Perfect Wedding

by Duncan, Alice

  Marjorie counted herself among the prudes, although she didn’t especially want to. It wasn’t so much that she deplored the use of makeup, as that she didn’t know how to use it. The few times she’d attempted to brighten her complexion with rouge on her cheeks, she’d felt like a circus clown.

  “I’m ready when you are,” Jason said to Mr. Proctor at last.

  Marjorie’s thoughts snapped to attention. She felt Ginger stiffen beside her with eagerness, not unlike a hound scenting a hare, and she wanted to poke the ridiculous girl with an elbow to the ribs.

  Mrs. Proctor played the introductory chords to the Pirate King’s song. Marjorie sucked in her breath. As much as she wanted nothing whatever to do with Jason Abernathy for as long as she lived, she had to admit that he would make a perfect Pirate King, a role that required an abundance of exuberance and swashbuckling joi de vivre.

  Loretta’s husband, Malachai Quarles, looked like a pirate to begin with. Jason, though, now that Marjorie could study him without him knowing it, could be made up to look like a pirate without any fuss at all. Aside from his physical qualities, he also possessed a cockiness that would enable him to swash and buckle with élan. She knew for a fact that he was an excellent dancer, so he’d probably be able to learn the physically challenging choreography necessary for the part without much trouble.

  From the first word, his voice filled the sanctuary. “‘Oh better far to live and die under the brave black flag I fly, than play a sanctimonious part with a pirate head and a pirate heart.’”

  Clasping her hands to her bosom, Ginger sighed, “Oh, my, isn’t he wonderful?”

  Marjorie realized she’d been holding her breath, and told herself to stop it. There was no reason for her heart to be pounding so bluidy hard, either. She disapproved of both of these behaviors, which she believed more properly belonged in a girl of Ginger’s age and relative vapidity than a woman of Marjorie’s years and dignity. “Aye,” she muttered. “He has a good voice.”

  “Good?” Ginger managed to pry her gaze away from Jason for only long enough to give Marjorie an incredulous glance. “He’s simply perfect. Why, with you as Mabel and him as the Pirate King, we should have a first-rate show.”

  “Hmm.”

  “‘For I am a pirate king!’” Jason sang, adding a spirited gesture, as if he were wielding a sword, that made Ginger clap her hand to her cheek and giggle.

  He would do something like that, Marjorie thought caustically. She eyed Ginger out of the corner of her eye and thought and so would she. She wondered if Jason would enjoy having a sycophant. Probably. He was assuredly going to get the part. He’d be perfect in it, too, curse him. And with Ginger and the other women in the chorus swooning over him, his big head would grow even larger.

  The notion of all the female cast members worshiping at Jason’s feet gave Marjorie a peculiar feeling in her middle. She pressed a hand to her thorax and wondered if she’d eaten something that had disagreed with her. She surely couldn’t be worried about Jason taking up an intimate association with Ginger could she? Ridiculous! In fact, the sooner he found another victim and left off bothering Marjorie, the better Marjorie would like it.

  Another twinge in her middle vexed her.

  The song came to an end, and an enthusiastic round of applause filled the sanctuary. In the seat next to her, Ginger was clapping as if she’d just heard Enrico Caruso perform an aria intended just for her. Marjorie eyed her with disfavor. Ginger was such a giddy female. Jason would probably fall madly in love with her. According to Loretta, men preferred idiots to women with brains.

  Not that Marjorie cared. If Jason was fool enough to marry Ginger Collins, the happier Marjorie would be. He deserved her. And she deserved him.

  And why, she scolded herself, was she even thinking about things like that. All she wanted to do was expand her social life by performing in this light opera. That’s all. If the whole world fell in love and married, leaving her the only single female in it, it was nothing to her.

  She wasn’t seeking love, for pity’s sake. She’d had love. Once. But it had been a perfect love, and there would never be another like it, any more than there was anyone in the world who could ever take Leonard’s place. Never. And especially not Jason Abernathy, who was a lout.

  “That was spectacular,” Mr. Proctor said, clapping with enthusiasm. He was clearly overjoyed that Jason had showed up. “I had no idea you could sing so well, Jason.”

  “No? Well, I don’t get much practice anymore, but I enjoy music.”

  “He’ll be perfect as the Pirate King,” Mrs. Proctor gushed. “Don’t you think so, Elbert?”

