‘Ma…’
‘What now, love?’
The exasperation in her mother’s tone didn’t exactly invite confidences. But if she couldn’t share her fears with her mother, then with whom could she share them? She had never before longed for an older sister but at this precise moment…
‘I don’t feel… you know, ready.’ The words, once out of her mouth, sounded as feeble as she had known they would, not that she could help the way that she felt; the way that she had been feeling for some days now. It had been all right to start with – when George had taken her breath away by suggesting that they wed – but now, now that the day had finally arrived, the prospect of becoming his wife was utterly terrifying.
‘It’s like I said,’ her mother was continuing as she crossed towards the door, ‘none of us was ever ready and I’d be lying to let you think otherwise. ’Tis just the way of it. But one thing’s for certain: fretting over it won’t make it any better.’
Thinking that her mother’s shallow smile offered little by way of reassurance, she turned back to the hearth, only to find that the unfamiliar face staring back at her from the looking glass didn’t help much, either.
‘Well?’ she mouthed at it, aware that for the moment at least, she was alone. But the lopsided glass, speckled from an eternity of reflecting lives more normally carried on without reference to it, returned no judgement.
She leaned closer. In the murky light it was hard to be certain of very much at all apart from the fact that the sombre young woman staring back at her did appear more grown up than usual; certainly more grown up than the one on this side of the mirror actually felt. She angled her head and reconsidered but no; no matter which way she looked at it, the result amounted to much the same thing: it was a lie, an act of deception. That apparently presentable young woman was not the one George Strong was about to gain as a wife. No, sadly, the real Mary Springer was far more ordinary. She had unkempt hair the colour of old thatch and features that were entirely unremarkable. Her face was indifferently roundish, her nose short and slightly stubby and her eyes a rather ordinary hazel colour. Admittedly, they were neither too large nor too small, and her lips were at least a pleasingly deep pink colour. But, as the saying went, no one was ever going to stop a runaway horse to look at her. In fact, the more she considered it, the more uncomfortable she felt with this fancy, dressed-up rendering of her ordinariness. If nothing else it was dishonest; dishonest enough to spell disaster.
‘Oh, for goodness sake, Mary. In all my days I’ve never seen a bride looking so glum.’
Turning stiffly, she saw her mother dragging David towards the bowl of water on the table.
‘Well, I’m real sorry Ma, but I’m given to wondering whether this ain’t a mistake. I mean, what if once we’re wed, he don’t like me? What if I’m not what he thinks I am?’
‘Jitters again.’
‘But he barely knows me.’
‘He knows enough.’
‘And it’s so important that he likes me.’
‘He will.’
‘But Ma…’ Oh, this was hopeless.
‘Mary, child, you said it yourself; George Strong is a fine fellow and at five an’ twenty, certainly old enough to be sure what he wants in a wife. So you can rest assured that he ain’t entering into this lightly. And as you remarked yourself not a few moments back, no doubt he had the pick of a very many young women, all of them ready to wed him in the blink of an eye.’
‘So why’d he choose me then?’ She didn’t mean to sound ungrateful but the closer it drew, the more implausible it seemed. What on earth did he see in her?
‘Well, since I can’t read his mind I couldn’t say. But what I do know for certain, is that no man wants a wife with fanciful thoughts and a head that’s constantly in the clouds. If I’ve told you once to stop daydreaming, then I’ve told you a dozen times this morning alone. So I suggest you stop all this nonsense, make peace with your good fortune and try not to be so joppety-joppety. And if you’re still troubled by doubt, then just remind yourself how that family of his owns Summerleas and maybe offer up some thanks for the security that will bring you; the sort that most folk around here would give their right arm for.’
Her mother was right, of course. Indeed, she was right about most of it but it still didn’t alter the way she felt.
‘I know.’
‘Then for heaven’s sake stop looking so miserable. Walk up the aisle with that face and he’d be well within his rights to change his mind.’
Would that, she wondered then, be such a terrible outcome? It would certainly bring an end to her dilemma.
