The Glass Castle

by Violet Winspear

‘No.’ Heron shook her head. ‘He’s told me quite frankly that our marriage has no sentimental basis. He wants to marry and he sees in me something he requires in a wife. The right colouring, I suppose. A dash of temper. Hands that won’t cling—someone who won’t get under his feet. In exchange for these he has offered me the Glass Castle. I feel decadent because I can’t refuse it, but at least we’re honest with each other. We have no need to pretend that we adore each other.’

  ‘It all sounds very—modern,’ said Sybil. ‘And you do sort of suit. I hope you’ll be married in white, Heron. Say you will!’

  ‘Why not?’ Heron shrugged. ‘It isn’t as if a white bridal stands for love any more, in this day and age.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  April is the cruelest month, breeding

  Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

  Memory and desire...

  Now April was gone, and the last of the may had been scattered from the branches in a gust of rain the day before Heron became a bride.

  The morning of the wedding dawned softly gold and promising, and Heron awoke without having to be aroused by Sybil, who had stayed up late with her while the finishing touches were made to the wedding dress. It had been cut and sewn in London, from yards of gleaming Indonesian brocade presented by Edwin. But upon its arrival at Memory, where Heron was staying while the final preparations were made, the dress had suddenly seemed too stylish and film-starry and on impulse she had dashed to the telephone and dialled the number of Esme Spendlove, who had been the ‘little dressmaker’ for the women of Jocelyn’s Beach for as long as Heron could remember.

  ‘Drop your pins and your patterns and come quickly,’ she had begged. ‘Up there in Town they’ve turned my dress into something out of Hollywood, and the material is so lovely that I want—simplicity.’

  ‘Of course, my dear, it’s so important for you to feel right in the dress. I’ll be over right away!’

  Miss Spendlove had caught a bus and had arrived in record time, to spend the remainder of the day ensconced with Heron and Sybil in the rarely used library, where the two girls assisted while the clever fingers of the little dressmaker cut expertly to produce the sculptured simplicity which revealed the unusual and charming lotus design woven into the lovely fabric.

  ‘Couture is all very well.’ Miss Spendlove spoke with pins in her mouth, and a pair of silver scissors tucked through her bun of hair, dyed glossy black. ‘But it will concentrate on its effect on other people rather than its effect on the psychology of the wearer. To look expensive is not always to look serene, and serenity is the true mark of glamour—especially the remote, untouchable glamour of a bride. There, I think we’re beginning to get the desired effect, Heron. With your colour of hair the effect should be a blend of fire and ice.’

  By ten-thirty they had almost completed their task and had sat down to refresh themselves with chicken sandwiches and hot, sweet coffee. An hour later Heron had tumbled into bed, satisfied that her dress would look right and provide the aura of serenity for which she prayed before falling off to sleep.

  As she awoke Heron glanced at the bedside clock and saw that it was still very early, so the day was new and all the bustle and nightmare had not yet begun.

  All day yesterday Lilian had bemoaned the fact that it was raining, and would be bound to do the same on the day. Heron gazed across at the windows and saw the tremulous, soft rays of sunlight pushing in through the net curtains. ‘Stay fine,’ she thought. ‘Let the bridesmaids and the guests be happy in their film-brimmed hats and their finery. Let the birds sing even if my heart is curiously empty of song.’

  Her thoughts drifted downstairs, to the drawing room where the wedding gifts were laid out on the long dining-table and on the surfaces of the sideboards ... like a pirate hoard. In the cool larder of the kitchen the tiered cake was wrapped in muslin, the silver bells and the satin ribbons glinting through. The chandeliers were polished in the hall, their cascading prisms strung on chains of gilt. An array of crested silver buckets had been hired, and crates of champagne had been flown from a vineyard in France. Uncle Saul had made the usual jokes, and Lilian had scolded him. Inevitably, so inevitably the day had drawn nearer, and here it was, perched like a reluctant bird on her windowsill, waiting to hop into the house, to chirp them into activity.

  Heron pulled the sheet over her shoulders and closed her eyes. If she kept very still, the day might go away and she might wake next time to find she had only been dreaming ... dreaming of a tall stranger with a scarred face, who came to stand at her side, to take her for his wife.

