"Auntie", I say as the carriage pulls to curb. "I need to make a few stops."
"Amy March, we need to catch the ship in London. You've had months to shop, I mean really, Amy, we can't be late for the ship", she complains.
"The ship isn't leaving for days and days. We have plenty of time and you know it. And I won't be long", I insist.
"What am I supposed to do, just sit here?", she grumbles, "I'm sick, Amy. Cast aside like garbage to wait for hours..."
"Auntie, I'll be as quick as I can", I answer, but don't give in to her. She's shocked as I ask the driver to stay with her.
I know I want traditional white of course. It's such a cool-toned color, pure white, my sisters just don't have the skin for it.
I plan to wear my dormeuse diamond earrings I picked up a few months ago with the dress. I'm in one boutique, then another. I walk up and down the boulevard rather than call upon the driver as I normally would because I don't want to deal with Aunt March.
I try to be reasonable, I really do, I swear I do. But it's in Patou that I find a dress of pure cool white lace, bordering on gray, all Alencon lace from northern France. It needs to come up 4 inches, be let out a drop in the hips, but they do it all in an hour as a rush favor. Who wouldn't for a customer buying a $5,000 dress?
"Tres romantique", the sales lady says, finally handing it over. I'm sure Aunt March is fit to be tied. Another boutique or two won't hurt at this point.
In a tiny jewelry store, I bypass a large pink diamond fleur de lis previously owned by a royal, and find a simple diamond solitaire necklace from the Napoleonic era—and a little something else too. An armful of mixed pink cabbage roses with plenty of green leaves still attached from a florist, and I return to the carriage 3 ½ hours after I left it. Everything was put on the Laurences' tab, they may not be nobility but the French like very rich American manufacturers even better.
Thankfully Aunt March is asleep. She probably would have hunted me down by now if she wasn't. The carriage driver rushes us across town to the cathedral as I dig my diamond earrings out of my luggage.
"Laurie! I'm so sorry", I shout, jumping out of the carriage, with dress, shoes, jewels, and roses in hand, hoping he can hear me. There he is, with a priest in front of the cathedral, rolling his eyes.
"I'm so sorry", I repeat. But I'm not lifting up my dress to run. Respect is everything. Even though I've never wanted to more. There he is—the handsome young man I've loved since childhood, and he's waiting for me.
"I know you, Amy, I'm surprised you made it during day light hours", Laurie teases, "And besides, there was something I forgot all about until Monseigneur Montcliffe reminded me. I had time to get it." He holds up a small box from Cartier.
"Oh Laurie", I moan, unable to look away from it.
"Let's go, Amy March, so we can get on the road", he says.
"Why are you calling me "Amy March"? I ask.
"Because it's the last time", he says with a smile, "Now hurry."
"I need help getting Aunt March into the church", I say. The priest enlists the help of several altar boys as well as Laurie to get my griping and confused aunt into a pew. They're helpful even after she states will never step foot in a Catholic church.
"How did you arrange this?", I ask.
"I promised to repair one of the rose windows that was damaged by a hail storm a few weeks ago. Like you, I suspect I'll be paying for it the rest of my life."
"Oh Laurie, you're not funny! Don't do anything you can't afford, and don't think I plan to bankrupt you either..." He seizes my lips. "I would have it no other way, my lady."
Rich brown eyes and matching hair, those eyebrows, his countenance. How funny and sweet and confident he is. I wish I loved him less. I don't like someone having power over me. I liked Fred Vaughn's money, but I loved that he was interchangeable with any other rich man.
"I need five minutes to dress", I announce. I don't know how long I actually take, but I really really do hurry.
When Aunt March is settled in the front row, and has stopped fussing, I hear a few violins playing Greensleeves.
I stand as tall and straight as I can and come down the aisle alone slowly. I know I look beautiful and Laurie's mouth falls open when he sees me. He looks as if he's forgotten to breathe.
He pats his heart and my own melts. I don't run. It would be undignified. Instead I slow down and savor every step toward him. He loved her first, but he's about to be MY husband.
The priest conducts a quick mass first and Aunt March is snoring before it's over. I present Laurie with what's clutched in my hand, warm and sweaty. An 18 karat band from the 1600's, dark old gold with a vintage design engraved. It's smooth from being often worn, comfortable to wear, and I hope he'll have the chance to pass it to our own son.
"Thank you", he says, smiling as I slip it on his finger. I think part of him thought I'd forget about him in the promise of a huge shopping spree, and I'm happy to prove him wrong.
It's then he pulls my ring out of his pocket, and I want to close my eyes like a child, but I don't.
"Oh my God", I burst, the priest staring at me as if I've lost my mind, and my poor Laurie squeezing his eyes closed and turning bright red with embarrassment.
"I'm...so sorry, Monseigneur", I offer. Laurie stifles a giggle.
The ring is platinum on the outside, rose gold on the inside, and from my knowledge of diamonds, which every girl should have of course, but my sisters are too masculine to care about—it looks nearly D in color with excellent cuts on every axis. It's...huge. He knows my taste, the colors that look best on me, the extravagance I want and never seem to get.
It's a ring I'll be proud to wear for a lifetime. It will also make every female on the east coast green with envy. Even New Yorkers couldn't come by this.
"Can we afford this?", I whisper to him.
"It's worth any price to see the look on your face", he says, and nods to the poor priest to continue.
The priest appears exhausted with us. I want to say "rose window" to remind him what he's getting out of this when he simply says, "I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Laurie pulls me into his arms and kisses me. I forget everything. My name. Where I am. I've loved him for so long and used to fantasize about what it would be like to kiss him, to really kiss him. It's even better than I imagined.
He pulls back before it becomes unseemly and slips my hand around his bicep as he offers his arm.
"I want to remember this, Amy. I wish we had a way of remembering it forever."
"If only we had Matthew Brady", I comment.
"Yes", he smiles, "Remember this." We take a brief tour of the cathedral, which I presume is included in the price my husband is paying for the window, but even I wouldn't say such a thing.
It's beautiful. We just have nothing like it in the States, like THIS kind of history. Ground broke on this beauty in the late 1100's and it opened in the 1300's. Americans build because we need it, because it's practical. We don't even understand beauty like this. Two hundred years before a building is opened to the public? Everything great in the newly united again United States is built for personal glory. The idea of glorifying God, or love, or beauty, or reason, is quite beyond us.
"It's incredible, Monseigneur", I offer, and seem to be forgiven for my earlier outburst. We buy some incense that is supposed to smell like the cathedral- the worn velvet kneelers, the sandalwood floor, the honey from the bees on the roof. They have a thriving little business of souvenirs. Before long though, there's nothing more for us to see.
"I wish we could honeymoon here", Laurie says and I know he means it.
"So do I", I answer.
"How about a second honeymoon?", he asks.
"That sounds lovely."
We leave an additional donation of 50 francs "for the poor", which the priest snaps up and is very solicitous as we get a confused Aunt March into the carriage.