‘But there’s just so much I don’t know about,’ she ventured, the glance she gave in her mother’s direction, suggesting, though that continuing to voice her fears was pointless. In fact, as she watched her jerk at David, scolding him to stand still, she could see that she was no longer even listening. No, over the last few days, Ma had made it quite plain that in her view, she was making a good marriage and ought to be thankful. So perhaps, in the same way that she was always telling David that he would grow into his hand-me-down boots, there was a chance that she herself would somehow grow into being married. It was a hope at least worth trying to hold on to because at this precise moment, she felt as though she was teetering at the edge of a sheer drop; a feeling worsened by the knowledge that very shortly now, she would be expected to step – willingly – over the edge. Then she must make the most of these last minutes. Yes, if she only had one, final chance to ease her concerns, then she would have to find a way to broach the matter bothering her most.
‘Ma…’
In front of the hearth, though, her mother’s attention was now on her own appearance and as she stood tugging at her best shawl, her impatience with it spilled over into her tone.
‘Yes, love.’
Go on, she urged her faltering tongue.
‘Tonight…’
‘I know, love. It’s a shame we won’t be at the randy but as I said to Pa, that’s a fearful long traipse to make with the little ones.’
She shook her head, and grasping hard on the back of the chair, watched as her fingernails turned a deeper shade of pink.
‘No, I know that. And I understand. It’s not the randy…’
‘What then? You know, this really ain’t the sort of appearance I wanted.’
‘Tonight, after the randy…’ Go on, she willed herself again. Ask before it’s too late. ‘What will he, George, I mean, what will he expect me to… do?’
Even in the grime of the mirror, the reddening of her mother’s face was obvious.
‘Lord, child, let that be the least of your worries. As you’ll find out soon enough now, it’s summat of nothing and for certain not worth getting all worked up about. Trust me, when the time comes you’ll just know what’s wanted of you.’
‘But Ma—’
‘Well, I suppose this will have to do since no amount of wishing is going to turn wool into silk, is it?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then, seems we’re all set.’
All set? That was it? Her mother’s advice about what was about to be the most momentous event of her life amounted to wait and see? By her sides, her fingers had curled into fists, and – not nearly far enough away – the church clock had begun its ponderous announcement of the hour. One… two… three, she counted; the pause between each chime separated by at least a dozen beats of her heart.
‘Anyone in there ready yet?’
‘On our way, love,’ she heard her mother responding so ordinarily to her father’s enquiry.
Everyone, then, was ready; everyone except for her. She wanted to smile, truly she did, but her most powerful feeling of all was an urge to run. In all probability, though, it was too late now anyway: George and all of his family would already be gathered in the church, waiting for her. Yes, the chance for changing her mind was long past, the recognition of which seemed simply to knot her stomach even tighter. There was noth
ing more for it, then: she must force her feet out through the door and up the lane to the church to become the wife of George Strong of Summerleas Farm.
Taking a final glance over her shoulder at the strangely silent room, her eyes came to rest on the clutter that represented the seventeen years of her life so far, the realisation dawning on her then that the next time she set eyes on it all, it would be as a visitor. That daily life here would go on without her only made matters worse, and so, pressing her eyes briefly shut, she lifted her skirts to be clear of the sawdust on the floor of her father’s workshop and followed in her mother’s wake.
Walking through the village with the rest of the family trailing in sombre fashion behind, she tried to distract herself from the tautness of her stomach by concentrating instead on the most minute and irrelevant details along the familiar path. Here, she focused her eyes on the purple-blue, waxy bloom of the sloe berries on the spiny blackthorn bush outside Ma Flood’s cottage and there, she remarked silently upon the way in which the mottled crab apples were beginning to weigh down the branches of her much-prized tree. Further along, she noted the hard, scarlet gloss on the rose hips not yet softened by frost, caught the sharp, scolding ‘churrr’ of a wren somewhere in the quickthorn hedge and filled her nostrils with the damp tang that signalled the yielding of summer to autumn. But as each new distraction faded, the squat and rather smug tower of the church loomed a step larger, and despite the steadiness of her father’s tread beside her, her own feet seemed more and more reluctant to move. Her throat was constricting harder, too. And that was without the fear that was numbing her limbs and the wild tattoo from her heart that was now loud enough to obliterate everything except the scrunching of their feet on the gravel.
