father, and saw or thought I saw tears under her veil, not just from the joy of being the radiant bride everyone said she was, and I tried to meet the eye of that Knightley, to convey to him my scorn for all I knew.
Poor Mary, I saw how pale she was under her veil, even watching from the shadowy side door of the church where I took up my position I could see that: I watched her walk with her father down the aisle towards Knightley, who had pilfered her maidenhead, and from where I stood feeling the stone strike chill through my boots, father and daughter had the look of prisoner and warder, the hand of Mr Cassell gripping his daughterâs arm like a piece of wood and steering it towards its destiny. He was a man who did not care about any amount of rasping lace or the wilting flowers sweating in his daughterâs hands, the gawky bridesmaid or the shadowy man standing waiting to receive his daughter, but he cared about one thing: that no grandchild of his would be born a bastard.
Miss Mary walked with her head bowed so that the blossomall but fell off her bonnet, and even those who did not know what I did must have seen she was in no hurry to take this one last walk of her unmarried life. She was of course not yet visible to any eye but that of a washerwoman who knew what was what, and perhaps that of her mother, weepingâfrom joy, the ignorant would assumeâinto a handkerchief laundered and starched and ironed by my good self, and now receiving a motherâs bitter tears. The dress, all that blinding white, was of an old-fashioned cut, surprising in such a modern young lady as Miss Mary, but those nodding matrons in their ruffles would have agreed the loose high-waisted fashions were more romantic and more modestly becoming to a young girl than the nipped waists and pert bosoms of the latest mode.
There was the bride in her lace, and all around her was family, blocking every exit from what was about to happen to her: there were the sad plain bridesmaids trying to look optimistic (and if only they had known how all too easy it could be, and how after a certain moment there was no turning back!), clutching their bunches of flowers, there were the matron of honour, the pageboy, the flower girl, the best man, all those smiling people for whom Miss Maryâs big day was an excuse for best clothes, too much laughing, and later (for that matron of honour and best man, and some of those desperate bridesmaids), a glass or two to celebrate another life tied up, the knots made fast for ever.
The organ boomed and squealed, silk and taffeta rustled as all the ladies craned to see the bride, and she walked as slowly as if in a dream. I was in the shadows beside the western door, wide open on the sunlit afternoon, and perhaps from my spot there I was the only one to see her falter, stumble, be free for amoment of her fatherâs grip on her arm: saw her look up and out of the door with a wild look under her veil, as if she was about to fling aside her blooms and run, veil streaming out behind her, through that doorway into some different kind of future that did not include Knightley. I saw her moment of choice, but someone else had seen it too: Knightley had sprung down from where he stood with his warder beside him at the altar, and in the moment that his bride glanced out into the afternoon, he had taken her hand in his, not with the grasp of ownership, or the determination not to be made a fool of by any blushing foolish bride: he took her hand in his and tucked it up under his arm as if to cherish it, and they stood like that for a moment while the church was stilled by surprise.
When they turned and took the last few steps up to the altar they were already a couple, their skins warming each other, their flesh connected through palms, and I watched them standing close. The shallow words they spoke while Mr Skinner held his book and prayed over them were not their wedding: they had joined themselves together in
Poor Mary, I saw how pale she was under her veil, even watching from the shadowy side door of the church where I took up my position I could see that: I watched her walk with her father down the aisle towards Knightley, who had pilfered her maidenhead, and from where I stood feeling the stone strike chill through my boots, father and daughter had the look of prisoner and warder, the hand of Mr Cassell gripping his daughterâs arm like a piece of wood and steering it towards its destiny. He was a man who did not care about any amount of rasping lace or the wilting flowers sweating in his daughterâs hands, the gawky bridesmaid or the shadowy man standing waiting to receive his daughter, but he cared about one thing: that no grandchild of his would be born a bastard.
Miss Mary walked with her head bowed so that the blossomall but fell off her bonnet, and even those who did not know what I did must have seen she was in no hurry to take this one last walk of her unmarried life. She was of course not yet visible to any eye but that of a washerwoman who knew what was what, and perhaps that of her mother, weepingâfrom joy, the ignorant would assumeâinto a handkerchief laundered and starched and ironed by my good self, and now receiving a motherâs bitter tears. The dress, all that blinding white, was of an old-fashioned cut, surprising in such a modern young lady as Miss Mary, but those nodding matrons in their ruffles would have agreed the loose high-waisted fashions were more romantic and more modestly becoming to a young girl than the nipped waists and pert bosoms of the latest mode.
There was the bride in her lace, and all around her was family, blocking every exit from what was about to happen to her: there were the sad plain bridesmaids trying to look optimistic (and if only they had known how all too easy it could be, and how after a certain moment there was no turning back!), clutching their bunches of flowers, there were the matron of honour, the pageboy, the flower girl, the best man, all those smiling people for whom Miss Maryâs big day was an excuse for best clothes, too much laughing, and later (for that matron of honour and best man, and some of those desperate bridesmaids), a glass or two to celebrate another life tied up, the knots made fast for ever.
The organ boomed and squealed, silk and taffeta rustled as all the ladies craned to see the bride, and she walked as slowly as if in a dream. I was in the shadows beside the western door, wide open on the sunlit afternoon, and perhaps from my spot there I was the only one to see her falter, stumble, be free for amoment of her fatherâs grip on her arm: saw her look up and out of the door with a wild look under her veil, as if she was about to fling aside her blooms and run, veil streaming out behind her, through that doorway into some different kind of future that did not include Knightley. I saw her moment of choice, but someone else had seen it too: Knightley had sprung down from where he stood with his warder beside him at the altar, and in the moment that his bride glanced out into the afternoon, he had taken her hand in his, not with the grasp of ownership, or the determination not to be made a fool of by any blushing foolish bride: he took her hand in his and tucked it up under his arm as if to cherish it, and they stood like that for a moment while the church was stilled by surprise.
When they turned and took the last few steps up to the altar they were already a couple, their skins warming each other, their flesh connected through palms, and I watched them standing close. The shallow words they spoke while Mr Skinner held his book and prayed over them were not their wedding: they had joined themselves together in
Similar Books