  Her husband nodded. “Absolutely perfect.” He sighed happily. “So we now have our Mabel and our Pirate King. All we need is a Frederic, and we’ll be all set. We have plenty of people set to be daughters and pirates.”

  As she’d feared he might—Marjorie knew that he’d do anything he could to discompose her—Jason handed his music back to Mr. Proctor and strode over to her side of the sanctuary. Steeling herself, she smiled at him, hoping the smile appeared genuine, since she didn’t want to stir Ginger’s curiosity. In an effort to preempt his sarcastic thunder, she spoke first. “You sang beautifully, Dr. Abernathy.”

  “Thank you, thank you!” he said, flopping onto the pew next to her. “I was hoping for Frederic, but I’ll take the Pirate King.”

  “You’ll play the part very well, I think,” Marjorie said politely. Being around Jason was nerve-wracking, because he so often needled her about one thing or another, and she never knew when he’d strike. Even when he didn’t tease her, she remained on the alert, expecting an attack any moment. He was an exhausting man, and Marjorie hoped rehearsals would keep him so busy that she wouldn’t have to be forever wasting her energy on protecting herself from him.

  “Thank you, Miss MacTavish.” He gave her a grin that would have done the Cheshire Cat, in full toothy mode, proud. “It wasn’t as much fun as when we’re singing at the piano in the Quarleses’ back parlor, but I’m looking forward to the production.”

  Ginger Collins made a squeaky noise, and Marjorie realized she was still there. Following up on the squeak, Ginger trilled, “You mean you two actually sing together?”

  One of Jason’s bushy eyebrows rose in an ironic gesture he usually reserved for Marjorie. Ginger’s bright blush could be seen, faintly, through her rouge.

  Only because she knew she should, Marjorie said, “Please allow me to introduce the two of you. Miss Virginia Collins, this is Dr. Jason Abernathy.”

  She considered telling Ginger a little about Jason, but decided not to. Ginger would learn soon enough that Jason was not merely a doctor, but a well-to-do one, and then she’d be all over him like heather on the brae. Marjorie hoped to spare herself that prospect for a while longer. Not, of course, that she gave a rap that Jason would undoubtedly favor the petite, blond Ginger. She only objected to witnessing scenes that ought to be confined to the privacy of . . . wherever Marjorie couldn’t see them.

  “Oh!” squealed Ginger, “you’re a doctor!”

  “Guilty,” said Jason. “That’s why they call me Dr. Abernathy. How do you do, Miss Collins?”

  “Oh, please, Dr. Abernathy, call me Ginger!”

  Eyeing her critically, Marjorie decided that Ginger was an unusually pert young thing, whose parents should have taught her better manners. Imagine, asking a man to call her by her Christian name upon first being introduced!

  Jason said, “Ginger,” in a bored-sounding voice.

  Marjorie was surprised that he didn’t appear more delighted at being introduced to the pretty, vivacious, and remarkably young, if silly, Ginger Collins. It was just like him to act as if he didn’t care, thereby whetting the girl’s interest. He was no doubt attempting to lull her and would pounce later. Even if Ginger was a ninny.

  Ignoring Ginger, Jason said, “I’m sorry I didn’t get to hear your entire audition, Miss MacTavish. What little I heard of it was beautiful, as
usual.”

  Giving him a squinty-eyed peek, Marjorie detected no ulterior meanings behind his polite words or his bland demeanor. Knowing it was best to be on her guard at all times as regarded Jason, she said, “Thank you.”

  “Oh,” tittered Ginger. “Marjorie has such a beautiful voice. I’m only going to be one of the Major General’s daughters in the chorus, since I couldn’t sing in front of an audience all by myself.”

  And a good thing, too, Marjorie thought spitefully. She said, “Nonsense. You have a lovely voice, Ginger.” Even if it was kind of thin and reedy.

  Jason, who still acted as though he were uninterested in Ginger and her voice—Marjorie knew a devious stratagem when she saw one—leaned back in the pew, stuck his long legs out in front of himself in a negligent posture, crossed his arms over his chest and took note of a young man chatting with Mr. Proctor. “Who’s that priggish-looking fellow?”

  “What priggish . . .” Marjorie narrowed her eyes. The sanctuary was dimly lighted, and she couldn’t see too well. “Oh. That’s Mr. St. Claire. Hamilton St. Claire.” She turned to frown at Jason. “I don’t believe him to be priggish at all, Dr. Abernathy.”