‘Pa…’ she whispered, her fingernails digging into the scratchy cloth of his sleeve. But already they were through the lychgate and heading towards the porch; towards the dark doorway waiting to consume her. And then, in an act that was nothing short of treachery, her feet were conducting her over flagstones worn to smoothness by the passage of so many brides before her to bring her alongside the man who was about to become her husband.
*
Events after that seemed little more than a blur. George, she recalled later, had seemed to be smiling as she approached, and the vicar’s welcome to the congregation had commenced in the same monotone with which he delivered all of his addresses; no distinction afforded to the celebratory nature of matrimonial union or the solemnity of a laying to rest. Perhaps, being unwed himself, the two were much as one to him.
‘In the presence of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, we have come together to witness the union of George with Mary, to pray for God's blessing on them…’ he was intoning.
Perhaps he had once been jilted. Or perhaps, the woman at whom he had once directed his affections had refused him on account of the rectory being such a mean little dwelling and Tansy Vine being such a sour-faced housekeeper.
‘I, George, take thee, Mary, to be my wedded wife…’ With a snap, her attention returned, ‘to have and to hold from this day forward…’
And then somehow, her own, trembling voice was whispering, ‘…for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish and to obey, till death us do part…’
And then it was over – to her mind, indecently quickly – and she found herself standing side by side with her new husband, watching as the clerk’s nib scratched their names below a long list of others in a ledger that exuded an aroma reminiscent of the inside of a musty trunk.
A cold finality seeped into her chest. So this was it. She glanced up to George’s face, but he was looking straight ahead, his sidelong expression seeming pensive to the point of melancholy. Perhaps he, too, had been surprised by the swiftness of it all.
Once outside again in the pale sunlight of the fading September afternoon, she gripped his arm, her eyes searching the whirl of villagers for the faces of her parents. Maybe now they would be persuaded to come to the celebrations.
‘We’ve more than enough food and ale.’ It was Hannah Strong – her voice so much more commanding than Ma’s – pressing hospitality upon her mother. She turned her head in their direction. ‘An’ you’re welcome to stop over in the barn if you can’t be done with journeying back tonight.’
But the tone of her mother’s reply meant that she didn’t need to hear her precise words to know her response. And in any event, oblivious to her turmoil, George was now leading her away and the moment for a final plea of her own was lost.
‘Well then; your carriage awaits,’ she heard him saying and looked ahead to see a chestnut mare and a farm cart decorated with lengths of white ribbon.
‘Oh, how pretty,’ she remarked, avoiding his eyes but accepting his hand up. They were, she realised then, the first words they had said to each other since making their vows and she couldn’t help noticing that as he went round to climb up on the other side, his response to her observation was a hesitant and half-formed smile.
‘Well, here we go then.’
Yes, here we go. But to what?
She wanted very much to smile back at him, but it felt far too forward yet to meet his look and so instead, she craned over her shoulder to wave to her parents. But as the cart began to bump steadily out of the village and their waving figures began to shrink in size, she was forced to bite her tongue against tears. Carefully, she risked another glance at the man sitting beside her. Was he as anxious as she was? From what little she could see of his expression it was hard to tell.
For what seemed like ages after that, they rode in silence until eventually and with a gentle sigh, he seemed to take it upon himself to make conversation.
‘We’ve a right randy ready in the barn.’
‘Oh.’
‘Pretty much all of the village will be there.’
‘Goodness.’
‘Aye, Ma an’ Pa always put on a good spread an’ it don’t matter the occasion, you can be sure it will be packed to the rafters,’ he added, the prospect raising the line of his mouth into a grin.
‘Oh.’
