by the by?—the play, I mean.”

  “Very well, I think. In fact, I am nearly done, which is a good thing since it is only four days to the wedding. Three, in fact, if you do not count today! Oh, Ashley, do you think it will succeed?”

  “I have no doubt of it,” he said reassuringly, taking her hand. “Shall we cast roles soon?”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” she answered distractedly. “I still do not understand how you happened to know about Mr. Chance and Lavinia. Did one of them confess to you?”

  “Oh, nothing so crude as that! I merely caught a rather significant set of glances between the two of them, and—well, I hope this does not shock you, my dearest Laura, but Mr. Chance has been wearing false calves!”

  “Has he, indeed? How very astonishing! He must be head over ears for her then!”

  “I think he may be. But that is nothing to the admiring looks with which Miss Lavinia favoured his legs! If only you had seen it!”

  “I am sure I would not have known what to make of it,” Laura answered humbly. “Really, your ability to perceive what one wishes you would not know surpasses everything! I suppose I shall be obliged to be very honest with you when I am your wife…but you must be the very devil to surprise with a gift! Has anyone ever succeeded?”

  “Well, no, though I often allow my father to think he did,” he admitted. “But he’s a pretty shrewd old fellow himself and I shouldn’t wonder at it if he merely lets me think I’ve deceived him.”

  “What a tangle! I should like to meet your father.
”

  “And so you shall,” he answered, cupping her face lovingly in his hands. She insisted that she be allowed to resume her writing, and was permitted to do so for the price of a kiss. After that, all was silent industry in the drawing room until it was time for supper.

  Though conversation was informal and general at the supper table, Thaddeus Grey took care to seat himself next to Laura. This was not, of course, difficult to do, since he was expected to wish to be near her, but he had a particular reason for doing so. There were arrangements to be made, and now was the time.

  “Shall we see your play soon, Laura?” he said loudly. “I am sure we must soon learn our parts, or we will not be ready.” This topic, as he had hoped, was eagerly taken up by the rest of the party, and during the ensuing discussion Laura was able to slip from the dining parlour almost unnoticed. Treading lightly so as not to disturb Elizabeth, who was dozing in her chamber, she visited first Thaddeus’ room, then Jacob’s. She stayed a little longer in the second apartment; then, brushing her hands together briskly, as though after a job well done, she proceeded back down the stairs and to her seat. She entered just as Lady Eleanor was questioning Mr. Lowland.

  “How does the portrait proceed?” she queried. “Satisfactorily, I hope.”

  For once Ashley was at a loss for an easy answer. “I am afraid,” he said at last, “that with Miss Fieldon so much engaged with her masque, very little indeed has been done.”

  “Oh dear!” said Lady Eleanor fretfully. “Laura dear, I am sure you ought not to let your play come before the portrait; Mr. Lowland’s time is valuable, and it is only three days to the wedding!”

  Thaddeus gulped and his complexion paled.

  “Excuse me, Mamma,” Laura responded prettily. “If it worries you, I shall take no part in the acting of the play, so that I may have time to sit.”

  “I think that is best, my dear.” said her mother, relieved at finding so little resistance. “Will that give you time enough, Mr. Lowland?”

  “Indeed, ma’am,” said Ashley, smiling warmly but rather unwisely upon his Laura, “I trust there will be time enough for everything.”

  The conversation was turned thereafter to the weather, the news from London, and other such neutral topics and supper ended calmly enough. Thaddeus, though, was in a state of considerable excitement, and could not refrain from pulling Laura aside while the party drank tea in the drawing room and whispering urgently, “Did you do it?”

  She nodded, smiling as though at a polite pleasantry, and looking from under her lashes at the unsuspecting Jacob. The conspirators whispered a little longer; then no more was said until Sir Kenneth, stifling a mighty yawn, suggested that they all retire and the company set off in their several ways.

  The traditional, well-regulated calm of this nightly procedure at the Abbey was interrupted before long. Some minutes after all the chamber doors had been closed by their occupants an ear-shattering shriek pierced the darkness. A few seconds later, every door on the corridor was opened again, alarmed faces peering out of them into the hall. Mr. Jacob Shaw, dressed in his nightshirt and cap, and not much else, was hopping up and down the hallway, begging everyone’s pardon (for it was his scream that had been heard) and interspersing his apologies with, “A dagger! A dagger, by Heaven! A blood-stained dagger!”

  Sir Kenneth, who—like the rest of the party—had heard the scream and sprung from his bed, ran to his nephew and begged him to stay calm. “Whatever it is, I am sure it is not necessary to alarm us with it in this fashion! Think of your sisters!” He despatched Lady Eleanor to Elizabeth’s room, for poor Miss Shaw could not arise with her bad ankle, and must surely be frightened out of her wits. This, however, was not the case, as her Ladyship discovered upon entering her niece’s chamber; in fact, it was quite the opposite. Miss Shaw was engaged in laughing—indeed, in sobbing with mirth—and though Lady Eleanor could not discover the cause for this irregular behaviour, and suspected strongly that it might be hysterics brought on by shock, she at last accepted her niece’s broken protestations that she was quite all right.

