Summer's End (25 page)

‘Mr Dibble!'

That would be Daisy. Percy sighed as he went to the foot of the cellar stairs. Sometimes Daisy was a mite too formal, but then people was all different. He looked up, but the angle of the steep steps and the overhang meant all he could see was Daisy's black boots and part of her skirt and apron. How could disapproval make itself so evident with so little?

‘The Good Lord may have to tolerate hard liquor today, but He don't require us to drown in it, Mr Dibble. Time to get the crystal polished.'

He opened his mouth to say that was Harriet's job, then remembered that as
sommelier
he was responsible, and that he had Jamie Thorn coming to help too. Sometimes the Rector stuck his
neck out just like them champagne bottles, and one day, just like them something would go off pop.

Isabel reluctantly emerged from her bath. She told herself this was because it was the last time she would be enjoying this luxury here in the Rectory, but in fact it was to delay the moment when she would don the new lace brassiere and nainsook knickers she had so proudly bought last week. No one else in Ashden had ever worn a brassiere, she was sure of that, as she wriggled to fasten it behind her. Once done, she admired her own shape in the mirror, the way it divided her breasts, then sobered as she remembered that tonight, even if it was in a cabin on an overnight steamer, someone else would be admiring it too … She would keep her night-gown on. Surely he wouldn't expect her to take it off? She had tried to ask her friends, for she wouldn't dare ask Mother, and had comfortingly been told that no gentleman would ask such a thing of her. But she wasn't so sure. The thought of that terrible man at her engagement ball, Frank Eliot, slipped into her mind for no reason at all, and she shuddered deliciously. Quickly she pulled on the girdle, which she had decided could be her ‘something old'. No new corsetry for her today, she thought practically; she wanted to be comfortable. She sat down on the stool and lovingly stroked the white artificial silk stockings on to her legs. Her very first pair. It belatedly occurred to her that perhaps she should have bought some for the bridesmaids too. Oh well, their legs wouldn't be seen. Sensuously, she stretched out one leg after the other, arching her feet to admire them. Then she clipped the suspenders into place. Perhaps she should wear a pretty garter too? She quickly dismissed thoughts of the confined space in which she would be undressing tonight; perhaps they wouldn't undress … not till they reached Paris and she had a dressing room of her own.

Mother would be here any moment to do her hair, and then it would all begin. There was nothing she could do to stop it, marriage would tick relentlessly nearer. Anyway, she didn't want to stop it – did she? There was Paris to look forward to.

Phoebe searched impatiently for the white stockings Agnes had laid out for her. She couldn't find them. Anyway, who needed to wear new stockings? She rummaged to find a respectable pair of old ones, then hopped around in a sort of Indian war dance she had concocted
to assist in the lacing-up of corsetry and donning of hosiery, and suchlike fiddly things. Growing up had meant sacrifices, she had discovered. It was all very well putting one's hair
up,
but having to bone your stomach and hips
in
after the comparative freedom of her earlier light corset and liberty bodice was no joke at all.

Nevertheless she drew in her camisole as highly as she could under the bosom. It made a satisfyingly large bulge of the latter, almost as good as Mother's.

Hair next. Where was Mother? Phoebe debated her chances of escaping a wigging if she pulled the bell for Agnes to seek out Mother, and decided they were slim, so she pulled on the nearest old skirt and blouse and dashed out herself. After all, it was no use telling her she had to wear a silly transformation at the back to support the ridiculous lump of muslin and flowers deemed suitable for bridesmaids if Mother were not going to help jam the thing on. Or she could ask Caroline. She was almost as obliging as Mother.
Someone
must help. She couldn't see the back of her head except by lying semi-spreadeagled over the stool, looking into her dressing-table mirror and, if she were lucky, catching a glimpse of the back of her head in the wall mirror opposite.

