Author's Note: "Silence is the perfectest herald of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours." –Much Ado about Nothing, Act II, Scene One, William Shakespeare
Disclaimer: I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.
Lady Sybil would not be wearing a dress. Her dark blue skirt had been pressed into service, topped by a high-necked blouse of crocheted lace on loan from her Irish mother-in-law. Her dark hair would be covered by a chapel veil of sky blue… though they would not actually be in the chapel, they would be just outside the doors of the sanctuary, in order to preserve the sanctity of that holy place from the unclean spectacle of the union of a Roman Catholic with a member of the Church of England. Sybil smiled. God would see them, God would join them, even if they weren't at the altar.
Lady Mary and Lady Edith considered the proposed ensemble, where it lay on the bed.
"Why blue?" Edith asked.
"It's supposed to be for St. Patrick, 'St. Patrick's blue,' Tom called it." Sybil said.
"I thought the Irish wanted everything green," the blonde girl objected uncertainly.
"Not for a wedding," Sybil told her middle sister. "I'm reliably informed the fairies will carry me off if I wear green on my wedding day."
"Will you wear a tiara?" Mary asked doubtfully.
Sybil wondered where her sister thought they would get one.
"Of course she'll have a crown," Brenna told them, walking in on the conference. "Of wildflowers."
Edith looked interested. "Who's making it?"
"Tommy is." Seeing the English girls stare, the Irishwoman continued, "Don't worry. He's quite good at it. He used to make them for me all the time when he was a boy."
"Is that the tradition here?" Mary eyed Sybil's mother-in-law of tomorrow askance. "For the groom to make the bride a wreath of flowers for the wedding?"
Brenna snickered. "No. It never happens. The bride's best friend makes it."
"So why is Tom doing it?" Edith asked. "We're here, after all," she continued suggestively.
Brenna shook her head. "No, you're her sisters. Tommy says he's her best friend."
Sybil thought about that. "I do believe he's right."
The Crawley sisters had insisted it would be bad luck for Tom to see Sybil on Tuesday evening, so the ladies were left to amuse themselves. On learning that Edith played the pianoforte, Brenna suggested she might like to try the harmonium, so after dinner, the furniture and knickknacks were again rearranged to allow the women to open the instrument. Sybil and Mary sat on the little settee conversing, what time Brenna and Edith fiddled with the sheet music… Anna and Dara were presumably communing on the mysteries of servanthood in the kitchen or bedroom.
Eventually, Edith sat down to play, but was profoundly unsuccessful: she could not work the foot pedals properly, so the sound faded in and out.
"Push down with your left foot all the way, without pressing on the right pedal at all. Then lift the left foot back up all the way. Now press down with your right foot all the way, and not your left at all. Then bring the right back up and repeat."
Edith persisted (though not at all successfully) until both women were laughing.
"This is worse than learning to drive," Edith chortled.
"Let's try it this way." Brenna sat down on the floor, reaching around Edith's legs to get at the pedals and began to work them with her hands. This worked better, but was still difficult: she was used to working them with her feet. Finally, she braced her back against the settee, and (still sitting on the floor) worked the pedals with her feet, while Lady Edith crouched over the older woman to use the keyboard.
This arrangement gave the most consistent sound, only marred by their laughter. Mary and Sybil looked on in amusement, and when Edith had finished, and turned around, she saw that Anna and Dara were looking on from the doorway. Brenna, still on the floor, craned her neck around to look at all of her guests and her niece. "I'll bet you never dreamed you'd meet with such elegant hospitality at Tommy's mother's, did you, ladies?" She winked and laughed.
The day was perfect: the sun shone bright and warm, and the dew on the grass had dried, leaving the fresh scents of earth, grass, and flowers for the city dwellers who had taken refuge in the park. An old woman watched as the young man and his tiny daughter wandered from one stand of wildflowers to another, both of them very intent on the project of creating a wreath of flowers. The child would run forward first to examine the blossoms on offer, to smell them, to look at their colors against the sky blue of her skirt. The man followed her more slowly, considering her finds, accepting some of the blooms, then adding them carefully to the braid of stems taking shape in his hands. Their intensity seemed curiously unsuited to their lighthearted task… and the little girl… already wore a crown of flowers. The garland the young man was creating must be for someone else.
They called to each other as they worked. "A Thomáis!" The little girl pointed to a group of flowers. Not her father then, if she was calling him by name.
The young man looked, but shook his head, and pointed to some others a short distance away. "Iad siúd bláthanna bána." [Those white flowers.]"
She brought the flowers, and his quick slender fingers added them rapidly into the floral wreath.
"Beidh sí a bheith ina Bride álainn." [She will be a beautiful bride.] The little girl told him.
"Beagnach álainn mar is tú, a Aíne." [Almost as beautiful as you, Anne.]
"Fhéadfadh a bheith agat seacht mhac." [May you have seven sons.]" The girl's tone was grave. The old woman didn't bother to bite back her smile as she eavesdropped shamelessly.