  Miss Shaw was not the only member of the house party who was laughing, though the other two, fortunately, went unobserved; Thaddeus and Laura were in positive whoops. So irrepressible was the amusement they felt that they were each obliged to retire again to their chambers, though it was a wicked shame, both thought, not to be able to witness the cream of their jest. Miss Fieldon chuckled into her pillow for well-nigh half an hour, while Thaddeus practically gagged himself on suppressed hilarity.

  “I entered my chamber, sir, and prepared to go to bed as usual. I—er—changed into my nightclothes, of course, and—and did all the ordinary things one does do, and then brought the candle over to my bed. Well, I noticed a sort of a lump, at the head of it, and when I pulled down the cover to see what it was, there was a—” he paused dramatically and shuddered, “a dagger, sir! Stuck right into the pillow, and covered with blood!”

  “A dagger!” exclaimed Sir Kenneth, truly startled. “But how can this be? Surely, you must have imagined it!”

  “I swear to you upon my word as a gentleman,” said Jacob solemnly. “If you do not believe me, you may go and look for yourself.”

  Sir Kenneth availed himself of this licence.

  “He’s right,” he announced to the assembled company, which was edging its way into the corridor. “Though it’s not a dagger but a mere kitchen knife, and the blood smells singularly like paint. Still, I can’t make head nor tail of it.”

  “I think I can explain, Uncle,” Jacob said, some of his colour returning. “You see, last night I took it into my head to play—to play a very feeble prank. I donned a sheet and, pretending I was a ghost, went—well, I went moaning down the hallway. I only meant to frighten Thad, you know, for he had been going on and on about the ghost in the secret chamber, and I thought it would be good fun. I never thought there was a real ghost! But you see, there must be one, for how else can this have come about? No doubt he meant to kill me, for the dagger is placed just where my head ought to have been; it was just luck that I was not…” his voice trailed off as he considered the gruesome alternatives.

  “Well, that is a very interesting explanation,” said Sir Kenneth, “but I think there must be another one. In fact, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if—Thaddeus!” he called. “Where is Thaddeus? Somebody fetch him, if you please!”

  Mr. Lowland obliged him in this request, and found Mr. Grey convulsed with merriment. “A very good trick,” said Ashley. “My compliments! But I fear Sir Kenneth is not taken in quite so easily as Mr. Shaw. Your presence is requested,” he explained.

  “Ooooh,” groaned Mr. Grey, striving to erase the grin from his mouth. “I expect I should appear penitent.”

  “I expect so,” said Ashley sympathetically. “But courage! my lad; after all, you are still the apple of Sir Kenneth’s eye.”

  “Do you think so?” answered Thaddeus, as he wrapped himself in his dressing gown, for he had taken the precaution of changing into nightclothes, hoping to pass for one of the astonished guests. “I had better be, by God! Is he in the devil of a temper?”

  “Oh, nothing that a little abject contrition won’t solve,” Ashley assured him.

  “Abject contrition,” echoed Thaddeus. “I say, Lowland, would you be good enough to do me a favour?”

  “With all the pleasure in the world,” Mr. Lowland bowed.

  “I know it sounds peculiar, but could you—could you wrench my arm a little? Just a little, but so it will hurt enough to relieve me of the giggles, you see?”

  “I understand perfectly,” Ashley replied. Now, Mr. Lowland was not a vengeful man, but he was just enough in love with Laura to make the task Thaddeus requested of him a rather agreeable one, and he pulled Mr. Grey’s left arm up behind his back with perhaps a shade more energy than was strictly necessary. Mr. Grey pointed this excess out to him, but thought no more of it and went off to receive his true deserts, which turned out to be
a very rare lecture indeed. After this, and a complete apology to the household at large, the Abbey settled down to its habitual quietude, and a good night’s sleep was enjoyed by all.

  Chapter VII

  Morning began a day of great activity. Lady Eleanor obliged her daughter by sending John Coachman to the Simpsons’ with a message for Miss Clio, and Laura announced at breakfast that when Miss Simpson arrived she wished to hold a general meeting in the Blue Saloon. The interval between that time and breakfast was absorbed for most of the party in small tasks and communications. Laura intercepted Thaddeus in his way up to Lizzy’s chamber directly they left the table.

  “It did very well, did it not?” she said.

  “Oh, famously! I should not have missed it for the world.”

  “But you were not much chastened by my father, I hope; I could not hear for laughing, you know.”

  “Quite tolerable, I assure you. I think he should have liked to thrash me, but under the circumstances he saw that such a punishment was ineligible, and only gave me a tongue-lashing.”

  “I must thank you for concealing my part in it,” she said, rather stiffly. The awkwardness she had been feeling with Thaddeus since their betrothal had returned now that their mischief was over.

  “I trust you did not fear me so ungentlemanly as to have disclosed it!” he protested.

  “You have before,” she pointed out. “When we stole Highstepper from your father’s stable, and when we tried to bake biscuits in the Abbey kitchens, and oh! any number of times—do not you remember?

  “Yes, of course, but that was—different. We were but children then; we are not now.”

  “Are not we?” she asked musingly. It seemed to her that they behaved very much like children, indeed—shy, stiff, and obedient under their parents’ eyes, and only happy when planning some scheme together. However…she was forced to let the comparison pass, for here they were alone and as formal and far apart as if they had never met. Indeed they must be grown-up.