There was no sign of Mother; she must be with Isabel or old Ma Dibble-Dabble. And no Caroline either. Very well, she'd do it herself and
then
she could put her pink gown on, ready for the wedding. With great glee Phoebe contemplated the narrow skirt with its overtunic – how cross Isabel had been that they all had narrow skirts and she looked as if she were ‘wearing a crinoline', she had moaned, her gown was so full. Phoebe was looking forward to the wedding, though she wasn't sure why. She supposed it was because something was happening at last. Moreover, it was a something in which, though there was no Christopher to tease and the new curate was no Anthony Wilding, at least there could be no Len Thorns to distract her with thoughts of powerful bodies rippling with muscles over their firelit anvil.

Felicia was dressing almost absent-mindedly; unlike Phoebe, however quickly and with whatever lack of attention she dressed, she still looked graceful – not that she greatly cared, but she knew it pleased Daniel. She deftly braided up the long dark hair and slipped the cool satin over her head. She liked this shade of green and the matching
silk gloves, carefully dyed from white. Soon she would be ready, and that would help make
it
come all the quicker.
It
was not only Isabel's wedding, but seeing Daniel. He'd be leaving in two days' time, and this might be the last time she saw him, yet it was impossible. What if she never saw him again? Suppose he married a dusky princess of the Nile, or a classic Greek beauty? No, God could not be so unkind. It was He had marked them for each other. Daniel still had to find that out, that was all. She was lucky, for she had known what she wanted all along: Daniel.

Agnes hesitated, then took the plunge and made an excuse to go by Rosie's station where she was busy shelling eggs and creaming the yolks. ‘You're friendly with Ruth Horner, aren't you? I wondered –'

‘Not really,' Rosie quickly interrupted. ‘I know her, that's all, and, oh Miss Pilbeam, I'm ever so sorry.'

Agnes stiffened, then tried to relax. Genuine pity she must accept, and she and Jamie had few enough friends left, that was for sure. ‘Kind of you, Rosie. Mind, not too much curry powder in the eggs.'

‘No, Miss Pilbeam. I'm sorry – about Jamie, I mean.'

‘What for?' Agnes said sharply. ‘It makes no difference, we'll be wed anyway.'

‘Even after what I said I'll have to say?' Rosie stared at her.

‘What's that?' Agnes was bewildered.

‘Ruth asked me, you see, and I had to say yes, 'cos I did.'

‘Did
what?
' Unconsciously Agnes clutched her wooden spoon like a weapon.

Rosie looked alarmed. ‘I thought you must know by now, that Jamie would have told you. That's what caused all the rough music, see.'

‘
What?
'

‘I had to say I saw them going into the old gentleman's cottage, Ebenezer's, I saw her and Jamie. 'Cos I did, going back after my evening off.'

‘You
saw
them?' Agnes whispered, feeling as if she'd been hit in the stomach. No one could doubt Rosie. If Rosie said so, it was the truth.

‘My mum said speak the truth and you'll never go wrong, Rose.' Rosie looked anxious all the same. ‘Now look what I've done.' Rosie tried to grapple with this ethical problem.

‘It isn't your fault,' Agnes managed to say. She'd never really
believed it, not even after what Ruth had said. She'd told herself all the boys swam naked in the river, Ruth could have seen Jamie like that any time in the last ten years. But now that remaining strand of hope was broken too, and the rough music drummed incessantly at her heart.

Twelve o'clock. One hour to go. Late for a wedding, particularly since they were to receive Holy Communion. Laurence had disapproved when Elizabeth told him of the time being set back so that a full luncheon was not required. Our Lord should not take second place to household economics, he had pointed out, but Elizabeth, practical as always, pointed out that Our Lord had performed miracles at weddings to help supply the provisions, and this would be another one in its way.

Laurence entered his cool church, which smelt of the fragrance of flowers and the wisdom of ages. Ostensibly he had come to check his cope and white stole were lying ready for him, and that all was ready for the Celebration. He knew it would be. Bertram had proved a most efficient sacristan, except for the day after his birthday. Teetotal the rest of the year, he claimed the Lord owed him the privilege of a bottle of port wine on the day of his birth. Unfortunately this year his birthday had fallen on a Saturday, but the churchwarden took over his Sunday duties, without a word being spoken.