  She must have drifted again on the edges of sleep, for she gave a start, as if falling down the side of a steep gulf, as fingers tapped upon the bedroom door and it opened to admit Annie, one of the girls who came in daily to help Lilian run her domain.

  ‘Good morning, miss.’ Annie was all sly smiles as she came to the bedside carrying a tray on which stood a cup of tea and a square-shaped package. ‘Tea up, and another present for you—delivered by hand it was, by that Indian man who works for Mr. Trequair.’

  ‘Thank you, Annie.’ Heron sat up and took the package. ‘It’s either something old or something new. I have a blue garter from Miss Spendlove to wear beneath my dress, and I’ve borrowed my veil from Sister Carmela from the Cloisters. It’s real Irish lace and she was so pleased when I agreed to wear it. It’s a hundred years old, so I suppose I could say that I have three of the required symbols.’

  ‘Luck bringers, miss. Will you drink your tea, or open the package first?’

  Heron shot a smile at Annie, who obviously wished to see what Edwin had sent over so that she might be the first to announce in the kitchen what the bride was going to wear to adorn her wedding dress. ‘I think we might as well take a look at this—do you suppose it’s pearls?’

  ‘Usually is, miss, which is funny when you come to think of the superstition about them.’

  ‘Perhaps everyone expects a bride to cry a little,’ Heron murmured. She unwrapped the package and disclosed a case of soft white leather. It had a lock and in the lock was a tiny gold key. ‘Seven keys to seven doors,’ she thought, ‘in Bluebeard’s castle.’

  ‘Do turn it, miss,’ Annie was twisting her apron in her hands and her excitement was far more potent than Heron’s. ‘Do see what your bridegroom has sent you.’

  The words sounded so romantically old-fashioned that Heron suppressed a smile. Was it really, really true that the girls of today were without romantic illusions? Last night it had been Sybil who had been enraptured by the white dress when it had finally been hung up, resplendent and glowing, in readiness for the great day as Sybil had called it. This morning it was Annie who hung over the jewel case with eager, expectant eyes.

  Heron turned the tiny key almost sharply and lifted the lid of the case. There against white velvet a flame seemed to burn ... a flame in the shape of an indescribably beautiful Gothic cross, set with rubies to match her ring, and hung on a chain of gold. Each perfect ruby was guarded by a pair of small diamonds, and the clasp was in the shape of a golden heart set with a single ruby.

  Exquisite ... unusual... priceless.

  It was in that moment, as Heron and the young maid stared in wonder at the jewelled cross, that the door of the bedroom was thrust open and invaded by Sybil in pyjamas and robe. ‘Morning, bride! I heard that a bride gift had arrived from the bridegroom and I came to get an eyeful.’ She swooped and feasted her eyes. Oh, Heron, it’s divine! Perfection for your dress! He’s so clever he’s positively frightening. How could he know that like the Macbeth witches we were brewing you a Gothic gown out of a Vogue creation? Did you tell him last night when he phoned?’

  Heron shook her head. ‘I merely said it was all madness to get things organised. I didn’t think he’d be particularly interested in alterations to the dress. You know what men are!’

  ‘Yes.’ Sybil gave a giggle. ‘I’ve always thought it a lark that a man should ask for a girl’s hand when everyone knows wha
t he really wants.’

  ‘Miss Sybil, you are a one!’ Annie grinned and waited for Heron to drink her tea. ‘By the way, Bert wanted to know if he was to drive you both down to the hairdressers, or would you be driving the Mini?’

  ‘Tell Bert he’d better take us,’ said Sybil. ‘I’m too excited to be safe behind a driving wheel today. Heron, lovely long-legged Heron, aren’t you excited?’

  ‘I’m quaking in my shoes but being brave about it,’ Heron said dryly. She handed her empty teacup and saucer to Annie, who with a happy grin left the cousins alone, with the final shot that Bert, who was the handyman and chauffeur, would be ready to take them to the salon on the dot of eleven.

  ‘You’ll have your hair coiffured very simply?’ Sybil took the ruby cross from its bed of velvet and held it with admiring reverence in the cup of her hands.

