Not a Gentleman
by Tintinnabula
Chapter Twelve
The Ceremony
Author's note: This chapter contains a talk between Margaret and her mother about what to expect on the wedding night which includes some talk of pain and and a very veiled allusion to the possible cause of that pain. Hopefully, still rated T. :)
Margaret woke just before dawn to the sound of a steady rain. "So much for walking to the church on a bright sunny morning," she said with a yawn as she observed the rivulets of water washing the window clean. At least the streets would not be dusty. And in truth, her half-dream of walking to church would never have been realized, not in a place like Milton, and certainly not with her parents so ill. Today, she knew, was about making the best of things. A wedding, as her mother had pointed out was not so much about the bride and groom as about those surrounding the happy couple. For Margaret and John, therefore, it was a morning not so much to enjoy as to experience. Still the outcome would be exceedingly happy. She was to be joined with the man she loved at the morning's conclusion, after all.
Margaret closed her eyes and listened to the soothing patter of the rain while considering if she might eke out a few more minutes of rest before beginning the day. This was the first time in a week she'd spent more than four hours in her own bed, but still, she was tired. Although her father's condition had continued to improve steadily, Margaret had not once allowed herself the luxury of an early evening, preferring to stay by her father's side long after he'd fallen asleep, just to make sure there was no sudden change in his outlook. This led to her being overtired each morning, particularly when combined with the fact that she'd been wrong in assuming there was little left to do to prepare for the wedding.
She really should have known better. She'd been through Edith's wedding, after all.
Mrs. Thornton and Fanny had returned on Monday, press-ganging her into a shopping exhibition, to Lewis and Farnett, no less, a dry goods establishment Margaret had never before had occasion to visit. Its stores were far out of the Hale family's price range, and Margaret found herself blushing when Fanny loftily-and quite loudly-told each shop girl to "Charge the purchases to Marlborough Mills!" The trio of women formed a procession of sorts as Fanny steered Margaret through her favorite place to throw away money, and a pile of necessaries soon accumulated. Clocked silk stockings, kidskin shoes and gloves, crinolines and garters were in order for the wedding, as well as new chemises, drawers and nightgowns for daily wear. Mrs. Thornton seemed a bit annoyed by the need for the latter, as she noted that the cotton lawn fabric made at the mill was of much finer quality than found in the garments they were examining.
"You might have sewn such simple garments yourself," the raven had stated dryly, "assuming you'd had the time. It seems a waste to spend so much on simple rectangles of cotton plus scraps of lace."
Margaret wanted to point out that she already owned quite serviceable garments, but then realized that Mrs. Thornton had seen some of these garments the previous Saturday. This was a judgment, then, of the fact that her chemise, although of fine, London quality was a bit threadbare after several years of washings. Margaret said a quick prayer for patience, and realized it would probably not be her last.
All of this shopping had taken hours, of course, as Fanny had insisted the shop girls display each and every item before pressing Margaret to select the most expensive.
"It's what I always do," she'd explained, as her mother rolled her eyes in disdain. "It's not like John can't afford it. And as the wife of a prominent manufacturer, it is critical that you dress the part. All eyes will be on you."
"It is not often that I agree with my daughter," Mrs. Thornton had murmured then, "and in this case I do not do so completely. But it is true that as John's wife you will need to dress in a more appropriate manner. However, any of the goods sold by this establishment is of fine enough quality to suit our household." She'd run her eyes up and down Margaret's length critically. "We will visit Madame Coleridge's establishment sometime after the wedding to order you a more appropriate wardrobe." At that they'd left the dry goods store and spent another two hours at the corseters. Luckily, in that case, and despite the figure flaws Fanny had pointed out earlier, Margaret's measurements were standard enough that the maker had a sample he could readily alter in time for the wedding.
All in all it was an exhausting day, topped off by a request from Fanny that she be allowed to choose the music for the wedding itself. Margaret readily agreed. The simple wedding she'd imagined was not a musical one, but even if she had a preference she was so worn down that she could not mount an argument.
Now Margaret wondered what daily life would be like in the Thornton household. John would be at the mill from sun up to well past sundown almost every day. That meant that the two Thornton women would be her immediate—and intimate—companions. Fanny was intense, and Mrs. Thornton was cold, and so unlike Margaret's own mother that it was difficult to understand her. It would be a struggle to adapt, but for John's sake, Margaret knew she would.
Heavy footsteps in the hall were the indication that Dixon was already up and moving about the household. The faithful servant would have much to do in the hours before the wedding, as she would need to dress not only Margaret but Mrs. Hale to fairly exacting standards. It was clear the stress of caring for both Hales had been wearing on Dixon, even with the added assistance of Martha. Clearly she was feeling more strain than usual. Margaret stretched and rose from the bed. There was plenty she could do to lighten Dixon's load this day, from bathing herself, to laying out her own clothes. Even if it was her wedding day there was no need to act the spoiled princess. Margaret set about making her bed, then retrieved the many boxes and parcels from atop the small armoire, and laid them atop the bed.
