Wedding Fever

by Lee Wilkinson

  Taking no notice of her, Kevin glared at Nick, and, too enraged to be cautious, said, ‘As this is nothing to do with you, perhaps you’ll get out of here and—’

  ‘Sorry, old boy—’ Nick mimicked Kevin’s cut-glass accent ‘—but it has everything to do with me.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. Lorraine said—’

  ‘She was probably trying to spare your feelings,’ Nick cut in crisply. Then he added, ‘You’d better have this back.’ Withdrawing his hand from his pocket, he tossed a small, sparkling object towards the other man.

  Catching it with a reflex action, Kevin stared down at the diamond solitaire lying in his palm.

  Reaching for Raine’s hand, Nick drew her to his side. ‘Tell him, Raine.’ It was an order.

  Somehow she said it. ‘I’m going to marry Nick.’

  There was a stunned silence, then, still without a word, Kevin dropped the ring into his pocket and made for the door.

  With a cat’s contrariness, or a feline knowledge of how to add injury to insult, Calib jumped to the floor and, running between his legs, almost succeeded in tripping him up.

  Showing the extent of his fury, Kevin aimed a savage kick at the animal, which luckily failed to land, before slamming the door violently.

  Nick whistled softly. ‘Temper!’

  Reaction setting in, Raine sank back into the chair and covered her face with her hands. ‘I must have hurt him dreadfully.’

  With a grunt that expressed his scepticism, Nick asked, ‘How many times did he mention the word love?’

  Her silence was answer enough.

  ‘Then it’s just his pride that’s suffering. Come on, now—’ taking hold of her wrists, he drew her to her feet ‘—stop worrying about Somersby. It’s me you’re going to marry.—’

  Repulsed by what she saw as his callous indifference to the other man’s pain, she looked at him coldly. ‘Only because I have no choice.’

  ‘Perhaps if you were to try and forget that—’

  ‘Forget it!’ She laughed incredulously. ‘I shall remember it every minute of every hour of every day. And every time I remember it I shall hate you just a bit more.’

  Some emotion—anger? Anguish?—darkened his eyes until they looked almost black, but his voice was indifferent as he said, ‘Hate me as much as you like, so long as you sleep in my bed and I can take you whenever I want you.’

  Flinching at his cruelty, she knew that all she’d succeeding in doing was to spotlight a relationship which, though unendurable, would have to be endured.

  She shuddered, and shuddered again.

  They were to be married on the last day of October in the small picturesque church at Lopsley. It would be a very quiet ceremony, with only the wedding party, White Ladies’ staff, and a few local people present.

  Finn Anderson, Nick’s good friend and colleague, was stopping off from a business trip to be best man, while Margo Fleming, an old schoolfriend of Raine’s, was to be bridesmaid.

  Raine had wanted her before, but, because of a slight limp—the legacy of a childhood riding accident—Margo had been vetoed by Lady Somersby as “quite unsuitable” to be the bride’s attendant with Kevin’s sister.

  After several weeks of dissension, unwilling to antagonise Lady Somersby further, and following a discussion with Margo, who’d said cheerfully, ‘What the hell?’ Raine had reluctantly given in and settled for a single attendant.

  Ralph had mentioned that bit of unkind discrimination, and Nick suggested to Raine, ‘Ask Miss Fleming this time. If she’s anything of a friend she won’t hold what happened previously against you.’

  ‘I’ve no need for a bridesmaid,’ Raine demurred. ‘I won’t be wearing a long dress or carrying a bouquet...’

  Nick’s midnight-blue eyes pinned her.

  ‘I thought just a suit...’ she finished uncertainly.

  ‘Sure you wouldn’t prefer sackcloth and ashes?’

  Cringing at his tone, she nevertheless persisted. ‘If we’re getting married at a register office...’

  ‘Who said anything about a register office?’

  ‘But you’ve been married before,’ she blurted out

  ‘I’m not divorced. I’m widowed...’

  Widowed. Poor Tina, Raine thought, but the bleakness of Nick’s face made it impossible to ask what kind of accident had caused his wife to die so young.

  ‘The marriage service says, “till death us do part”, so I’m quite entitled to be married in the village church.’