  ‘Yes. I don’t want anything elaborate.’ Heron watched her cousin handling the cross and she felt curiously removed from all the events that were taking place today.

  ‘Edwin has superb taste, don’t you think? Has he ever talked about his family? Lilian thinks they must all be dead, or abroad, but it’s certain they were milords of the land. Lilian thinks it’s a pity about the scar, but in my eyes it adds to his fascination. Yes, he has class, far more so than Dad or me. S’funny, both our mothers had class, but you seem to be more stamped with it than I do.’ Sybil smiled and stroked the cross against her cheek. ‘I don’t mind being like Daddy Saul. I love the old reprobate—he’s proud as Punch and he’s going to give you away, Heron. He said yesterday that you’ll look as lovely as your mother, but I think you have more vivacity. There’s a smouldering quality to you, my darling cousin. Like these rubies.’

  ‘You’re talking like Winnie the Pooh and we just haven t time for it.’ Heron took the ruby cross and put it away... for the time being. Then she was out of bed and heading for the bathroom. ‘Go and get dressed, Sybil, and we’ll have time to help with the flowers before we have to go and be glamorized at Chez Janice.’ The rest of the morning seemed to pass in a flash, so filled with events that Heron had no time in which to give way to the nerves that every now and then stirred into activity in the pit of her stomach. She just had to ignore them or become victim to them, and at twelve-thirty when they arrived back from the salon she was able to drink a cup of coffee but couldn’t manage even half a sandwich. Sybil was excited, but that didn’t stop her from appeasing her appetite. She lounged on a table in the hall and stuffed herself with turkey sandwiches and pickle while the men from the watering firm carried trestles into the garden, where a marquee had been set up in case of a change in the weather, which was still behaving itself and scattering June sunshine over the roses and the golden-hearted honeysuckle.

  ‘Don’t eat too much,’ said Lilian, passing in the wake of a catering man with a large punch-bowl in his arms. ‘You don’t want to feel nausea in church.’

  ‘I’m not the bride,’ said Sybil, composedly crunching a pickle.

  ‘No, but you will have to hold the bridal bouquet when it’s handed to you,’ Lilian shot over her shoulder, ‘and I don’t intend to have a thing go wrong at this wedding. Edwin has been gracious enough to put me in charge and I will not disappoint him.’

  Sybil’s stepmother disappeared into the garden, and Sybil gave a laugh. ‘I believe we’re all in love with the bridegroom except the bride,’ she said, half-teasingly, and yet inquisitive as she glanced at Heron, who was standing by a window, very still within the motion of the wave that was sweeping her into this marriage that in the eyes of everyone else was advantageous, exciting, a real triumph for a girl whose father had lost all his money and died a broken man. Heron wondered what the reaction would be if she revealed the secret of Edwin’s birth ... that he had been a foundling child and not the scion of a wealthy family, who had gone to the best schools and never known what it was to go hungry. Lilian would not be thrilled by such a revelation for she took him for the perfect gentleman, but Heron didn’t think it would worry Uncle Saul. He knew that Edwin’s pockets were well lined, and that factor alone made him the perfect husband for his niece.

  Heron gave the tiny cynical smile that had been a frequent visitor to her lips since the first announcement of this ‘advantageous match’. ‘When you talk about love, Sybil, I wonder what you really mean. You say it so lightly ... as if it were a cake to be enjoyed, or a smoked salmon sandwich!’

  ‘Love might be that way for me,’ said Sybil, not in the least ruffled by the criticism. ‘But I do recognize that for other people—deep and not easy to fathom—it might be the difference between heaven and hell. In which case, darling Heron, I do hope you love the man. He won’t be able to give you heaven if you don’t, and you’ll give him hell.’ Sybil wiped her fingers on a paper napkin and shot a glance at the hall clock. ‘In any case you’re hooked, my dear, and it’s almost time for the catch to be landed. And, if my ears don’t deceive me, I can hear Dixie and the other two girls out on the steps!’

  ‘Hullo, everyone, here we are!’ Through the door came the trio of old school chums chosen to support Heron on this the day when she left girlhood behind and became a bride ... a wife ... a woman.