Then Margaret's glance fell on the letter she'd left on her bedside table. She was unable to stop herself from picking up the gold-edged stationery, engraved with the monogram EL. Margaret bit her lip in an effort to fight back tears as she reread the missive that had arrived in the prior evening's post:
My Dearest Margaret,
How shocked I am by your announcement!
Darling cousin, you know that you are much more to me than child of my aunt. Indeed, I love you almost as a sister, and over the years you have been my confidant in all things. I am strong in the belief this relationship has not been one-sided.
I therefore must speak frankly, as I am certain you would do the same for me.
I have long hoped you would come back to London, as I have missed you so. You were always so agreeable, Margaret, and such good company, and now I will be bereft of it. Worse, you have never even met Sholto, and I am sure you would love him. He is the dearest child and he would benefit greatly from your attentions. But how will that be accomplished with you living in a smoky, industrial city that is not fit for children to visit? London is your true residence, Margaret. I know Henry would have made a perfectly suitable husband for you. Then truly we would have been sisters! We might have bought adjoining houses, or sold the Harley Street house and bought an even larger and more fashionable one to live in together. What a delight that would have been. You would be my steadfast friend and companion as you used to be, and Sholto would be almost like your own child. But that dream is vanished now.
I am sure I do not understand how your opinion of Mr. Thornton could change so rapidly in such a very short period of time. A few short months ago you spoke of the man as a brute, and of Milton as a hellish place. You write that family circumstances are such that you wish to marry this man now, and that you will tell me all when we meet. I can only wonder what this means. Cousin, I am worried for you, and about the implications of such a sudden change of heart, although I will say no more on the subject, for propriety's sake.
You speak of love, but how could you love such a man as you have described, someone whose life is consumed by buying and selling? I wish that Mother were not in Baden-Baden for the summer. I have no doubt that she would rush up to that dreadful place your family calls home and rescue you, over your parents' wishes if necessary! I know that Mother would not allow you to degrade yourself and your station by marrying beneath you in this way.
I know these written words are harsh, and I wish that we might have spoken instead so that I might have convinced you to give up this plan. I recognize that this letter will be unable to do so as it will scarcely arrive in Milton before the wedding itself. For that reason, I must accept the inevitable, that I am losing my dearest friend. My heart is weeping, Margaret. However, I will support you as much as I am able.
I am sorry that I must decline your invitation to be matron of honor. It will have to be enough that I come to Milton on such short notice. It would cause the Captain and me harm for an item to appear on the society pages naming me as the the matron of honor to a tradesman's wife, however wealthy this tradesman may be. As you well know, the nouveau riche are not highly esteemed among the ton.
We will take the late train, and stay at The Grenoble Hotel, which I have been advised will adequately meet our needs. I will see you at the wedding and breakfast. It will be interesting to see a mill, I imagine.
Your loving cousin,
Edith
Margaret's cheeks burned with shame, just as they had when she first read the letter. The suggestion Edith had made! And the fact that she would put her standing in the community ahead of any devotion to her cousin, who she claimed was a sister to her. Well, almost a sister. Margaret's instinct was to crumple the letter and throw it in the fireplace, but as it was July, no fire was burning. Instead she folded the letter carefully and placed it within her writing box, out of sight of the prying eyes of Dixon who would be sure to share its content with Mama. Margaret was glad her mother was not aware the letter had arrived. Hot tears had flowed freely at its first reading.
She had expected so much better of Edith. Yes, the woman was spoiled. She'd never had to overcome the slightest obstacle in her pampered, privileged life, and like a beautiful, rare orchid, she'd never been exposed to anything outside a cultivated, hothouse environment. Therefore she'd never been given the opportunity to experience the greater world. Nor had Edith had much opportunity to grow.
Despite this, Margaret had always suspected there was a goodness of character deep within her cousin. But it seemed she had been mistaken: this letter demonstrated a shallowness that made Fanny Thornton look oceans deep in comparison.
To add insult to injury, Edith hadn't even taken Margaret's suggestion of where to stay in Milton seriously. That had come from John, who knew a bit about these things. Apparently the roads near The Grenoble were being widened: requests to fund such schemes came before the magistrates quarterly. Margaret sighed. Her cousin would probably be late to the wedding.
Well, the bride-to-be told herself, at least the wedding party would now be symmetrical. John did not have a best man to attend him, and now she would stand alone, as well.
A light knock at her door interrupted her musing. The door opened slowly, and Margaret was surprised to see her mother enter.
"Mama! How early you are awake."
"I asked Dixon to wake me. It is not every day that my only daughter is married." The woman came to Margaret and embraced her, and Margaret could not help but notice how much more slight she had become in the months since they had moved to Milton. Maria Hale wrapped her shawl around her tightly, as the room was a bit damp due to the summer rain.
