She turned toward him with a smile, though it was a sad one.
“We did have happy times, Charles,” Jocelyn went on with a sigh, as if trying to convince herself of a fact she had been wrestling with before he came. “We did . . . didn’t we?”
“Of course we did,” replied her husband. “Amanda had a happy childhood, though she is remembering it so differently now.”
“That’s what makes this all the more heartbreaking.”
“What do you mean?”
“That Amanda really is hurting now too, just as we are. The pain she is feeling is real enough, even though it’s based on an illusion of how terrible it was at home.”
“But her memories right now aren’t to be relied on,” said Charles.
“I know. Yet in her own way, she’s suffering as well. And knowing it just tears my heart in two.”
“Our conversion threw Amanda’s life out of balance. Perhaps she has to go through a period of doubt and question, even rejection of our values.”
“But it’s not as if we were bad parents, Charles, or as if this wasn’t a home full of laughter, smiles, and fun.”
“We did what we thought was best for them, Jocie. That happened to change midway through, but it was still their best we had in mind, mistakes we made and all. You have been a good mother, Jocelyn.—You are a good mother. All you have to do is look at Catharine or George and see the character traits we’ve built into them.”
“We tried to do so much for them all. There is no sacrifice we would not have made for any of the three of them—Amanda included. Oh, Charles—how can she say those things about us? It hurts so even to think it!”
“You can’t let yourself fall into the trap of thinking that Amanda’s leaving is your fault.”
“How can I not?”
“If anything,” said Charles, “it’s more my fault than yours. I am the focus of her resentment far more than you are.”
“She resents my compliance with you,” rejoined Jocelyn. “She especially hates the idea of my submission to your authority.”
“Don’t you suppose that it’s actually not either one of us she’s rebelling against? She simply hates authority in any form.”
Jocelyn nodded and let out another sigh. “Here I thought we were doing well. I thought I was beginning to pull out of the despondency of her leaving. Now this letter’s started it all over again.”
Charles reached over and took her free hand. They sat some minutes in silence, staring at the lightening sky. Already the sunlight streaming through the windows was beginning to heat up the small room.
“Before you came in just now,” Jocelyn went on, “I was thinking about what it would be like if Amanda decided to marry. It could happen, you know, Charles, now that she is in London. She is eighteen now.”
He nodded.
“All these years I’ve imagined what it would be like to help one of my daughters plan a wedding. I always assumed it would be Amanda first. I thought how happy the day would be, so different . . .”
Her voice caught momentarily. Charles squeezed her hand. He knew what she was thinking. Jocelyn’s mother had arranged to be out of the country and had not even attended her own daughter’s wedding. It had been the final parental humiliation Mrs. Wildecott had inflicted upon her daughter. Jocelyn had carried it as a quiet, painful memory all the years since.
“I wanted so to be a part of it, Charles,” said Jocelyn, dabbing at her eyes. “It’s something a mother and her daughter are supposed to do with each other. But now I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid Amanda’s going to take that joy away from me too . . . just as she’s taking away the happy memories of her childhood by remembering them as awful.”
“I’m sure Amanda will come to her senses long before then,” said Charles.
“Perhaps . . . yet I’m still afraid. I’m afraid of being shut out again—as I was shut out from her eighteenth birthday two weeks ago. I wanted to write, send her a gift, hold her in my arms and tell her how much I love her. But . . .”
Jocelyn glanced away. Only one who had suffered as had Jocelyn could feel such a disappointed grief in being shut out of a daughter’s birthday celebration.
For some time they sat gazing out into the quiet morning. The house was so much quieter than when Amanda was young. But what would either not have given to hear her bossy, boisterous voice in the hallway at that moment?
“One thing we must do,” said Charles, “as painful as this experience is—we absolutely must keep our hope and vision for George and Catharine alive. The fact that Amanda is gone doesn’t make us any the less parents than we were before. The other two need us—especially Catharine, but George, too, even though he is practically a man and will soon be off to university. And Amanda may one day need us to be mother and father to her again as well. They all remain growing, feeling, sensitive, spiritual beings in need of a parent’s love.”
“I know,” sighed Jocelyn.
“I suppose it is more difficult for you,” Charles went on. “There is something about a mother’s heart that probably suffers more when a daughter turns away, as perhaps there is for a father when his son turns against him. But we have been as good as parents as we knew how to be, at least. We tried to do our best for Amanda, and we will continue to try to do our best for George and Catharine.”
Jocelyn nodded solemnly in response. He reached over and took the now-cooled teacup from her other hand, placed it on the floor and clasped both her hands in his.
“I love you, Jocelyn,” he said fervently. “Nothing will ever change that. I love you more every year. I believe in you, and I care about you no matter what Amanda or your own mother has done.”
Jocelyn smiled through the tears that had gathered in her eyes. “I am more thankful for you than I will ever be able to tell you,” she said, sniffling a bit. “Actually, if anything, Amanda’s leaving only makes me love you the more.”
“God has been good to us, Jocelyn. We’ve had a good life—we must keep reminding ourselves of that. We must be thankful.”
“I do try to keep telling myself that,” she said with a wry smile.
