Aunt Cordy was a welcome addition to the Beacon Hill social circle. She was not a gossip or a fashion-plate, but she had a habit of listening to people, of making everybody feel welcome in her home. She gave parties and teas that were sumptuous, but not too sumptuous for war-time. Within a few weeks of her arrival at 12 Water Street, she had a horde of friendly acquaintances, who had the habit of stopping by just to drop in, rapping on the door, calling, "Yoo-hoo! Cor-dee-lia?"
Since her engagement to Michael McTavish, Bertha had become something of a curiosity to these women, who may have once hoped Michael would take one of their own daughters. His father was—unconventional, that was true, but Michael was a handsome lad, and his wealth from both his father's and his mother's families made him a singularly eligible bachelor. Or had made him. Many a society matron had dropped by 12 Water Street for the express purpose of gathering 'dirt' on his bride-to-be, and in the end was charmed by "Delia's" little niece. Nearly everyone who met her grew to like her, or at least admitted she was very sweet. People dropped by the house at regular intervals to chat with her, and hear about the upcoming nuptials.
Most of the time Bertha could pretend it was all an act, like a play. She was playing a starring role, that of bride-to-be. Everything that was happening was only rehearsal for the time where she and Michael would say 'I do' and exchange rings. And after that? The curtain would come down. When anybody said anything about what would come after, she had that sinking feeling again, that deep-water feeling. When the architect that Uncle Archie had hired asked what kind of wallpaper she wanted in 'her' dining room. "I suggest the ecru print, ma'am," he said. "That way, it will go with everything. You'll be able to keep it for years." And Bertha said, yes, yes, but it was with the same feeling as she had had as a child, decorating her doll's house with Dossie. Somebody would live in the house going up at 16 Water Street. She was even able to believe, sometimes, that she would live there.
It was Mrs. Westfield who threw the first spoke in her wheel. "I do suggest," she said kindly, over tea one afternoon, "That you consider going to Perkins' to buy the lingerie for your trousseau. They have the most enchanting negligees. Modest, but not prim. You tell her, Agatha."
"Oh, indeed," said Agatha Randolph. "Perkins' is just the place."
Bertha said, "I'll go there for a new pair of stockings. They're dearer than gold these days. But I shan't be needing anything like a negligee."
"Oh, but dear you must have one, at least one!" cried Mrs. Westfield.
"What would I need it for?"
The ladies all exchanged a glance. "For the wedding night," said Mrs. Randolph, significantly, and Bertha flushed to the tips of her hair so that her whole upper body was a contiguous, matching shade of red. "Lord, Amelia," Mrs. Randolph laughed. "Look at the girl!"
"Oh, do hush, Agatha," said Mrs. Westfield in a withering tone of voice. The ladies exchanged looks again. They all seemed to speak eloquently to one another with their eyes, and after a long moment, Mrs. Westfield turned to Bertha again. She said, haltingly, "Dear—I do not want to speak out of turn, or to embarrass you. But your mother has spoken to you, of such things…?"
"What things?" asked Bertha, and then she said, "Oh," understanding. Wishing Aunt Cordy would come back from the kitchen wishing with her whole heart. "Y-e-es. Indeed. I—I only wasn't—thinking—that that was what you meant."
Her heart was hammering and she could not breathe. She had never been more embarrassed in her life. Oh, Mrs. Westfield meant well! But the humiliation of it! When Aunt Cordy came back Bertha excused herself and ran up to her room. Oh, what a little idiot she was! They would all think her so provincial. Not knowing about…that.
Of course she knew about it! Mother had explained it to her and Father had explained it to Teddy, long ago, and later they had compared notes and laughed over it, making faces with their noses scrunched up. She had grown up on a farm, for heaven's sake! Of course she knew what husbands and wives—did—were supposed to do—together. But she had never thought of it with herself in the context of wife, with Michael McTavish in the context of husband! Bertha covered her face, humiliated. And frightened, very frightened. She had the feeling that if things were—right—she wouldn't be so afraid.