"Shall I ask Dixon to light a fire?"
"That is not necessary. I am sure when I am dressed I will be warm enough. And I will not stay long."
"Sit down, Mama. You will catch a draught." Margaret directed her to a shabby arm chair, pulled the afghan from the bed's foot board and folded it across her mother's lap. "Better?" she asked.
"Will you sit with me, Margaret? There are some things I should like to say to you."
"Mama..." Margaret blushed, but did as she was asked, pulling the small stool that sat by her vanity close to the chair where her mother now sat.
"Mr. Thornton loves you," her mother began tremulously. "And love is truly a wonderful thing. Children come of it, when a man demonstrates his love to his wife in such a way."
"Mama, you have already told me this."
"Yes, but..." Her mother smiled a very small smile and continued. "You see, you may find tonight... That is, the first time you are together..." Maria Hale did not often blush but she did so now. Still, she soldiered on. "Margaret, there may be some pain."
"Pain?" Margaret regarded her mother in astonishment. No one had spoken of this before. Edith had said the opposite in fact, that intimacy between a husband and wife could be quite pleasurable. And John had mentioned nothing of this.
Her mother laid a calming hand on her daughter's. "Only the first time. Although in Mr. Thornton's case... Well..."
"Mama, what about John? I do not understand..." Tension crept into Margaret's body, but it was soon joined by a heady feeling of incredulity mixed with anger, the latter something she had rarely felt towards her mother. "Are you saying that because John is not a London gentleman he will be unkind? Or brutish?"
"No Margaret. Nothing of the sort. Only that you are so fine-boned."
"And he is not. He will crush me?"
Her mother smiled the same half-smile. "Just endure, and you will be fine."
"Endure," Margaret echoed.
"It will get better over time, I promise." Her mother rose from the chair and draped the afghan over the bed's footboard.
"I will ask Dixon to see about your bath. I think the girl Martha has already arrived. It was so good of your Mr. Thornton-John- to send her to us, was it not?"
"Yes, Mama," Margaret said distractedly.
"And give me your gloves, please."
Margaret found the parcel containing the fine kid gloves purchased from Lewis and Farnett.
"Why?" she asked, as he handed it to her mother.
"You will see," her mother said with a smile.
Margaret's worries were forgotten after a quick bath and breakfast in her room, for a visitor arrived. To Margaret's surprise and delight, a rather annoyed Dixon ushered Mary Higgins into Margaret's bedroom. Margaret had never seen the normally slovenly girl in such a state of cleanliness. Her rough grey gown was as clean as possible (which was not, of course, entirely), but more importantly her skin and hair shone, as both had been well-scrubbed.
Margaret hugged the girl to her.
"What a delightful surprise! What brings you here this morning?"
The girl blushed, as was her wont. "I thought y'might help need extra help t'get ready this morning. If there's any kitchen work to do I can help you, as I know y'have much to do today, and two parents lyin' in bed." She waved her hands. "I'm na askin to be paid of course. It's my weddin' gift to you."
"You are so generous, Mary! I do not think I deserve such kindness- I have not even been over to tell you about the wedding."
"When wouldya had th' time?"
"You found out anyway, I gather," Margaret said with a smile.
"Mill's closed today. But the news was goin' 'round Princeton 'fore that."
"Thank you for your offer, Mary. I greatly appreciate it. But John sent over a servant to relieve the burden on Dixon. However, I have a thought," Margaret said. "Usually a bride can count on having her friends nearby as she gets ready. You are my friend, so perhaps you might be willing to play that role."
Mary smiled shyly. "If y'wish."
"And," Margaret said, "We have much time before Dixon comes in to dress my hair. Would you believe the old crow Mrs. Thornton has told me I may no longer wear the clothes I brought to Milton?"
Mary shook her head in disbelief.
Of course, I really should stop calling her that, as she is to be my mother-in-law. But they were new just last year! So," Margaret smiled conspiratorily, as she crossed the room, "what would you like to wear to the wedding?" Margaret opened the drawers of her armoire to remove several skirts and bodices, each folded carefully with tissue paper. "We are much the same size. I am confident any of these would fit you, although I think the blue skirt with white shirtwaist would suit you best. Would you like to try it on?" She held up the indigo fabric against Mary and smiled at the effect.
The girl nodded, at a complete loss for words.
"You will need a petticoats too, as the skirt is rather full. And I have been told I must replace mine."
"This is too much, miss."
"Nonsense. There is supposed to be something borrowed and something blue at a wedding, is there not? And here we have it."
Mary was dressed in short order. Sadly, she did not wear the same size shoes so was not renewed complete, but Margaret was still quite satisfied by the overall effect.
"Now, may I do your hair? Would you like the back braided and then pinned up?"