  ‘Were you married in church last time?’ She had to ask.

  ‘No,’ he answered shortly.

  ‘Then why do you want—?’

  ‘Leaving my wants aside,’ he broke in, ‘it’s your first marriage, and there are your father’s feelings to be considered. If only for the look of the thing I intend to have a traditional wedding: organ music and flowers and a bride in a white dress and veil... Though perhaps ivory rather than virginal white,’ he added sardonically, and watched her flush scarlet.

  Lady Somersby had presumed she would wear a white dress, and, feeling unable to argue, Raine had weakly accepted her dictate.

  This time, against any kind of fuss, and unwilling to make vows she knew it would be impossible to keep, Raine had hoped to have just a civil ceremony, but, as Nick proved to be adamant and Ralph was strongly opposed to the idea of a register office, she reluctantly agreed to a church wedding.

  The weeks leading up to it were a nightmare. Following the advice that Nick had given her—“Don’t attempt to explain, and don’t apologise”—Raine got in touch with all the guests invited to the Mayfair wedding, most of whom were the Somersbys’ friends, advised them it was off and returned the presents she and Kevin had already received.

  She also sent a note to Kevin and his mother asking their forgiveness and accepting the blame for the shambles they’d been left with; she enclosed a substantial cheque—provided by Nick—to cover any outstanding bills.

  In return, Lady Somersby wrote bitterly denouncing Raine as “completely immoral” for “playing around with her cousin behind Kevin’s back” and stating that in her opinion her son had had a very lucky escape.

  Recalling her behaviour in Nick’s car, Raine was unable to evade the guilty knowledge that to some extent the criticism was deserved.

  Apart from a few hiccups, the Indian summer still lingered, but a cheerful fire was lit in the living room when the evenings began to draw in, and, on reading Lady Somersby’s letter, Nick scowled, and, muttering a short, sharp expletive beneath his breath, consigned it to the flames.

  Since that dreadful Sunday morning when Kevin had stormed out, Raine had seen comparatively little of Nick. Apart from insisting on a joint trip into town the next day to choose an engagement ring—a wonderful antique emerald bought and worn “for Ralph’s sake”—and to make a visit to the vicar, he appeared to be deliberately avoiding her.

  When they did meet he treated her with a kind of courteous indifference, seldom touching her and never kissing her. Only when Ralph was present did he make any pretence of affection.

  He frequently worked late, and most evenings, after a bite to eat, the two men sat round a low table and played chess.

  When Ralph expressed concern about the amount of time the younger man was putting in at the office, Nick excused it on the grounds of “wanting to get the hang of things” before taking time off to honeymoon.

  Unable to bear the thought, Raine strenuously resisted the idea of a honeymoon, until finally, in exasperation, Nick demanded, ‘Do you want your father to suspect there’s something wrong?’

  Biting her lip, she admitted defeat. ‘No, of course I don’t.’

  ‘So where do you fancy? France? Italy? Switzerland, perhaps?’

  She shrugged, and returned sweetly, ‘Why don’t you decide, as it’s you who’s so eager to go?’

  ‘I’d prefer you to choose.’

  ‘I really don’t mind, so long as it’s not Paris.’ Paris was whe
re she and Kevin had been going.

  Keeping a tight rein on his patience, Nick suggested, ‘Somewhere further afield, maybe? Madeira? Barbados? The Seychelles?’

  ‘I really don’t mind,’ she repeated stonily,

  At that moment her father walked into the room, and, apparently sensing some tension in the air, asked mildly, ‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Nick put a warm hand on the nape of Raine’s neck, and beneath her hair he moved his fingers in a light, massaging motion. ‘I’m just trying to get my future wife to select a honeymoon destination.’

  Trying not to shiver at his touch, she pinned a smile to her lips, and invited gaily, ‘Why don’t you surprise me?’

  With a glint in his dark blue eyes, Nick agreed. ‘If you don’t come up with a preference soon, I might just do that.’

  ‘That sounds almost like a threat,’ Ralph observed. Then, chuckling, ‘I should watch it, girl. Bognor Regis can be a bit chilly in November.’