Laurence tried to analyse the root of his worry. Marriage was a celebration he'd carried out countless times. He'd married the children of couples he'd married as a young man himself, he'd baptised their children, and now he was to marry his own firstborn. Soon the other five would follow. Four, he automatically corrected himself. He sometimes saw Millicent as a living entity in the family, a presence that would not fade. She would have been nearly twenty-four now, possibly even married. They might even have been grandparents. Impossible to think of his firefly bewitching Elizabeth as a grandmother. With Isabel married, they might not have to wait long now.

But that brought him back to the heart of his concern. He had doubts about the wisdom of Isabel's marriage, but all his talking to her had shaken her resolve not a whit. She was twenty-five and what if her motives were more selfish than desirable? Had marriage not always been a matter of position and property, an economic
arrangement? He and Elizabeth had married for love but who was to say which marriages were happiest? Isabel would make a splendid hostess, and mother – here, Laurence's imagination broke down. He could not see Isabel as a mother, but it was fashionable for the wealthy to leave the task of rearing their children to others and England produced worthy sons none the worse for it. Just because his own views were different, he could not condemn others. All the same, his prayers to God were more personal than usual.

At twelve-fifteen the bellringers arrived, collected their beers, ready waiting thanks to Bertram, and, as their boots clumped up the wooden stairs to the bell chamber, he reflected that they were as much a part of it all as he and Elizabeth, for marriage was a social event as well as a religious one. He remembered this afternoon he must persuade Robert not to travel to the Continent in such troubled times, and that inevitably meant discussion with Swinford-Browne, who would be as concerned as a father as he was. Relations between them were strained, to put it mildly. Without proof he could not accuse Swinford-Browne outright of involvement in Tilly's re-arrest. He had, however, made his suspicions plain to the man – who had piously denied any knowledge of the matter. Now they must meet as parents with a common anxiety. He put it out of his head again; the coming service would affect the rest of the young couple's lives, the loss of a holiday in France would not.

‘Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay,' carolled Elizabeth, leading the way with
the
dress
; Caroline was half crouched at her side holding the skirt and train gently over her arms, managing the odd kick on the ‘boom' when she could.

Isabel sat in splendour at her dressing table, her fair tresses looped stylishly
à la Vallière
, after Elizabeth's ministrations; there had been no need of a transformation after all, thanks to her mother's careful brushing and judicial use of pins. Like a high priestess, Isabel slowly raised her arms towards her wedding dress.

‘Isabel,' Elizabeth jerked the dress away as she drew closer and observed the shocking truth, ‘have you been
enamelling
?'

‘Only a little lip rouge, Mother, and a little on the cheeks,' Isabel declared, studiedly off-handedly.

‘You look like a painted doll.'

‘This is my
wedding
day, Mother.'

‘All the more reason for you to look as God intended, my child.'

Caroline decided to intervene, seeing deadlock fast approaching. ‘I should take it off the cheeks anyway, Isabel. It doesn't suit you, but the lips look rather nice.'

She earned a glare from her mother. ‘It will mark the gown.'

‘I'll be careful.' Isabel scrubbed at her cheeks with the nearest handkerchief – a carefully laundered one from Grannie Overton's linen reserve with embroidered roses and violets.

‘One two three
go.
' Caroline shouted as the gown floated down over Isabel's head and shoulders, settling, then falling over her hips. Caroline was despatched to the rear to do up the army of tiny covered buttons; Elizabeth tweaked in front. The Overton pearls were duly placed round her neck, gloves were donned, train and veil arranged and at last Elizabeth pronounced herself satisfied. She pulled the cloth off Caroline's mirror, carried in specially for the occasion. ‘There!'

Isabel surveyed herself, from flowery topknot to the satin shoes peeping out under the detested full skirt. At last she turned round to face them. ‘I look beautiful,' she told them in awe-struck wonder.

Elizabeth said nothing, but her silence said all. Caroline provided the words: ‘Lovely – have you got the old, new, borrowed and blue?'

‘I've put my blue garter on, but –' Isabel's face grew round in horror – ‘not the something borrowed.'

‘You've Granny Overton's pearls.'

‘No, they're going to be mine anyway – I'll have to borrow the jet buckle after all, Caroline. I'll pop it in my Dorothy bag.' She beamed, all resolved to her satisfaction.