"Miss, people will think I am puttin' on airs! I canna!"
"A simple twist then?"
Mary nodded, exasperated.
"With one braid wrapped around?" The girl relented, and Margaret got to work, happy to be occupied.
Dixon came in just as she finished, and tut-tutted over Margaret's project, muttering something about the dangers of folk rising above their station.
"It's time to get dressed, Miss Margaret."
"I thought that Mary might assist."
It was difficult for Dixon to look down her pug nose at anyone, but she managed to do so, and with such superciliousness that the girl seemed frozen to the spot. "If you insist," Dixon said finally. "Let me see your hands," she commanded, and once satisfied that Mary's hands were indeed immaculate, directed her to the corset and its laces.
"Give it here," she said, "Now find the first crinoline. It's in one of those boxes over there."
"No," she said. "The plainest first. "Don't you see that it is the stiffest? It must be, to hold up all the others." Margaret removed her robe and stood before Dixon in chemise, drawers and hose. She held the corset to her as Dixon wrapped it around her and began lacing it, first from top to waist, then bottom to waist, finally tucking the long tails inside the garment itself.
"This is quite lovely," she said as she tugged the front of the garment into place and admired the corded, white on white embroidery that covered the corset with geometric patterns. "Is it trapunto work?"
"Yes, that's what the corseter said."
"It must have cost a pretty penny. Those Thorntons certainly throw their money around."
"Dixon. I will not have you speak in that way. John has been good this family, and to you."
Dixon's tone softened as her face reddened. "He has, Miss. I ask your pardon. I'll need that crinoline now, Mary."
By the third stiff crinoline, Margaret's skirts filled the available floor space of the small room. An Ayrshire-embroidered petticoat, from the workshop of Madame Coleridge topped the more utilitarian garments. Finally Margaret was ready for the skirt, which slipped on easily, and draped smoothly over its foundation. Thankfully, it had no train, as the room could not have contained the additional length. Dixon quickly smoothed the garment into place and helped her change into the bodice.
"Y' look a queen, Miss." Mary gazed at Margaret with admiration.
"You do look lovely, Miss. Now sit, so that I can arrange your hair."
"Mary, will you and Nicholas attend the wedding?" Margaret asked as she took her place at the vanity. "You are very welcome, of course."
Mary blushed and nodded. Margaret checked the mantle clock. "It is nine a.m. now. Perhaps you had better collect him, and make your way there. It is First Presbyterian. Do you know it?"
Mary nodded again and collected bundled her garments together. "Thank y' again, miss. I'll not forget y' kindness."
The hair seemed to take the longest amount of time, although Margaret insisted on no curling tongs. She asked Dixon to rely on braids and the natural curl of her hair instead, and was quite pleased with the outcome. Margaret paused to look at herself before allowing Dixon to place the wreath-like coronet of fragrant orange blossoms on her head. The dress was lovelier than she had imagined, the taffeta more crisp, and almost glowing in the moody light, the off-the-shoulder lace trim even more delicate and elegant than she'd hoped. Dixon pinned the veil in place, and stepped into the hall way for a moment, returning with a medium-sized box.
"This was delivered while you were bathing."
Margaret opened the box, and tears filled her eyes. A yellow bouquet filled the box- in clear defiance of Mrs. Thornton's directive. They were small, perfect China roses. Were they from Helstone? No, their leaves lacked the tell-tale indentations at their margins. And somehow, these blooms seemed less wild.
There also was a boutonniere for her father and as nosegay for her mother. But most importantly, there was a card from John. The bride-to-be teared up as she read her lover's words.
"My darling Margaret,
I know these are a poor substitute for the roses you love, but I promise you this: I will take you to Helstone and place those blossoms in your hair.
When I kiss you next, you will be my wife. I cannot wait.
Yours always,
John"
Dixon coughed and began to bustle about the room. "It is time for you to be on your way. Your parents are waiting downstairs."
So was Mr. Bell, who exclaimed as Margaret descended the stairs.
"My dear Margaret, you must be careful. I think Aphrodite might strike you down in envy this day."
Margaret shook her head at her God-father's ridiculous words and regarded her father instead. His smile was enchanting, although he seemed struck speechless.
"Papa?" she asked, as she approached him.
"Daughter. I am happy, and yet so grieved." They embraced and Margaret shed tears of joy that she was able to share this day with him. She kissed her mother next.
"You look beautiful, Margaret. Please don't cry. This is a day of joy."
"I am happy, Mama. You and Papa are with me. That is all I could ask."
Dixon gave Mrs. Hale the nosegay, to much exclamation, as her mother was quite convinced the roses were from Helstone, and daughter fussed over father as she fastened his boutonniere.
"Here are your gloves, Margaret," said Mrs. Hale. "Let me help you with them."
"Oh, you have opened the ring finger," said Margaret as she slipped them on, and presented each wrist to her mother to button.