  The next hour was a chaos of satin and flowers and laughing chatter as the bride and her retinue were dressed for the wedding. Heron went through it all in a state of uncomplaining numbness that everyone took for composure. She came from the bathroom in a cloud of softly scented talc and from that moment onwards she was a model, a pale puppet, in the hands of Esme Spendlove and a friend of Lilian’s who worked in a gown shop.

  First she was clad in filmy lingerie, then her eyes and lips were as carefully made up as if she were going before a camera, and her hair was combed into a soft, warm halo above the stillness of her grey eyes and the careful control of her features. Her fingernails were buffed, and the seams of her transparent nylons critically examined to ensure their perfect straightness. When she stepped into her satin shoes she seemed to tower above tiny Miss Spendlove, but she had chosen high heels for she knew that when she stood beside Edwin she would still only reach to his shoulder.

  ‘Now for the dress, my dear.’ The little dressmaker smiled with anticipation as Heron stepped into the glossy garment and it was drawn up over her slim body, like a shining shield against the invisible, stabbing doubts and fears, causing wounds that only Heron was aware of. The zip was closed and she was encased in the supple brocade, her young bosom sculptured by the shining lotus-woven material; her pale neck and throat revealed by the simple square neckline.

  ‘Yes ... ice and fire.’ Miss Spendlove drew back a pace so she could study the effect of the dress. Her tiny clever hands clasped each other and her dark eyes were brilliant with delight. ‘I knew your mother as a girl, you know. Ah, how proud she would have been of you, Heron. You think of that and not be sad that she isn’t here to see you— I see a little sadness in your eyes so I know you are thinking of her.’

  ‘Yesterday I took lilies to her grave,’ Heron murmured, the palms of her hands still against the silken sides of her wedding dress. ‘It was raining... just like the last time.’

  ‘Lilies!’ exclaimed Lilian’s friend, the long veil of Irish lace suspended in her hands. ‘But you are carrying lilies today. Won’t the association make you feel—well, today of all days, you want to feel nothing but joy. Mr. Trequair—he is such a distinguished man. You really are the luckiest girl. That house—money—you’ll have nothing more to worry about.’

  An imperceptible frown clouded Heron’s brow. Money! Yes, she had known they would all think she was after Edwin’s money ... a distinguished man was not a dashing boy, so no one assumed that she was giddy with young love. Her fingernails dug the silk that enclosed the body he had bought.

  ‘What about jewellery?’ Esme Spendlove shook her head just slightly, as if to say to Heron that she wasn’t to mind the few envious remarks that would come her way. ‘Pearls, my dear? They always look so serene and I don’t believe that
superstitions should be taken too much notice of.’

  ‘I have something which Edwin sent me this morning.’ The brocade made a rich rustling sound as Heron went to the vanity-table and opened one of the drawers. She took out the white jewel-case and unlocked it. She drew from its bed of velvet the ruby and diamond cross. ‘I think he would like me to wear this, and it seems so suitable for the style of my dress, don’t you think?’

  ‘Heron, how absolutely perfect!’

  There it reposed on its golden chain, Gothic and glittering against the white brocade of the dress, blending with the almost medieval charm of the sculptured silk, the slender body, the softly flaming hair above the wide grey eyes, with a storm at their centre.

  The Irish veil was fitted, falling to Heron’s satin heels, scented with the lavender in which it had been carefully stored by the nun who had loaned it to Heron.

  The sun came through the windows of the bedroom and added its soft gold benediction, and all at once tears came into Miss Spendlove’s dark eyes. Heron knew that she was remembering her sweetheart killed in the war, and the hand-sewn wedding dress which she had never worn.

  There was a story I used to read when I was a girl,’ she said. ‘The Forest Lovers—green glades of love. My dear, you look like Isoult la Desirous. You really are the loveliest bride I have ever dressed.’

  ‘Thank you.’ A flush stole across Heron’s cheekbones, but when she turned to study her reflection in the long mirror of the wardrobe she saw that never had she looked so cool, so poised, so unreal to herself. The ruby cross burned between her breasts, and the lace was a soft veiling about the pliant grace of her young body. Her hair was a smouldering flame beneath the lace, and she could see plainly a pulse beating under the pale skin of her throat rising with a sort of elegant innocence from the simplicity of the neckline.