“And it’s far from over, Jocelyn. God will continue to be good to us . . . because he’s a good Father. Remember all our talks with Timothy about just that?”
Jocelyn nodded. “How could I forget?”
“Now I believe we have been given the opportunity of learning to trust in that goodness, though this development in our lives does not appear good. We must hold on to our trust that he will turn it to good, because he turns all things to good.”
Jocelyn was quiet for a minute. When she spoke, she did not respond directly to her husband’s words. “Do you think Amanda will come back one day?”
“That is in God’s hands. Only he knows what purposes his will yet contains for our daughter. But I know that we can trust him . . . and that good will result. We have to believe that.”
“It’s hard, Charles.”
“I know. But look at it this way—we’re being given the opportunity to feel a tiny portion of what God feels.”
“How do you mean?”
“We’re both prodigals, aren’t we? We’ve both rebelled, gone our own way. We’ve said far worse things to God by our disobedience, even without knowing it, than what Amanda said to us. In a way, we can rejoice in this trial we are experiencing for no other reason than that—it enables us to know God’s heart more deeply. Imagine his suffering over his wayward sons and daughters.”
They were silent a long minute, gazing out together over the colorful gardens.
“You are right, of course, Charles,” Jocelyn said at last with a sigh. “And I hope you will keep reminding me when I forget and fall into self-pity.”
She smiled. “And you are also right that we have had a good life together. A few minutes ago I was remembering our wedding day. I suppose thinking about Amanda reminded me of it. Even though Mother wasn’t there, it was still the happiest day of my life.”
�
�———
For years, the eyes of many in England had rested on the handsome son of Ashby Rutherford, Lord of the Manor of Heathersleigh, and his wife, the Lady Anne. Not a few in London’s social circles had dubbed him one of the finest potential catches available. And now young Charles Rutherford was about to marry the daughter of Colonel Wildecott, of distinguished service in India.
A few tongues wagged, it is true, over the fact—impossible to hide—that the young lady was . . . well, different of appearance than one would have expected to attract the notice of the heir to the Heathersleigh estate. To most, however, news of the announcement only confirmed what the young man’s parents both knew well enough, as did Colonel Wildecott and his daughter—that Charles Rutherford was a man of integrity and worth, with a heart that valued character over appearance. If ever there was doubt that he was his own man and an independent thinker, his choice of bride put all notions to the contrary to rest. Charles Rutherford was surely a young man who would go far.
There was a bit of gossip, moreover, concerning the news that the bride’s mother would not attend the wedding. She had chosen to remain in India, claiming that her health would not stand the long journey, and there were some who doubted her excuse. But the groom’s mother had smoothly stepped in to take Mrs. Wildecott’s role in preparing for the wedding, and Lady Anne Rutherford was widely respected. The murmurs regarding this slight change in protocol died down almost as quickly as they had begun.
Lady Rutherford had suggested one of the large London churches for the event. Her son, seeing little point in bowing to the customs of a traditional wedding, had argued in favor of the lawns and gardens of Heathersleigh. But Jocelyn Wildecott, swayed by a sentiment even she did not understand, had wanted to be married in a church. The perfect compromise had been reached by making plans to have the wedding ceremony itself at the parish church, with a gala party and reception to follow on the Heathersleigh grounds.
The scene at the small stone church at Milverscombe on the day of the wedding was such as had never been visited upon the humble edifice in the hundred years of its existence. Enough people were on hand easily to double the number that lived in the village and its environs—a lively mix of London society, for whom the event provided a welcome social break from summer’s monotony, with local landowners, villagers, and even farmers, who rarely had the opportunity to witness such an event.
Dignitaries, noblemen and ladies, and other distinguished visitors sat in the church, whose tall double doors, as well as every window capable of the function after years of disuse, remained wide open so that the spectators gathered shoulder to shoulder outside might catch a glimpse of the ceremony in progress.
The crowd overflowed not only the church but the very churchyard as well. The day was so festive and jubilant, however, that no one seemed overly concerned with how close they could get. Being on hand for the celebration was enough, whether or not they heard the actual vows.
By the time Jocelyn Wildecott took her place on her father’s arm, standing perhaps two hundred feet from the church door, they were surrounded by a press of beaming farmers and villagers and sheepherders and their wives, scrubbed as clean as soap and water could make their skin and clothes, and already proud of their soon-to-be new and future Lady Rutherford.
Never in her life had she felt so self-conscious. She glanced nervously around at what seemed to be ten thousand faces—all looking and smiling at her! And Charles at this moment, she thought, was safe inside the church and hidden from the view of these million eyes! If only he had let her wear the veil over her face. At least then she would have some protection from the thousands of eyes. But Charles would have nothing hidden, he insisted, especially the face of the woman he loved.
Little could Jocelyn imagine that it was the very scar on her face that made the villagers love her so. She might be a colonel’s daughter, the locals thought. She might be accustomed to privilege and standing. They might always use the Lady when addressing her.
Yet her red birthmark, somehow, made her one of them.