"I saw the idea in Godey's Lady's Book. Do you remember how Edith struggled so to remove her gloves, when it was time to place the ring?"
"Yes, I had to help her," Margaret nodded.
A clatter of wooden wheels drew Mr. Bell to the window, and elicited a laugh from the jovial man. "I should have realized that Thornton would consider every detail."
They stepped outside to find that the rain had stopped, at least for a while, and that two carriages awaited them. Mr. Bell had ordered a clarence, quite large enough to seat four, but the Thorntons an even more spacious britzka.
"I will see you at the church," said Mr. Bell gallantly, as he headed to the clarence. "Or, as these Thorntons seem to say, the "meeting house." Dixon, you are with me."
"Mrs. Hale and I will ride with you, Mr. Bell," announced Dixon, after conferring with Mrs. Hale. But let us take the britzka. I think Mrs. Hale would like to lie down." Dixon helped her mistress to the larger carriage, which had been set up to allow some of its passengers to semi-recline.
How kind Mama was to give her time with Papa, Margaret thought.
"Shall we, Papa?" she asked. The coachman assisted her father into the coach and she handed him his umbrella. Then Martha held the hem of her skirts as Margaret ascended into the clarence eliciting a laugh from her father, who was soon surrounded by a cloud of ivory white.
"Margaret, perhaps we should have commandeered the britzka ourselves. Your skirts quite fill the space!"
"Yes, Papa, they are quite voluminous," Margaret laughed. She carefully shut the door and used the umbrella to tap on the carriage roof. Soon they were on their way.
"It is hard to believe that you will be John's wife today."
"But I will always be your daughter." Margaret placed her hand on her father's, and noted the faint tremor.
"I was thinking this morning, that I must have married more than seventy couples in my time as Helstone's vicar. Of course, I cannot ascertain this, as the parish keeps the register, but that number seems fair, does it not?"
"Yes, Papa, it does."
Mr Hale smiled sadly as he recited the words from the Book of Common Prayer:
I, Margaret, take thee John to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.
Margaret said the next words of the liturgy in an automatic response. She'd been to so many weddings with her father often as flower girl that she knew every part of the service by heart.
With this ring, I thee wed, with my body, I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I endow. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.
"Oh, Papa, would it not have been wonderful for you to have married us?"
"But that time is past, Margaret. You know that I could not. And besides, were I not teaching the classics, how would you and John have met?"
Margaret patted her father's hand. "You are right, Papa. It really does not matter who says the words. They will be as beautiful from any man's mouth."
"I would imagine the Presbyterians do things differently. I should have asked Adam to stop by the book sellers to find me a copy of the liturgy." Mr. Hale smiled with the keen interest of an academic. "It will be interesting to see Knox's interpretation of the marriage rite."
"Yes, Papa." Margaret nodded, not knowing who this Knox was or what he had to do with marriage.
"My daughter, there are things I would like to say to you," her father began, removing his glasses to wipe them on his handkerchief.
"Yes, Papa?" Margaret tensed, worried that the conversation might be a reprise of the one shared with her mother.
"You are strong, Margaret. Stronger than Maria and I. I would hope that I have raised you to be a person of integrity and honesty."
"You have Papa. I will always try my best."
"I know. And that is why... You must not... It is easy to erect barriers between yourself and the person you love, to set up go-betweens. You might tell yourself it is to spare your husband's feelings, but truly it is cowardice. Margaret, you must be honest. At all costs. Do you understand me?"
"I think so, Papa."
He clasped her hand. "Good girl. Or should I say, woman."
Edith awoke to unseemly street noises- the rumbling of carts and the swearing of ditch diggers. She stumbled from bed, and pulled open the drapes to peer into the rainy street below. Regardless of the fact that it was quite early on a Saturday morning, the roadway below was as busier than any London road during the week. One of the lanes was closed off, as they'd noticed last night, when they'd had quite a bit of trouble finding the entrance to the hotel, and soil was piled in muddy mountains to either side of a gaping hole. Despite this, carts piled high with bales of cotton were wending their way along the unevenly paved street, their drivers shouting obscenities- or quite possibly, "good morning"- to each other. Given the thickness of their accents it was hard to ascertain which.
Edith knocked on the door to the room adjoining hers, surprised that Charlotte, her servant had not joined her. But the lady's maid entered the room quickly, if a bit tardily, and joined Edith at the vanity, efficiently removing the papers that covered Edith's hair like white butterflies.
"You would think she had more sense," Edith said aloud. "How could she possibly be happy here?"
"Who, ma'am?" Charlotte asked.
"No one. Have you seen my cold cream?"
"Here it is, ma'am." The servant retrieved a small glass jar from a carpet bag, and placed it alongside a plethora of emollient creams, cosmetics and perfumes on the vanity. She combed out Edith's curls gently while that woman continued musing aloud.
