our betrothal. You know of his work as a private enquiry agent, so it will not surprise you to find that he had embarked upon a succession of cases that took him out of London. We wrote voluminous letters, but Brisbane has always preferred a more direct and physical demonstration of his affections than the written word.
In any event, Brisbane and I were betrothed and then quickly parted. I walked in a daze during those weeks, so pure was my happiness, and was content to let my sisters plan my wedding. Some while later I wrote down the events of the wedding itself, and copying them out afresh seems beyond my abilities at the moment. I detect no effects from Uncle Plum’s experiments with the punch bowl save that my hand seems curiously unable to grip the pen properly and I can only focus my eyes with the greatest of difficulties. Your Aunt Portia has suggested a wee nap might not go amiss, and so I enclose the original document, asking only that you return it when you have finished.
I hope it proves useful, my dear. I remain always,
Your loving Aunt Jul—
P.S. Dearest Ophelia, I have removed the pen from Aunt Julia’s fingers and handed her over to Uncle Brisbane to put to bed with a hot brick and something for her head when she wakes. I see from her letter she meant to send you the short manuscript she wrote some months ago, describing the events of her wedding to Brisbane. I hesitate to send it for fear it will put you off the idea of marriage entirely, but perhaps if one is prepared for the worst, all other travails will seem mild in comparison.
Your devoted aunt,
Portia
Chapter One
He is the half part of a blessed man,
Left to be finished by such as she,
And she a fair divided excellence,
Whose fullness of perfection lies in him.
— King John , II.I.437
“F or God’s sake, Julia,” grumbled Portia. “It’s your wedding. Do you not even care to choose the flowers?”
“Pray, do not ask her,” our elder sister, Olivia, put in firmly. “Her opinion will only confuse the matter. Tell her what she likes—that is the way to deal with Julia. And what she will like is flowers sent down from London,” she finished, ticking an item off her enormous list of wedding notes.
“You are sending to London for flowers?” Portia’s voice was incredulous. “Flowers come from the country.”
“Not these flowers,” Olivia corrected. “Hothouse orchids. Just the thing.”
“I thought wildflowers might be best—things one might cut from the garden. It is a country wedding,” I pointed out.
“You will look like a peasant,” Olivia warned.
Portia countered with something cutting and I left my sisters quarrelling over the details whilst I mooned about, waiting for a letter from Brisbane. While Olivia had wanted a smart town wedding, the rest had mercifully overruled her and decided I would be married from the church of St. Barnabas in Blessingstoke, the village nestled at the foot of our family seat at Bellmont Abbey, surrounded by friends and family. As it was not thought seemly we sleep under the same roof before the wedding, it was arranged that Brisbane would lodge with Uncle Fly at his vicarage in preparation for the day. Brisbane’s response to this was eloquent and profane, but he agreed in the end, stipulating that he would only submit if he were permitted to take the music entirely in hand. Olivia gave in with singularly bad grace, but Brisbane’s taste was impeccable, and I was delighted he intended to take so active a role in the wedding itself. He began a frequent correspondence with Mrs. Netley, the blacksmith’s wife and organist of the church of St. Barnabas, a position she guarded jealously.
With all the necessary arrangements made, two days before Midsummer we assembled at Bellmont Abbey. Family flocked from the four corners of Britain, a collection of relatives so numerous the Abbey was fairly bursting at the seams to contain them. Aunt Hermia, in her capacity as official hostess of
In any event, Brisbane and I were betrothed and then quickly parted. I walked in a daze during those weeks, so pure was my happiness, and was content to let my sisters plan my wedding. Some while later I wrote down the events of the wedding itself, and copying them out afresh seems beyond my abilities at the moment. I detect no effects from Uncle Plum’s experiments with the punch bowl save that my hand seems curiously unable to grip the pen properly and I can only focus my eyes with the greatest of difficulties. Your Aunt Portia has suggested a wee nap might not go amiss, and so I enclose the original document, asking only that you return it when you have finished.
I hope it proves useful, my dear. I remain always,
Your loving Aunt Jul—
P.S. Dearest Ophelia, I have removed the pen from Aunt Julia’s fingers and handed her over to Uncle Brisbane to put to bed with a hot brick and something for her head when she wakes. I see from her letter she meant to send you the short manuscript she wrote some months ago, describing the events of her wedding to Brisbane. I hesitate to send it for fear it will put you off the idea of marriage entirely, but perhaps if one is prepared for the worst, all other travails will seem mild in comparison.
Your devoted aunt,
Portia
Chapter One
He is the half part of a blessed man,
Left to be finished by such as she,
And she a fair divided excellence,
Whose fullness of perfection lies in him.
— King John , II.I.437
“F or God’s sake, Julia,” grumbled Portia. “It’s your wedding. Do you not even care to choose the flowers?”
“Pray, do not ask her,” our elder sister, Olivia, put in firmly. “Her opinion will only confuse the matter. Tell her what she likes—that is the way to deal with Julia. And what she will like is flowers sent down from London,” she finished, ticking an item off her enormous list of wedding notes.
“You are sending to London for flowers?” Portia’s voice was incredulous. “Flowers come from the country.”
“Not these flowers,” Olivia corrected. “Hothouse orchids. Just the thing.”
“I thought wildflowers might be best—things one might cut from the garden. It is a country wedding,” I pointed out.
“You will look like a peasant,” Olivia warned.
Portia countered with something cutting and I left my sisters quarrelling over the details whilst I mooned about, waiting for a letter from Brisbane. While Olivia had wanted a smart town wedding, the rest had mercifully overruled her and decided I would be married from the church of St. Barnabas in Blessingstoke, the village nestled at the foot of our family seat at Bellmont Abbey, surrounded by friends and family. As it was not thought seemly we sleep under the same roof before the wedding, it was arranged that Brisbane would lodge with Uncle Fly at his vicarage in preparation for the day. Brisbane’s response to this was eloquent and profane, but he agreed in the end, stipulating that he would only submit if he were permitted to take the music entirely in hand. Olivia gave in with singularly bad grace, but Brisbane’s taste was impeccable, and I was delighted he intended to take so active a role in the wedding itself. He began a frequent correspondence with Mrs. Netley, the blacksmith’s wife and organist of the church of St. Barnabas, a position she guarded jealously.
With all the necessary arrangements made, two days before Midsummer we assembled at Bellmont Abbey. Family flocked from the four corners of Britain, a collection of relatives so numerous the Abbey was fairly bursting at the seams to contain them. Aunt Hermia, in her capacity as official hostess of
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