At first sight, she became real in their eyes, approachable, vulnerable, down-to-earth. In her obvious humanness, she was a personal link between themselves and the well-off folk of Heathersleigh. From the day of this wedding onward, as long as she and Charles reigned at the Hall, she would be their Lady Jocelyn—no unapproachable aristocrat, but, like them, a fellow human creature, imperfect yet made in the image of God.
As she stood waiting, Jocelyn did not know what this wedding, and she herself, symbolized for the good folk of Milverscombe. Nor was she aware what she would one day mean to the happy older couple who had wriggled their way close and now stood but an arm’s length away, and what they would mean to her. Maggie and Bobbie McFee were not merely beaming, but were also silently praying for the future of this young woman. Indeed she must be one in a million to have won the heart of their very own Master Charles himself!
Jocelyn stood erect, silent, jittery, happy, and waiting impatiently on the arm of her distinguished father. In grey tails and striped trousers, and sporting a huge mustache of the type generally associated with the wild regions east of Sudan, the imposing man would ordinarily have been his daughter’s match for the attention of the eyes of the crowd. But today she was a bride, and every neck outside the church was craned to catch a glimpse of her.
Lovingly and painstakingly stitched by a gathering of local seamstresses, Jocelyn’s dress reflected the Victorian spirit, and the ideals of its queen. Of the heaviest satin to be found, its collar rose high and encircled the neck. Tiny satin-covered buttons led from neck to waist in back, with a heavy satin bow tied at the small of the back. Each long slender sleeve ended with a delicate point of material, cut longer on one side to lie over the back of each hand. The skirt of the dress was plain, though the satin was luxurious in itself, without frills and lace. The filmy veil pinned to the back of Jocelyn’s hair with a satin headpiece stretched the full length of the long train, now held carefully out of the dust by a pair of young attendants.
“The music’s started!” shouted someone in the crowd.
From inside the church Jocelyn barely heard the faint strains now coming from the organ.
“Are you ready, my dear?” Colonel Wildecott whispered, turning and leaning toward his daughter.
“Yes, Daddy,” replied Jocelyn. “I only wish Mother were here.”
“You must forgive your mother, Jocelyn, dear,” replied the colonel in an uncharacteristic moment of openness. “She has not had an easy life traipsing about the world with me. Down inside she is a good woman. One day she will come to her senses and will grow to love you as much as I do.”
Jocelyn’s eyes filled with tears at his unaccustomed tenderness. “Thank you, Daddy. I love you too. I am so glad that you are here with me.”
“There is nowhere else I would be, my dear. All the tigers in India could not keep me from sharing this moment with you. Shall we be off on your new adventure?”
Jocelyn smiled up at him. The colonel stood erect once more and turned to face the church.
They now began the long, slow processional toward the open doors through the long narrow aisle of bodies. Never in Jocelyn’s life had so short a distance seemed so interminably long! Every face they passed wore a triumphant and happy smile, as if she had grown up in the village and was personally a favorite with its every man, woman, and child. In truth, she knew not a soul among them. In time, however, she would be on personal terms with every one—and they would love her even more than they did on this day.
Inside at last, they walked keeping slow time to the processional. Flowers were everywhere, filling every corner with their delicious fragrance.
There sat Charles’ cousin Gifford with his new wife of just eight months. A wave of new doubts swept through Jocelyn at the sight of the young woman’s thin and graceful form. Already Martha Rutherford was part of London’s high society and loving every minute of it. What am I doing marrying into this
family? Jocelyn thought. I’ll never be Cousin Martha’s match socially. I’ll embarrass Charles. He’ll be sorry he married me. . . .
In the front row sat Lord Ashby and his wife, her future parents-in-law, old-fashioned yet progressive aristocrats. Already they had been so kind to her. Lady Anne caught her eye and gave her an encouraging smile. Jocelyn found herself just barely able to return it.
And then there was Charles . . . standing at the front of the church awaiting her, with his handsome, confident, and altogether disarming smile!
The music stopped.
She had arrived! This was the moment. She was about to be married!
The vicar of the local parish proceeded to perform the traditional Anglican marriage service. The words, the vows, the exchange of rings . . . it was all lost in a swirl of dreamy happiness.
Then came the words, “You may kiss the bride.”
The tender moment of silence was followed by oohs inside. Outside, shouts and cheers erupted when news of the regal kiss was communicated via a local sheepherder named Mudgley, whose vantage point near one of the windows afforded him just the necessary view to corroborate the precise moment of contact.
Nor did the cheering and shouts and general hubbub diminish when bride and groom emerged from the open doors into the sunlight and hurried to a waiting carriage. The two horses had by now begun to stomp and snort impatiently. In the driver’s box, young Hector Farnham had been sitting in stoic readiness, but now he lifted the reins and clucked to his charges that it was at last time to be on their way.
The moment they were off, the throng followed, mostly on foot. A steady stream of carriages bearing the more well-to-do of the guests steadily inched their way through the clogged road. But no one was in a hurry. This was a day to be savored.
The gala reception on the grounds of Heathersleigh Hall lasted all afternoon and into the evening. Lavish preparations had been made. Dancing, food, wine, and merrymaking were enjoyed by all. Following the example of the bride and bridegroom, who by day’s end had personally greeted every guest, commoners and nobles mixed freely.
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