"I cannot see the attraction of this city. This is the best hotel in Milton, yet it is second-rate compared to any hotel in London. And where is breakfast? I had expressly asked for it to be delivered at seven a.m. It's a quarter past, now."
"Shall I inquire, ma'am?"
"Yes, please do that."
The servant left quietly, and after completing her morning ablutions, Edith busied herself with writing out a quick note to Henry. It had been good of him to join her on this trip, given that the Captain was unavailable. In fact, Henry had been eager to make the trip. The poor dear. She wondered if he was still lovestruck. Perhaps seeing Margaret married off would do him good.
Dear Margaret. What was she thinking?
It was likely that her letter was too harsh, but what a surprise Margaret's had been! To announce a marriage in such a way, with no warning at all. And to such a man! Edith shook her head, and her ringlets bounced around her in merry chaos. But hadn't that always been Margaret's way? She had a will of her own and always had. And once she got an idea in her head, there was no prying it loose. She was easily the most stubborn woman Edith had ever met. And Edith had known a few.
Charlotte returned with a servant carrying breakfast. Edith ate with delicate grace, but was mindful to finish, as she would be eating very little later in the day. Then she despatched Charlotte to deliver the note to Henry. Hopefully he was awake and would see to a carriage. They really should have taken care of that detail the night before, as who knew where exactly this "meeting house" on Cross Street was.
They left for the wedding as soon as Edith was finished dressing, which admittedly took some time. She'd brought three garments along with her, as she wasn't certain just how fancy a Milton wedding might be. Certainly she didn't want to outshine the bride. She settled on a cream and rose gown of silk moire, that always received compliments from the Captain. And Henry's suit, from Henry Poole of the Row, could not have complemented hers more perfectly. Of dove grey, and cut to the latest style, he looked so dashing that she almost wished that he was her husband. Almost.
Thankfully the doorman offered them the use of an umbrella, as they had not thought to bring one with them. It was a horrible day for a wedding: the sky was overcast, the streets puddled, the rain intermittent enough to be an annoyance.
Edith was angered, and rightfully so, when their cab-driver laughed upon hearing their destination. He said something, garrulously, but his accent was so thick that neither she nor Henry could make sense of it. He pointed to a bridge that seemed to be under construction, and then along a canal. Edith looked to Henry for direction and was frustrated when he did not intercede.
Henry did not seem overly concerned that they seemed to be taking the scenic route to the "meeting house." On the contrary, he appeared to be enjoying himself. He opened the carriage window to get a better impression of the sights—and smells- around him, occasionally pointing out some building or another to Edith.
"You are letting in the rain, Henry," Edith warned. Her silk moire would spot.
"Did you know that building holds the largest room in all of the world, even larger than those in any of the royal palaces?" Henry asked, once they'd finally crossed the canal.
"Is that so?" Edith craned her neck to look out the window, but all she saw was a structure that looked much like any other in London, except more sooty. Much more sooty.
"That's the Milton Royal Cotton Exchange," her companion said by way of explanation. "Brokers and merchants trade woven fabrics and yarn there. It's the reason for the great wealth of the city. And a reason for England's continuing wealth. Your brother has suggested we look into investing."
"In cotton?" Edith raised an eyebrow. "But why? Nobody wears cotton."
"You are wrong. Think carefully about all of the clothes you wear."
"Henry! Don't be indelicate!"
"You realize I am correct. And in the summer, I have seen you wear muslin gowns."
"Indian muslin."
"Yet English muslin is still finer, I am told. Such as that made by Marlborough Mills."
The carriage stopped suddenly, and the cab driver jumped down from his perch and muttered something unintelligible.
"I think we are here," Henry said with a smile, opening the carriage door.
The driver pointed, and Edith looked up at an imposing, two-story stone building with Doric columns and arched windows. But there was nary a pane of stained glass in sight, nor a steeple, nor anything else that might signal a house of worship.
"But where is the church?"
Henry laughed. "Don't be so judgmental, Edith."
The pair climbed the stairs quickly, as they heard strains of organ music, and entered the meeting house to find a very large nave that was Spartan in its decoration, apart from the bouquets of white roses and green ferns that were placed on the door to every box pew. As Edith and Henry walked down the central aisle, their footsteps echoed off the hard surfaces. Henry opened the door to a pew and they seated themselves on an uncushioned bench that seemed designed for discomfort. Edith looked around her. The place was almost blindingly white, she noted, even in the filtered light of a rainy day. Edith suddenly recalled a detail from one of Margaret's letters. She had written something very odd. In fact, those words had triggered Edith's increasing concern for her. Margaret had said she'd seen hell. And hell was white, snow white. Her cousin had not explained further.