"Má ní mór dúinn ach páiste amháin, agus tá sí ina iníon atá cosúil leat, Beidh mé a bheith go maith ábhar." [If we have only one child, and she is a daughter like you, I will be quite content.]"
Tom delivered the wreath shortly before noon. To make sure he would not accidently see Sybil, Tom stayed back at the turn of the stairs while Aíne knocked on Mam's door.
"Come in here a minute, Tommy," Mam called, then he heard her say, back into the flat, "You ladies keep Sybil out of here until he's gone."
Branson came in and gave his mother the wreath. They were alone, Aíne having gone back to see Sybil, Dara, and the English 'miladies.'
"Are we ready, Mam?" he asked, but his voice came out as a whisper.
Brenna smiled. "Save for my blessing. Kneel."
Tom moistened his lips as if to say something, then thought better of it, sank to his knees, and bowed his head. Very lightly, his mother's hands came to rest on his hair, shiny clean, and innocent of pomade, now that he was a journalist and no longer a servant. He felt a profound stillness, as if he were in church, praying silently, without words.
For a long moment, Mam said nothing. Then, very quietly, very intensely, she addressed her maker and his: "Lord, this is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased. Look kindly on him, and on his chosen bride, light of his life, song of his heart. May he always walk near you, and feel your presence with him, your understanding, your help, and your love. May he always lend a hand to help others, and find a hand when he needs help in return. May he always feel his strength rise to meet his need. May hope never abandon him to despair. May he always have work to do, food to eat, a reason to arise each morning, and a heart willing to serve. May he always love, and be loved in return."
She removed her hands from his head, and left him to walk over to the holy water fount next to the door, dipped her fingers in it, then returned. "Lord, Blessed Mother, Sweet Jesu, please give Tom and his bride your blessing as well, on this, their wedding day." She made the sign of the cross on her son's forehead, the blessed water and oil on her fingertips wetting his skin. "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen."
Tom, still kneeling, looked up at his mother, and for once, the tears brimming in her son's blue eyes did not make her angry.
They stood just outside the doors of the sanctuary, Tom on the Epistle (Joseph) side, Sybil on the Gospel (Mary) side.
"Tom Branson, wilt thou take Sybil Crawley, here present, for thy lawful wife, according to the rite of our holy Mother the Church?"
"I will." He sounded strangely calm.
"Sybil Crawley, wilt thou take Tom Branson, here present, for thy lawful husband, according to the rite of our holy Mother the Church?
"I will." Her husky voice was pitched to carry. This, her tone said, was what she wanted.
Father Cornelius bade them join their right hands.
"I, Tom Branson, take thee, Sybil Crawley, for my lawful wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part."
"I, Sybil Crawley, take thee," she smiled, "Tom Branson, for my lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part."
Father Cornelius lapsed into Latin. "Ego conjugo vos in matrimonim, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.
He sprinkled them with Holy Water, then blessed the ring, the clasped gloves concealing the enameled red heart under golden fingers and palms. "Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini." [Our help is in the Name of the Lord.]
Tom had helped Sybil learn the responses. "Qui fecit caelum et terram." [Who made heaven and earth.]
After several more exchanges in Latin, the priest returned to English. "Let us pray. Bless, O Lord, this ring," 'odd looking thing that it is,' the priest thought in an aside to himself, "which we bless in Thy name, that she who shall wear it, keeping true faith unto her spouse, may abide in Thy peace and in obedience to Thy will, and ever live in mutual love. Through Christ our Lord."
"Amen."
Father Cornelius sprinkled the ring with holy water in the form of a cross, then handed it to Tom. Tom took Sybil's left hand in his own left hand, then used his right to slide the ring a tiny distance onto Sybil's thumb. His mind harkened back to the rosary he'd prayed the night she'd left him at The Swan Inn, remembered sliding the chaplet ring onto his own thumb, thinking about this day…someday…now. Right now. His heart expanded to fill his chest, pounding with a staccato rhythm, so he could hardly hear the sound of his own voice. "In the name of the Father," he removed the ring from her thumb, and slid it just a tiny bit of the way onto her index finger, licking his lips at the same time, "and of the Son," the ring eased off her index finger and just barely onto her middle finger, her hand was beautiful, and beautifully manicured, "and of the Holy Ghost." Tom swallowed, then slid the ring onto her ring finger, all the way onto her ring finger, to where her finger joined the hand. "Amen," he whispered, his breath leaving him. It was done.
"Confirm, O God," the priest implored, "that which Thou has wrought… Save Thy servants…"
"Who hope in thee…"
"Be unto them, Lord, a tower of strength… Let us pray. Look down with favor, O Lord, we beseech Thee, upon these thy servants… that they who are joined together by Thy authority may be preserved by Thy help; through Christ our Lord. Amen."
Respectful silence greeted the end of the rite. Only after they stepped out of the vestibule (where the ceremony for this mixed marriage had been held) and into the afternoon sunlight, were the newly married couple showered with both flower petals and applause.