  Since she and Nick had “got together”, as Ralph put it, her father seemed a different man—younger, happier, much more relaxed.

  Dr Broadbent had confirmed that Ralph’s blood pressure had gone down and, while denying any serious heart problem, admitted that his patient was now in much better shape. Raine could only feel thankful.

  With very mixed feelings, but knowing that she must be sensible, she’d also discussed the subject of birth control. The last thing she wanted was to have a child, when the marriage itself was almost certainly doomed to failure.

  The vexed question of a honeymoon wasn’t mentioned again, and as the day of the wedding drew nearer, she began to hope that Nick had changed his mind.

  When the morning arrived and he’d still said nothing, she breathed a sigh of relief, confident now that he’d given up on the idea.

  Against all odds the weather had held, and the day dawned clear and sunny, with just an autumnal nip in the air.

  Carrying her bridesmaid’s finery in an array of boxes, Margo, her auburn hair curling around her small flushed face, her round, forget-me-not-blue eyes alight with eagerness, arrived a little after breakfast.

  ‘Finished eating?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not particularly hungry.’ For days now Raine’s appetite had been non-existent.

  ‘Come on, then. Let’s get started.’ Without more ado the bridesmaid hauled the bride off to get ready.

  Margo had been in such high spirits when the girls had visited a boutique to buy their dresses and wedding accessories that, unable to tell her the truth, Raine had been forced to put on a show of happiness.

  ‘I’m delighted that things have turned out this way,’ Margo had admitted. ‘As well as being genuinely nice, Nick’s such a gorgeous hunk of man...and so darned sexy.’

  Seeing Raine blush, she’d continued with the garrulous frankness of an old friend, ‘I never could understand what you saw in Kevin. I admit he’s good-looking, in a wishy-washy way, but he has to be the world’s worst prig. And that mother of his! You must be relieved not to be getting her for a mother-in-law.’

  ‘Yes—I am, rather. In fact the whole thing was a terrible mistake.’

  ‘I suppose you accepted Kevin on the rebound, so to speak?’ Margo had commented sagely. ‘It’s always been Nick, hasn’t it? When you came back from the States last year, though you never talked about it, I could tell something pretty earth-shattering had happened...’

  Allowing Margo to draw her own conclusions, Raine had smiled and said as little as possible.

  In her bedroom now, pale and silent, unable even to smile, she stood while Margo, bubbling over with excitement, helped her into the wild silk wedding dress and secured the filmy veil to her simple coronet of flowers.

  She wore no jewellery except the emerald ring which, on the other girl’s advice, she had transferred to her right hand.

  The sound of a car engine drew Margo over to the window. ‘The bridegroom and best man are just leaving,’ she reported. ‘But don’t you look. It’s unlucky to see your intended until you get to church... My, aren’t they a handsome pair? I understand that Mr Anderson’s over from Boston... Did his wife come with him?’

  ‘No, I don’t think he’s married.’ Raine answered the real question.

  Her forget-me-not-blue eyes eager, Margo asked, ‘So when did he get here? Is he staying long?’

  Finn Anderson, a slimly built, personable man with fine dark hair and brown eyes, had arrived the previous evening. His handclasp had been warm and friendly, and, though it was the first time they had met, his smile oddly familiar. Smiling back, Raine had found herself liking him on sight.

  ‘He didn’t get here until late last night,’ she answered. ‘And I think he’s flying back to the States about lunchtime tomorrow.’

  Margo sighed. ‘Pity. Apart from your Nick, he’s the most interesting male I’ve seen for a long time... Ah, well . . .’

  Not until the check-list of “something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue” had been ticked off, and Raine was ready, her small bouquet of creamy hothouse rosebuds at hand, did Margo prepare to leave for the church herself. At the door she turned to say, ‘Don’t forget to put your veil down.’

  When her bridesmaid had gone, Raine stared at herself in the cheval-glass. Glossy black hair loose around her shoulders, face petal-pale beneath the circlet of flowers and whispy half-fringe—a frightened stranger looked back at her.

  The fact that Nick had remained so cool and distant had given her a kind of spurious confidence, and, though she had gone ahead with all the preparations for her wedding day, somehow the whole thing had seemed remote, unreal as a bad dream.