Edith looked for an elaborate altar and found none. Instead she saw that the nave was dominated in front by a mahogany pulpit flanked by two symmetrical, helical staircases. A large palladian window stood behind it, a table at the foot of the stairs. The pulpit, stairs and table were the only unpainted wood in the space and were clearly meant to stand out against the snowstorm of white. A gallery supported by doric columns and lit by arched clerestory windows stood along each long wall: with the additional seating in this area, Edith estimated the room could hold at least five hundred congregants. But at the present time, the nave was almost empty. The right side held about thirty people, mostly portly, middle aged men, along with a tall, severe-looking woman in black, and a blond woman in bright tartan, while the bride's side held only Aunt Maria, her servant, Dixon, and an older grey-haired man. There were also two lower-class people sitting towards the entrance, but they hardly counted as they looked as though they'd walked in off the street to escape the rain. Edith turned in her seat to get a better look at the pair and noticed that the woman blushed and looked away while the man glared back at her. He was clad in fustian, she in a white, lace-trimmed shirtwaist that looked vaguely familiar to Edith, and a bit too elegant for a person of her class.
"You see?" Edith whispered to Henry as she turned back in her seat. "Margaret is friendless here."
"Shh," hushed Henry, as the organ music swelled, and the small congregation turned to the entrance.
A tall, black-clad man stood alone in the doorway. This must be the groom, Edith thought. He walked down the aisle with gravitas, but Edith noticed a light in his eyes. He was a handsome man despite his harsh features and his overly large frame. But he was dressed like an undertaker. Black was completely out of fashion for weddings and had been for some time. A gentleman would be wearing grey, like Henry. She caught a glimpse of a ivory brocade waistcoat and matching cravat as the groom walked past, and that did help to mitigate the dour blackness, but it was clear Margaret would have her work cut out for her. Edith nearly laughed aloud. As if Margaret cared about such things!
As there was no altar for him to stand before, the table served in stead. Mr. Thornton turned and looked expectantly towards the meeting house entrance. Edith smiled as she noticed his hand creeping more than once towards the pocket holding his watch. To his credit, the hand did not arrive there.
It took a few minutes for the bride to arrive, but all were rewarded with a beautiful sight. While it was true that Margaret's dress was quite plain and did not adhere at all to current fashion, it suited her perfectly. Her skirt belled out, but in appropriate proportion to her height, and the subtle frill of ruffles running up the length of the skirt made her seem a bit taller. The soft ivory of her skin was perfectly complemented by the deeper ivory of the silk taffeta, and the delicate Chantilly lace of her veil was much more in keeping with the subtlety of the gown than the heavy lace that was so much in fashion. Edith found she approved.
The music changed as Margaret began her walk.
"Do you know this composer?" Edith whispered.
"It is Liszt, I believe."
Margaret clutched her father's arm tightly as she walked up the aisle. Mr Hale was beaming, although the man looked so much more frail than he was at her own wedding. Was he unwell? Edith wondered. He stumbled once, and Margaret moved her right arm to encircle him. Yes, Edith realized, Uncle Richard was ill. And this was what Margaret had meant by family circumstances. Edith blanched as she remembered the thinly veiled accusation she'd laid at her cousin's feet.
"Henry," she whispered, "I think she loves him."
"Yes, Edith," her brother-in-law replied just as quietly. "Haven't I been saying so since you showed me the letter?"
Edith looked at him in alarm. "You must say nothing about that."
"Of course I will say nothing. I am an attorney. That is my job."
Edith rummaged in her reticule for her handkerchief and was flummoxed when she realized she'd forgotten it. She gratefully accepted Henry's just in time: Margaret had reached her husband-to-be and her father had lifted her veil to kiss her once and wipe away the tears from her eyes. Then he placed her hand in Mr. Thornton's and rejoined his own wife.
Yes, Margaret was in love. And clearly, so was Mr. Thornton. Even from the fourth-row pew she could see the expression in his eyes, the look she remembered seeing in the Captain's eyes.
"Dearly beloved," began the minister, but Edith did not recognize the liturgy. It was so different from what she'd heard at her own wedding. She did not recall hearing anything about fornication at her own wedding ceremony.
"Does it matter?" asked Henry with some irritation, when she complained in urgent whispers.
"No," she replied, abashed. "I suppose not."
The minister spoke for a while, about man and wife as one flesh and one body, about and man leaving his father and mother to keep company with and love his wife, and about the duty of a wife to study and please her husband and to honor him in all things that are godly and honest, and to be under his subjection and governance as long as they both live.
"It does not seem quite equal, does it?" Edith pointed out.
Henry poked her.
Finally, the minister addressed Mr. Thornton.
"Forasmuch as no man speaketh against this thing, you, John, shall protest here, before God and his holy congregation, that you have taken, and are now contented to have Margaret, here present, for your lawful wife, promising to keep her, to love and interact her in all things according to the duty of a faithful husband, forsaking all other during her life; and briefly, to live in a holy conversation with her, keeping faith and trust in all points, according as the word of God and his holy Gospel doth command."
