by Eva Ibbotson
‘Rupert, you really must not speak to the maids like that,’ said the dowager, suddenly looking extremely happy and aware that she had been less than just to dear, departed Hatty Dalrymple.
‘Who is this person?’ said Mrs Clarke-Binningfold, greatly displeased.
‘An excellent question,’ said Rupert. He turned to Anna, who was now clearing the finger bowls, totally concentrated on her task. ‘You don’t seem to be wearing a wedding ring, so may we assume that we are not yet addressing the Princess Chirkovsky?’
James had served the soup, Sid had begun to hand it round. Anna, still resolutely maintaining silence, picked up the silver filigree basket of bread rolls and followed him.
‘I asked you a question, Anna.’
She had reached Lady Byrne on Rupert’s left. ‘I am not permitted to address the guests,’ she said under her breath.
Rupert’s hand came up and fastened round her wrist. ‘This guest, however, you will address. Please answer my question. When are you getting married? Where is your fiancé?’
But Anna had now had enough. Disengaging her wrist, holding with both hands on to her basket, she drew breath.
‘Very well. You have, of course, ruined this dinner party in which I wished to wait perfectly at table so as to help with the giving of more responsibility to women. So I will tell you, first that I think you are mad, and second, that I am not going to marry Sergei because that is not how I love him and in any case I do not wish to have children who will have breast blisters – only, I must say chest blisters, I think, because this is a country of hypocrisy and coldness where breasts are not respectable. And also Sergei has proposed to the Baroness Rakov, although I have told him it is not necessary because we are now rich and will of course share everything, but he says she is tranquille and will keep away from him the other women. And last, if I had not been assured,’ she said, glaring at Sid and James, ‘that you were already in the Kush, where you absolutely belong because it is full of stones and ice, I would never have come back,’ she finished – and burst into tears.
‘Don’t, Anna! Ah, don’t, my darling,’ said Rupert. He pushed back his chair, removed, with ineffable tenderness, her basket of rolls and, quite impervious to the assembled company, gathered her into his arms. ‘Only, you see, I saw you in the garden with the prince. You were hanging from his arms like . . .’ He broke off, even now racked by the memory.
‘A dishcloth?’ suggested Anna.
‘What?’
Anna, her career abandoned, was now ready to converse. ‘In La Fille Mal Gardée, which is a most beautiful ballet, she hangs exactly in this way from the shoulder of the hero, very soft and . . . limp, you know, like a cloth and at the same time she does little battements with her feet. It is in Act Three and very moving; you will like it very much.’
‘Shall I, my love?’ said Rupert, dabbing gently at her eyes and nose.
The door opened. Proom stood on the threshold.
‘Ah, Proom,’ said the earl. ‘Just the man! We want some champagne. The Veuve Cliquot ’83 that you’ve been guarding with your life.’
‘I have it here, my lord,’ said Proom, advancing. ‘Thinking you might be requiring it, I took the liberty of putting it on ice earlier in the day. I think you will find it to your satisfaction.’
The wedding of Anna and Rupert the following June was not a quiet wedding. For one thing, absolutely everybody cried. Miss Frensham, preparing to thump her way lustily through ‘Lohengrin’, cried, as did Miss Tonks and Miss Mortimer, who had framed the altar steps in an entrancing riot of delphiniums, larkspur and phlox. The Ballets Russes cried, the dowager soaked three handkerchiefs before the bride even set foot in the church, Kira, who had come from Paris with her banker fiancé, wept elegantly into her muff. Susie Byrne did not actually cry, but she seemed to find it necessary to polish her spectacles a great many times and Hannah Rabinovitch, sitting beside her daughter, was quite simply awash.
Nor were the servants at the back of the church any more restrained. Mrs Park, next to her devoted Win, was already blotched and swollen; Peggy and Pearl, Louise and Florence and the two pretty housemaids engaged with an eye on Uncle Sebastien had completely ruined, with their sniffs and gulps, the effect of their morning ablutions in the new attic bathrooms. Mrs Proom, in her wheelchair, had howled herself into hiccups and outside, Baskerville, shut into the gigantic limousine which had been the Baroness Rakov’s engagement present to Sergei, enduring both social exclusion and the company of the dachshund Pupsik, threw back his head and bayed in agony.
To this outburst of emotion there was one notable exception: Heslop’s formidable butler, Hawkins, sitting with disgust beside Old Niannka and listening with loathing to the raucous blubbering of this malodorous foreigner who was now permanently installed at Heslop, trying to set up icons in the billiard room and driving him insane. For it was Niannka who had cut through the gentle persuasions and medical advice which had followed Ollie’s despairing collapse on the night of the ball. What exactly had happened when Anna took her ancient nurse to visit Ollie no one knew. But the old woman had banished everyone from the nursery, wax had been asked for, and pins, and in the silence that followed, Ollie’s voice had been heard gleefully joining in the utterance of unspeakable Russian curses. Minna, returning to find a silver-wigged and unmistakable effigy of Muriel Hardwicke spreadeagled on the floor, had been shocked and angry – until she saw Ollie’s bright face; since when Old Niannka could do no wrong.
But now the bridal car drew up and, on the arms of Petya, almost as tall now as she was herself, Anna walked towards the porch. Her dress was simple and unadorned, she carried only a bouquet of the roses that Mr Cameron had so cunningly named for her, but Countess Grazinsky, waiting to adjust her daughter’s veil, had to turn her head away, so overcome was she by what she saw in Anna’s face.
‘Here are your gloves, dear,’ said Pinny, trying – and failing – to achieve some kind of briskness. And then, ‘It’s time . . .’
But as Anna stepped inside the church, saw the sea of faces, heard the pounding music, she faltered and stopped. It was too much . . . the gods would not permit such joy.
‘I’m afraid,’ she whispered, the colour draining from her face. ‘I’m terribly afraid.’
A small voice, brisk and marvellously motherly, came from behind her.
‘That’s silly, Anna,’ said the Honourable Olive. ‘Being afraid is silly, you know it is.’
Anna turned and met the shining blue eyes of her chief and only bridesmaid. The Honourable Olive’s dress, like Anna’s, had been made by Mrs Bunford. The child had been given free reign for she was all of nine years old now, her natural taste beginning to form, and the white wreath and muslin dress were as simple as Anna’s own. But if ever there was a bridesmaid suffused with the sheer joy of living on such a splendid and dazzling day, that bridesmaid was Ollie Byrne.
And Anna smiled and laid her hand lightly on the bright curls, and turned to walk steadily to where Rupert waited: a man who had passed beyond all doubt and uncertainty — a man who had come home.