  Now suddenly it was here and all too real.

  Still staring into the mirror, she recalled Nick comparing her to Tennyson’s ill-fated heroine, and quoted aloud, “‘Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack’d from side to side; ‘The curse is come upon me!’ cried The Lady of Shalott.’”

  There was a tap at the door and Ralph walked in, immaculately dressed in a pale grey suit with a white carnation in his buttonhole.

  Taking her hands, he surveyed her, his eyes growing misty. ‘Bless you . . . you’ve grown up to be the image of your mother, and just as beautiful.’

  Without conscious volition, Raine murmured, ‘“He said, ‘She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace...”’

  ‘What?’ Ralph looked startled.

  Pulling herself together, Raine said, ‘Sorry... For some strange reason Tennyson sprang to mind.’

  ‘And is The Lady of Shalott relevant?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She managed a smile. ‘I think I must be nervous.’

  ‘Nervous or not, it’s time to go.’ His face suddenly deadly serious, he suggested, ‘Unless you want to change your mind?’

  There was no turning back now. She shook her head.

  As though still doubtful, he pressed, ‘You do love Nick, don’t you?’

  Green eyes met hazel, and she drew a deep breath to lie, ‘Yes, I love him.’ But even as she said it she knew it for the truth. ‘I’ve never stopped loving him.’

  At last she admitted it. Though it wasn’t that simple... Bitterness and hatred and a kind of helpless anger went hand in hand with that love, making the ambivalence of her own feelings shock and astound her.

  Under his breath, Ralph muttered a fervent, ‘Thank God.’ Then, aloud, ‘If you love him I’m sure everything will work out.’

  Raine closed her eyes against the pain. Nick had admitted that he hated her, that all he wanted was to cure himself of an obsession, and, as she couldn’t bear the thought of just being used, the chances of things working out were virtually non-existent.

  Leaning forward, she reached to kiss her father’s cheek before pulling down her fine veil and saying with fragile composure, ‘I’m sure it will... And I’m glad you think I’m like Mother.’

  The familiar church, old and beautiful with its soaring arc
hes and stained-glass windows, was full of sunshine and flowers and Bach.

  Martha, a sturdy, grey-haired woman, dressed to the nines in a fur-collared coat and a hat with a feather, and Mrs Rudge the cleaning lady, also attired in her best, occupied the front pew. The gardener and his wife and a handful of villagers were scattered around the church.

  But the only thing Raine was conscious of was her bridegroom, looking heart-stoppingly handsome in a charcoal-grey suit with a white carnation in his buttonhole as he turned to watch her walk up the aisle on her father’s arm.

  As she approached he held out his hand and drew her to his side. His hard-boned face showed a mixture of triumph and satisfaction, and some other strong emotion that was more difficult to decipher.

  The church was very quiet as the ceremony progressed and the vicar asked, ‘Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife...?’

  Like someone in a dream she heard Nick respond in a firm voice, ‘I will.’

  ‘Wilt thou have this man...?’

  I have no choice... I have to go through with it for Dad’s sake, she wanted to cry. But lifting her chin, she answered clearly, ‘I will.’

  If only things were different... she thought. If only Nick cared for her and this was a proper marriage... But he didn’t, and it wasn’t, and how was she to survive?

  When his ring was on her finger, he turned back her veil and kissed her. His lips were as coolly aloof as his expression.

  Then, the register signed, they were out in the sunshine and a photographer had popped up from nowhere and was taking pictures of the bridal party as they made their way to the waiting cars.

  Less than five minutes later they were drawing up on the cobbles outside Ye Olde Flying Horse Inn, the sixteenth-century black and white half-timbered staging post in Lopsley’s market place.

  Laughing and chattering, the small group were shown into a private room with black beams, a crimson carpet, lattice windows and dark wood-panelled walls, where an early buffet lunch was laid out ready and champagne was waiting on ice.

  The groom set himself out to be urbane and sociable, while the bridesmaid, the best man and the bride’s father got on like the proverbial house on fire. If the bride had to make an effort to talk, and her smiles were a little forced, no one seemed to notice.