  “No,” said Jason dryly. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Do you even know the man?” Marjorie demanded.

  “Nope.” Jason waved a hand in Mr. St. Claire’s direction. “I can tell.”

  Ginger giggled. Marjorie felt her temper rise and her blood race. Under normal circumstances—say, if they were sparring in the Quarleses’ back parlor, as usual—she’d say something cutting. Since they were in a church and she didn’t want Ginger to witness her further humiliation, she merely huffed softly and dropped the subject.

  Mr. St. Claire possessed a good tenor voice. Marjorie listened with interest since, before Jason had barged in and spoiled the auditions for her, she’d assumed Mr. St. Claire would be her Frederic. It looked as if her assumption would be proved correct. She told herself she was relieved. Hamilton St. Claire, unlike Jason Abernathy, was a gentleman. Even if he was an awful prig. Grimly, she told herself she wouldn’t let on for worlds that she considered him so; especially not to Jason Abernathy.

  “He’s got a pretty good voice,” Jason muttered, eyeing Mr. St. Claire. “Doesn’t look much like a pirate.”

  “It was only through a mistake by his governess that Frederic was apprenticed to a pirate at all,” Marjorie reminded him. “So I suppose that doesn’t matter much.”

  He grinned at her. “You think that guy is going be your Frederic?”

  That guy, indeed. Really, Dr. Abernathy was the least gentlemanly person Marjorie had ever met, and she included Loretta’s husband in the mix. Captain Quarles might be fairly rugged, but he’d never speak of a fine young gentleman as that guy. “I should think so,” she said, striving for a neutral tone. If she by so much as a nuance hinted that she disapproved of Jason’s assessment of Mr. St. Claire, he’d tease her abominably.

  “You deserve better.”

  She swiveled her head in Jason’s direction, incredulous. “I beg your pardon?”

  “No need to beg, Miss MacTavish. It’s so unbecoming. I said you deserve better than to have that fellow as your love interest.”

  Again, Marjorie felt her temper spike. “He will not be my love interest. It’s only a part in a play.”

  He grunted. Marjorie got the impression he wasn’t convinced.

  They listened to Mr. St. Claire sing some more. Marjorie envisioned St. Claire in his “Pirates” costume. He was somewhat spindly. And his limp blond hair and indoor pallor didn’t exactly shout to the world that here was a robust seaman. But makeup could fix that part. And the spindliness might be overcome with padding. The thought of being held and kissed by Hamilton St. Claire made Marjorie’s lips clamp together.

  Better than Jason Abernathy, she told herself.

  Somehow, the notion didn’t lift her spirits as much as she thought it should have. She didn’t have time to ponder the perversity of her own nature, though, because the song came to an end, and she applauded politely. Jason, she noted with disapproval, did not. She gave him a stony glance. He only grinned back at her, and she gave up on attempting to teach him manners by example.

  “Splendid, Mr. St. Claire,” proclaimed Mr. Proctor. Marjorie sensed his praise wasn’t quite as sincere as it had been for Jason. Of course, the choir director and Jason were old acquaintances. That probably accounted for it.

  “I think Mr. St. Claire would make a fine Frederic, Elbert,” said Mrs. Proctor. She, too, didn’t sound quite as enthusiastic as she might have.

  Marjorie told herself to stop being ridiculous.

  “Who’s my Mabel?” asked Mr. St. Claire, clearly happy to have been given the role of Frederic.

  “Miss MacTavish will be our Mabel,” said Mr. Proctor, beaming in Marjorie’s direction. “There she is, next to our Pirate King, Dr. Jason Abernathy.”

  “Miss MacTavish,” Mr. St. Claire in delight. “I’m so pleased!” He rushed over to Marjorie.

  Jason, sprawled at her side, rose only reluctantly to meet Mr. St. Claire.

  Marjorie smiled up at her Frederic, trying to discern what Mabel ever saw in him. “We should have a fine time,” she said to Mr. St. Claire, shaking his hand. She suspected that he had designs on her, although she couldn’t imagine why. She was a perfect nobody with no particular beauty or grace, and he was an up-and-coming attorney in the city. Her only claim to excellence was her singing voice, and what did that matter? Besides, she was older than he by a good two or three years. Perhaps four or five. Not that it mattered.