But as suddenly as it had started, the one-sided effort at discourse petered out, the hurdle of awkwardness once again looming. She tried to think of something to say, something – anything – that wouldn’t make her sound foolish – but her mind seemed blank. She bit her lip and looked out over all that remained of the recent harvest; stripes of brittle stubble separated at regular intervals by the dark lines of hedgerows showing the first ruddy tints of autumn. Still, though, she could think of nothing to say. But what were you were supposed to talk about when you had just become the wife of someone you barely knew?
Apparently sensing her apprehension but keeping his gaze on the lane ahead, she became aware of him reaching for one of her hands.
‘Must be hard leaving home.’ She gave a single nod, unable to trust herself to speak. ‘But you’ve no need to werret. I’m not a monster an’ I promise I’ll see you all right. This evening might be a bit overwhelming, mind, what with everyone wanting to get a look at you, but they all mean well enough an’ from tomorrow, well, I’m certain we’ll be left much alone.’ When he squeezed her hand, she gripped his tightly in return, its size and warmth conjuring memories of being little and having her father reach for her hand as they walked to church. Perhaps, though, it was best not to dwell on thoughts of her family right now. ‘Well, there’s Verneybrook, then,’ he remarked after a while longer with a nod away to the right.
She sat more upright and followed the tilt of his head. Spilling down the hillside like icing down the side of a cake was a bronze-green beech hanger and protruding squarely above it, a stone church tower. Further along, she picked out a line of dun-coloured roofs, one of which, she realised with a start, must be her new home; their new home. A few weeks back, he had told her that he had been repairing a cottage; one that stood in its own garden above the water-meadow. What he hadn’t said, though, was what it was like. Still, she wo
uld know soon enough now, but then seemingly, it was just one of many things that she would, in her mother’s words, know soon enough now.
Moments later and without any prompting from George, she noticed that the horse turned onto a narrow track and as they started to descend a gentle slope in the direction of a cluster of buildings, she clasped her hands tightly in her lap. Having for so many weeks tried to picture this very moment – the moment of her arrival at Summerleas Farm – she was disappointed to find that the track by which they were approaching was separated from the house by a tall hedge and that they seemed about to enter by what was clearly the yard. In her mind she had imagined – rather fancifully as it now turned out – that they would draw up beside the front door, where she would be welcomed by George’s family and friends. Instead, at the sound of their wheels on the cobbles and apparently from nowhere, a rag-tag collection of bodies swarmed about the cart, snatches of their conversations reaching her ears,
‘Pretty dress.’
‘Aye, lovely.’
‘She don’t look all that old.’
‘Chit of a girl.’
‘An’ him five an’ twenty if he’s a day.’
‘Smaller than I thought she’d be, too, what with the Strongs bein’ a tall family.’
‘Aye, an’ not that shapely, neither. Make a yard of pump water look curvy, she could.’
‘Nice enough eyes, though.’
Brides, she knew, were supposed to blush but surely their cheeks weren’t supposed to flush to the colour of ripe plums? But then she’d defy any bride not to redden at the nature of some of these comments. Didn’t people in this village know that it was ill-mannered to discuss someone in their presence? Or did they think her deaf?
To her right, she watched George leaping down from the cart, a quick glance at his face telling her that in contrast to her own discomfort, he was entirely at ease surrounded by these people, grinning with every shake of his hand and stooping repeatedly to be kissed on the cheek. And when, eventually, he arrived at her side of the cart and held out his arms, he lifted her down with so little effort that the remark about the yard of pump water came back to mind, the embarrassment of it sufficient to send a shiver through her. Thankfully, he appeared not to notice and when he offered his hand, she determined not to let go of it, allowing him to lead her towards the open doorway of a barn and then once inside, across to a long trestle where he indicated their places at the centre of it. Now she understood what he had meant about putting on a good spread. Laid with crockery on a fine linen cloth, the table was decorated with garlands of greenery laced with threads of bryony and dotted with bursting, orange-red hips. In the light of the lanterns it looked so welcoming and so warm, and she was about to comment as much when she noticed his attention taken by something back towards the door.
A Country Marriage Page 2