"Oh, I can't, I can't," she cried, in a sudden passion of certainty. "I can't do it. I can't marry him! What a mess I've made, what an absolute mess!"
But she would have to do it. She had promised.
She would keep her promise. Promises meant something to her.
Michael loved her, and she cared for him. She could not let him down.
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They quarreled; a nasty quarrel. Only two days after the disastrous tea. Michael had been hovering, pressing her to set a date, and Bertha, feeling like a devil, had said something to him about Emma Cleary. The look on his face when she said the name gave her a nasty sort of pleasure.
"Who have you been talking to, minx? How the devil did you hear of her?"
"Everyone knows you still love her!" Bertha flung at him. "I heard talk of it. And they laughed at me, Michael, I heard them. You've made a fool out of me. You should have told me."
"And you," he said darkly, "Have no right to talk. You're in love with a ghost. Don't deny it! Oh, I wish there had never been such a person as Jordan Gray in the whole world! How I wish it! I wish the fellow had never been born!"
He had not denied it, either: that he still loved her, this Emma. And what he had said about Jordan! A terrible fury bubbled up in Bertha's chest, rising up to cloud her vision. "How dare you say that?" she cried. "Jordan was twice the man of you, Michael McTavish. He never would have said something so low."
"How do you know?" sneered Michael. "You never met the man. You never met him, Bertha! You don't know the first thing about what he was like, really. You exchanged letters, you were penpals, you fancied yourself in love. It's a very pretty daydream, Bertha, but grow up, please."
"Oh! If Emma Cleary loved you half as much as Jordan loved me, she wouldn't have let her parents stop her from marrying you."
"Emma had to be parted from me kicking and screaming. Mr. Gray, if I recall correctly, wrote you a very nice little letter with only the merest suggestion from your father. How much, then, did you say he loved you?"
They had been parked in Michael's car by the Charles river, and at this last remark, Bertha ripped her diamond from her hand and threw it at him. She stormed out, slamming the door so hard that the car rocked back and forth. She ran away, fully believing Michael would come after her. And Michael did an unforgiveable thing! There was the sound of a motor, and when Bertha looked back he had driven away, leaving her behind!
She waited and waited, but he did not come back. She had had to walk home, and it had started to rain. She was seething like a cat by the time she got there.
Michael came by the house the next day, but he should have known better, having a redhead's temper himself. The two engaged in a row, the magnitude of which sent Queen Bess and her kittens scurrying to safety, and made Shulamite, in the kitchen, exclaim, "Lawd A'mighty!" and fear for the condition of her cakes. Even Mr. McTavish, hearing them going at it, confessed to his Cordelia that perhaps the two were not as well-suited for one another as he had previously thought. He was hangdog at the thought that there would be no wedding, for he dearly loved weddings, and he dearly loved Michael, and Bertha. And judging by the shrieks and shouts coming from the verandah, they all doubted very much that there would be a wedding.
But their tempers passed, and Bertha came in, with her ring on her hand, as it always was, and sat down and ate her dinner very calmly, and then allowed Michael to take her dancing that night.
"Great balls of fire!" said Mr. McTavish, mopping his brow, to Queen Bess, who had crept out from under the sofa. Her tail was a bottlebrush, still. "Perhaps we shouldn't have built the new house so close to this one. If they carry on like that, nobody in the neighborhood will get a decent night's sleep ever again! Oh, what are they playing at, Bess? It's plain to see they're not matched. Separate, they're each the loveablest kiddie in the world—but together, it's cats and dogs. No offense, Bess. You're a queen among cats."
Bess preened, and licked her whiskers.
Mr. McTavish sighed. "There's going to be nothing but tears if they aren't stopped—but I'm not going to be the one to try to stop them. I'll make Cordy do it. Good heavens! To be caught out in a row like that! I wouldn't risk it for the world."
Queen Bess laid her ears back flat with her head, and swished her tail to show what she thought of the whole thing. She padded to a patch of sunlight, streaming through the glass, lay down, and fell asleep, as if to say she could not be too bothered with mortal's matters.