him. Irrelevant analogies poked their way through the curtains of his inner eye, even in these most sacred moments, so that, as he stood beside Robin Swinnerton, under the booming organ of the parish church of Saint Zachariah, and watched Eugenia and Rowena advancing along the aisle on the arms of Edgar and Lionel, he thought of the religious festivals at Para and Barra, the puppet-images of the Virgin, decorated in laces and silk floss and silver ribbons, smiling perpetually on their way to the church, and beyond that to the dances in Indian villages, where he was dwarfed by masked beings with the heads of owls, or ibises, or anacondas.
And yet it was a very English, a very bucolic wedding. Eugenia and Rowena were dressed like sisters, but not like twins, in white silk dresses with long lace trains, one trimmed with pink rosebuds all over, and one—Eugenia’s—with cream and gold. Both wore crowns of the same rosebuds, and pearl necklaces. Both carried mixed lilies and roses—the scent dizzied him as the procession reached the place where he stood to receive her. Behind them was a bevy of little girls, with ribbons and streamers in pink and gold, wearing dresses of white net with satin sashes, and carrying baskets of rose petals to throw. The church was packed: the absence of any friend or family of his own was more than made up for by the ranks of Alabasters and Swinnertons and local friends and connections, all nodding in flowers and ribbons. Rowena was flushed with excitement, and Eugenia was wax-white, most colourful in the gold of her downcast lashes, her lips pale, her cheeks smoothly, evenly, colourless. They made their vows before Harald, who married both his daughters with sonorous pleasure in the repeated phrases, and spoke briefly about the moving nature of a double wedding which made it more than usually clear that a family was being enlarged by additions, rather than anyone being taken away. For Rowena would remain in the parish, and Eugenia for the time being in herhome, now William Adamson’s home, which was a matter for rejoicing.
He should have been conscious, he thought, of two souls speaking their vows together, but he was not. He was conscious of all the soft finery surrounding Eugenia’s body, and the scent of the flowers, and the perfection and clarity with which she spoke her responses, as opposed to Rowena, who tripped, and stumbled, and put her hand to her mouth, and smiled at her husband for forgiveness. Eugenia looked straight in front of her, at the altar. When he took her hand, to put on the ring, he had to push, to manoeuvre, as though the finger had no will or life of its own. And he thought, standing there in the church, on the circumference of her skirts, Will she be so numb in the bed tonight, what shall I do? And then he thought how many men in his position must have thought such secret thoughts, all of them unuttered and unutterable. And he thought, as they progressed back through the church, between the respectable ladies in their florid bonnets, and the dark gentlemen in their silky cravats, between the modestly clad servants in their straw hats and the few farm labourers at the very back, that everyone at the wedding had a secret thought about him and her, those two, how would they be when left alone together? Everyone’s imagination tickled and pricked and clutched at him, he sensed, as he went by them.
She
was too innocent to know, he thought. He tried to imagine Lady Alabaster imparting information to Eugenia, and could not. She was there in the front row, smiling benignly in glistening mauve.
Everyone
does
survive their marriage night, he thought, coming blinking out into the daylight of the churchyard, and the chatter of birds in the trees and the shrill squeals of the little girls. The species is propagated, it goes on, innocent girls become wives and mothers, everywhere, every day. Eugenia’s hand was very still in his, her face white, her breathing faint. He had no
And yet it was a very English, a very bucolic wedding. Eugenia and Rowena were dressed like sisters, but not like twins, in white silk dresses with long lace trains, one trimmed with pink rosebuds all over, and one—Eugenia’s—with cream and gold. Both wore crowns of the same rosebuds, and pearl necklaces. Both carried mixed lilies and roses—the scent dizzied him as the procession reached the place where he stood to receive her. Behind them was a bevy of little girls, with ribbons and streamers in pink and gold, wearing dresses of white net with satin sashes, and carrying baskets of rose petals to throw. The church was packed: the absence of any friend or family of his own was more than made up for by the ranks of Alabasters and Swinnertons and local friends and connections, all nodding in flowers and ribbons. Rowena was flushed with excitement, and Eugenia was wax-white, most colourful in the gold of her downcast lashes, her lips pale, her cheeks smoothly, evenly, colourless. They made their vows before Harald, who married both his daughters with sonorous pleasure in the repeated phrases, and spoke briefly about the moving nature of a double wedding which made it more than usually clear that a family was being enlarged by additions, rather than anyone being taken away. For Rowena would remain in the parish, and Eugenia for the time being in herhome, now William Adamson’s home, which was a matter for rejoicing.
He should have been conscious, he thought, of two souls speaking their vows together, but he was not. He was conscious of all the soft finery surrounding Eugenia’s body, and the scent of the flowers, and the perfection and clarity with which she spoke her responses, as opposed to Rowena, who tripped, and stumbled, and put her hand to her mouth, and smiled at her husband for forgiveness. Eugenia looked straight in front of her, at the altar. When he took her hand, to put on the ring, he had to push, to manoeuvre, as though the finger had no will or life of its own. And he thought, standing there in the church, on the circumference of her skirts, Will she be so numb in the bed tonight, what shall I do? And then he thought how many men in his position must have thought such secret thoughts, all of them unuttered and unutterable. And he thought, as they progressed back through the church, between the respectable ladies in their florid bonnets, and the dark gentlemen in their silky cravats, between the modestly clad servants in their straw hats and the few farm labourers at the very back, that everyone at the wedding had a secret thought about him and her, those two, how would they be when left alone together? Everyone’s imagination tickled and pricked and clutched at him, he sensed, as he went by them.
She
was too innocent to know, he thought. He tried to imagine Lady Alabaster imparting information to Eugenia, and could not. She was there in the front row, smiling benignly in glistening mauve.
Everyone
does
survive their marriage night, he thought, coming blinking out into the daylight of the churchyard, and the chatter of birds in the trees and the shrill squeals of the little girls. The species is propagated, it goes on, innocent girls become wives and mothers, everywhere, every day. Eugenia’s hand was very still in his, her face white, her breathing faint. He had no
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