by Green, Cally
Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, she thought as she looked at the items laid out on the bed.
Something old. She picked up the antique silver bracelet that had been her mother’s, and her grandmother’s before that, and turned it in her hands, her eyes tracing the exquisite chasing.
Then putting it gently down again she turned to her gown. The velvet dress was something new.
Something borrowed. She patted the white ribbon that was threaded through her piled-up hair, on loan from Emmy.
And something blue. Her white silk stockings, part of a lacy set of underwear, were held up by garters trimmed with blue lace.
‘Do you need any help, dear?’ Emmy called through the door.
‘Not yet,’ she replied. But Emmy’s voice had recalled her to a sense of the time and, picking up her dress, she carefully stepped into it. It had taken her some time to find, but at last she had discovered just what she had been looking for at a small, individual London boutique. It was made of fine white velvet, and was perfect for a winter wedding.
She drew the dress up over her hips and arranged the bodice, calling to Emmy for help in fastening it. Instead of a zip, it was closed at the back with small, velvet-covered buttons, and as Emmy’s fingers nimbly pushed the buttons through the button-holes the dress took shape. Its neckline was scooped, showing off perfectly the pearl necklace which Mark had bought her as a wedding gift, and the sleeves were capped. The bodice fitted closely whilst the skirt, fitting closely to the hips, then flared out before dropping in rich folds to the floor.
She had wondered what to do about a head-dress, but in the end had decided on a short veil. As she arranged it carefully over her hair she was pleased with her choice. It balanced the shape of her dress and its gauzy texture looked stunning next to her dark hair.
She picked up her bouquet of white roses. ‘Will I do?’ she asked anxiously, struck by last-minute wedding nerves.
‘My dear, you look beautiful,’ said Emmy, before following Anna downstairs.
Mrs Voronowski was waiting in the hall below. The old lady had been delighted when Anna had asked her to be a part of the ceremony. With her father dead and no other relatives, Anna had worried about who would give her away, but Mrs Voronowski had been like family to her and had agreed delightedly to take on that rôle.
Dressed in dark green, the old lady blinked so that her eyes would not mist.
‘Mein liebling, you look magnificent.’
Anna saw the same thought mirrored in Mark’s eyes, and more, as not long afterwards she walked down the aisle and took her place at his side.
The ceremony was beautiful. The music, carefully chosen by Anna, was rich and varied. And when it was over and she walked back down the aisle on Mark’s arm, she felt she had never been happier.
At Little Brook once more she and Mark greeted the guests, and Anna felt a surge of pride as she realised that Mark was at last her husband.
Once they had done their duty Mark took her aside. ‘There’s something I want to show you,’ he said. He took her hand and led her towards the drawing-room.
‘Close your eyes,’ he commanded with a smile as they reached the door.
‘Why?’ she asked innocently.
‘It’s a surprise.’
Smiling too, she closed her eyes - to feel his arms slide round her waist and his lips press tenderly against her own.
‘Mmmmm,’ she sighed, as he pulled away from her. ‘My favourite kind.’
He laughed. ‘That wasn’t the surprise. I just couldn’t resist. You, Mrs Raynor, are a sight for sore eyes.’
Anna smiled and lifted her hand to stroke his hair.
‘If you do that, you’ll never see what it is,’ he groaned, pressing her to him once again.
‘Is it really so important?’ she asked him teasingly.
He stepped back, but kept hold of her hand. ‘It’s something you’ll like. Now close your eyes again.’
Laughing, she did as he told her, and he led her into the room.
‘Now open them,’ he said.
She let out a gasp. There, next to the tall windows, was a shining black piano. ‘A Yamaha grand,’ she breathed.
‘A concert grand,’ he said.
She laughed. Larger than even a grand, the concert grand was a wonderful instrument. She ran her fingers lovingly over the keys, rejoicing in the clarity of the sound. Unable to resist, she sat on the piano stool and played the Debussy toccata again. So much had happened since she had played it at Serena’s party.
‘Well?’ he asked, watching her with love clearly evident in his eyes.
‘It’s magnificent. I can't believe it’s mine.’
‘And I can’t believe you’re mine,’ he said, pulling her up and into his arms again. ‘Tell me,’ he said, some minutes later, when he had released her from a tender embrace, ‘would you have liked to have been a concert pianist if you had had the opportunity.’
She considered. ‘No. I don’t think I would. For one thing, I’m not sure I would have been good enough - that’s not modesty, it’s just a plain statement of fact. And even if I had been good enough, I don’t think the life would have fitted my temperament. It involves an awful lot of practising, and a lot of travelling round.’
He nodded, and there was just the slightest hint of relief in his eyes. ‘I’m glad. Because if you’d wanted to do it, then I wanted you to have the opportunity. But I would have hated the thought of you going on tour.’
‘I think, to lead that kind of life, you have to really want it. But what I really want,’ she said with a blissful sigh, ‘is to be here with you.’
And she turned up her face for his kiss.