  Scowling at the two of them, Jason interrupted. “Mr. St. Claire?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Marjorie, instantly recognizing herself as being at fault. It was an old habit, and a difficult one to break, feeling responsible for everything. “Mr. St. Claire, please meet our Pirate King, Dr. Jason Abernathy. Dr. Abernathy, Mr. St. Claire.”

  St. Claire smiled happily at Jason. “How do you do, Dr. Abernathy. Pleased to meet you.” He held out his hand.

  After hesitating ever so slightly—Marjorie wasn’t sure Mr. St. Claire even noticed, although she did—Jason took the younger man’s hand. “Likewise, I’m sure.” He sounded not the least bit happy to be meeting the other fellow.

  “Good evening, Miss Collins,” Hamilton said, as if noticing Ginger for the first time.

  He eyed the pew. Marjorie got the no doubt silly impression that he wished Ginger would move so he could sit next to Marjorie. She was only being fanciful.

  “Good evening, Mr. St. Claire,” Ginger said, her pretty blond curls bouncing. In her younger and more frivolous days, Marjorie would have killed for hair like that. And those guileless blue eyes of Ginger’s were lovely, too.

  Bah. What did it matter what an almost-thirty-year-old spinster looked like? Marjorie told herself she was too old for such petty jealousy. Besides, she was Mabel.

  “Would you like to sit here, Mr. St. Claire?” Ginger got to her feet, smiling prettily. “I’ll just move over to sit beside Dr. Abernathy. I’m sure you and Marjorie will want to discuss your roles.”

  The little cat! Marjorie watched in incredulity as Ginger flounced herself over to the other side of Jason Abernathy and sat as if she weren’t in reality an unmitigated flirt, but was only doing a friend a favor. Then she batted her eyelashes at Jason, and Marjorie couldn’t watch anymore. She turned her attention to Mr. St. Claire. He appreciated her, even if nobody else did.

  “Have any of the other roles been cast?” he asked, leaning a trifle too close for Marjorie’s comfort.

  With one more glance at Jason and Ginger—she was clutching his arm now, the hussy!—Marjorie turned as pretty a smile as she had in her repertoire upon Hamilton. He blinked, startled, and Marjorie guessed it had been a trifle too pretty. Nevertheless, she gushed a bit when she replied to his question. “I’m not sure. I got here a little late. I believe Miss Collins is one of the Major General’s daughters.”

 
“Do you know who the Major General is yet?” Mr. St. Claire’s voice seemed a trifle breathy.

  “I believe Mr. Proctor is going to play that part. He’ll be perfect for it.” Marjorie simpered, then marveled at herself. She’d never simpered in her life before this evening. It was all Jason and Ginger’s fault.

  “Ah . . . yes, he will be wonderful.”

  Marjorie noticed that Mr. St. Claire’s eyes, which were a fairly washed-out blue, were taking on a soulful cast. She decided to back off the simpering and prettiness. “I’m so fond of this opera,” she said, aiming for a bright tone that couldn’t be misinterpreted as flirtatious.

  “Yes,” agreed Hamilton. “It’s one of my favorite—” His words broke off abruptly.

  Suddenly, Jason stood before her. She jerked slightly, as she hadn’t realized he’d left his seat. “Are you ready to leave yet, Miss MacTavish?” he asked sharply. “I’ll walk you home.”

  Casting a startled glance at Ginger, who returned it with a baleful scowl of her own, Marjorie said, “I . . . I—”

  “I’ll be happy to drive you home, Miss MacTavish,” Mr. St. Claire said with a small frown for Jason. “If you’d like to stay a little longer and see the rest of the auditions.”

  “She has to get up early,” Jason snarled at Hamilton. “She needs her beauty rest.”

  “I don’t see that she needs anything of the kind,” Mr. St. Claire snapped back. “She’s beautiful already.”

  Sweet Lord in heaven. With haste and a good deal of confusion, Marjorie rose to her feet. It almost sounded as if the two men were arguing with each other over her. Preposterous. Nevertheless, because she sensed hostility in the air—and not only from the men. Ginger was glowering at her for all she was worth—she said, “I’d really better be getting along.” Later she guessed the devil had entered her heart, in spite of her being in church, because she couldn’t resist adding, “I’m so glad you’ll be Frederic, Mr. St. Claire.”