John replied, "Even so I take her, before God, and in the presence of this his congregation."
The minister then turned to Margaret.
"You, Margaret, shall protest here, before the face of God, and in the presence of this his congregation, that ye have taken, and are now contented to have John, here present, for your lawful husband, promising to him subjection and obedience, forsaking all other during his life; and finally, to live in an holy conversation with him, keeping faith and truth in all points, as God's word doth prescribe."
Margaret was silent.
Finally, the minister whispered the words she was to say.
"Even so I take him," she repeated, "before God, and in the presence of this, his congregation."
"Where is the ring?" Edith hissed as the minister continued. Even Margaret seemed a bit confused, if her several glances at her now-husband were any indication.
"Why are you asking me?" Henry whispered back in annoyance, his patience finally spent. "Why on Earth would you think I know anything about dissenters' weddings? Perhaps they see rings as a pagan symbol. I am sure you can ask the mill master later. Now please stop talking. We are causing a disturbance." Henry smiled apologetically as several of the portly men on the right side of the church turned around to find the source of the whispers. Edith blushed.
After a psalm and several more prayers, the minister concluded the liturgy, the organist began to play, and Mr. Thornton took the opportunity to spontaneously kiss his bride. It was not the most chaste of kisses, Edith noted, but that was only to be expected, as it was obvious that there was a great deal of passion between the two.
"Am I allowed to talk now?" she asked Henry with a smile, noting his own. He seemed genuinely happy for Margaret, which was a relief.
"Yes, of course," her brother-in-law answered. "If you can keep it to a whisper."
Edith beamed at at the married couple as they walked up the aisle to the strains of a recessional. "I wonder what this music is."
"It is Mendelssohn, I think. The Hartford-Ashes had it at their wedding last year, if I recall correctly."
"Did they?" Edith raised a well-groomed eyebrow in surprise. "I'm rather surprised you attended, Henry. Hmm. I'm not sure I like it."
"I have never thought you an intolerant person, Edith, but now I am not sure."
"Pish-posh, Henry! I am as tolerant as the next person. It is simply difficult to adjust to so many changes in such a short time! It makes one's head spin. I will come to accept this Mr. Thornton." Her expression saddened. "I only hope that Margaret can forgive me."
Author's note: Thank you again to everyone who has been reading and reviewing, and to everyone who gave input about the rating. I appreciate it!
While I was writing this chapter I realized I had a lot to say about the wedding and after, and rather than shortening it, I decided to split it into two parts. Part one is already over 8000 words! I wanted this first part to have an outsider's view, so here is my take on the very shallow Edith, who nonetheless is on the road to redemption by the end of the chapter. Please note that Edith's thoughts are not my own! I actually quite like the classicism of the style of church she disparages and wish that I could see one in person, as I am a big fan of architecture. And I have no grievance against any liturgy. :) I just find it all terribly interesting from a historical standpoint and wanted to share it with you.
I wrote Henry as a little more affable and less sour than he may appear at first glance in the series to balance Edith's intolerance. I am aware this may seem to be a bit of a departure, but as he is a supporting character, I think this is probably okay. As I love to write from John's point of view, it was difficult to leave him out of this chapter, but he will be well represented in the next!
I refer to two liturgies in this chapter: the 1850 Church of England marriage ceremony, which is probably familiar as it is very similar to the form that was used until 1978 (obey was not used in that form); and John Knox's Book of Common Order (1840), which was the book used by early Presbyterianism, and which is very different from what is used in modern Presbyterian marriage ceremonies. It is interesting to see how things have changed. I based the meeting house on several buildings. The Scotch Secession meeting house in Liverpool, which changed to United Presbyterianism in 1847 no longer exists (it was bombed during World War II), but an 1830 engraving shows it had the simple, classical, and very non-traditional exterior I described. I used an 1856 engraving of the interior of the Old Church in New York City, another Presbyterian Meeting house, and photos of preserved meeting houses to describe the interior of John's meeting house, particularly the pulpit and front table.
The music Fanny the music lover chose for the service are both circa 1850. The Franz Liszt piece Henry refers to is Liebenstraum Number 3, which was published in 1850. During the late 1840s, Liszt toured Europe, and women went crazy over him, tearing souvenirs such as his gloves to pieces in their frenzy to obtain them. I doubt he would have made it to Milton, but I think Fanny would have known of his work and would have adored him, regardless. The Mendelssohn piece I refer to- the one that Edith turns her nose up at-is meant to be the famous "Wedding March" in C major that is played today as a recessional at almost every wedding. It was first played at a wedding in 1847, but it was not until the marriage of Queen Victoria's daughter in 1858 (after the time frame of this story), that it became a standard part of weddings. So Fanny is an early adopter in this instance. (Wouldn't she be proud of herself?)
Thank you again for reading! I look forward to your comments.