Tallie's Knight by Anne Gracíe Page A

close and the bride steps into the centre aisle. The congregation turns to
look and a sigh whispers around the church. From where she stands, the bride
can hear only fragments of what they say. “Lovely gown…”
    “A beautiful bride…”
    The music swells
again and she begins her slow walk down the aisle. Her beloved awaits her. His eyes
feast on her. He makes a small move towards her, as if he cannot wait for her
to reach him but must rush up the aisle and take her in his arms. She almost
weeps with joy at his loving impatience; she, too, wants to run down the aisle
towards him and fling herself into his arms. Instead she walks in proud and
happy dignity, her head held high, feeling, as she always does when he looks at
her, beautiful.
    Mr. Penworthy times
it perfectly; as she reaches the altar, the music soars to its final crescendo.
The last notes echo around the ancient oaken rafters and her beloved takes her
hand in his, murmuring, “Tallie, my own true love, you make me the happiest man
on earth.” He lifts her gloved hand to his mouth, and.
    “Ouch! Bloody h… what
the dev… er, deuce do you think you’re doing?” exclaimed Lord d’Arenville
angrily, one hand clamped over his nose —the nose that Tallie’s gloved hand had
forcibly collided with.
    His eyes were
watering from the impact. He blinked down at her, then took her hand, which
still hovered dangerously close to his face. A faint cloud of aromatic brown
dust rose from her glove.
    He stared down at her
hands, raised one cautiously to his nose and tentatively sniffed.
    “Good God! They reek
of coffee!”
    Tallie didn’t
respond. She just stared up at him, the last remnants of her dream shattering
around her feet. For one heart-stopping moment, when he had lifted her hand to
his face again, she’d thought he was going to kiss it. But it was not to be.
The Icicle was incapable of a romantic gesture like that. He was merely
inspecting her gloves.
    His grip on her hand
tightened and he thrust it down between them. He nodded at the vicar.
    The vicar stood
staring at Tallie, bemused.
    “Get on with it, man,”
said Lord d’Arenville curtly.
    “Er, of course,” the
vicar muttered, then announced in ringing, mellifluous tones, “Dearly beloved,
we are gathered…”
    Dazed, Tallie stood
there, listening to herself being married to The Icicle. And a very
bad-tempered Icicle he was, too. He was positively glaring at her. Of course,
he did have reason to be a little cross, but it wasn’t as if she had meant to
hit him on the nose, after all.
    Mind you, she thought
dejectedly, he seemed always to be furious about something —mainly with her.
Towards others he invariably remained cool, polite and, in a chilly sort of
fashion, charming. But not with Tallie. It didn’t augur at all well for the
future.
    Still, Tallie rallied
her spirits, this was her wedding day, and she’d made up her mind to enjoy
every moment of it. She began to mentally tick off her blessings: the weather
was almost sunny, and the wind not too cold at all. And her frock had turned
out quite well —the lovely amber material was absolutely perfect for her
colouring, and she was sure no one would notice the one or two little mistakes
she’d made.
    The music had been
absolutely glorious —Mr. Penworthy had truly outdone himself— and her cousin’s
husband George had escorted her down the aisle looking every inch a gentleman.
He wasn’t even very drunk, as far as she could tell.
    And if she wasn’t the
most ecstatic bride in the world, she was determined no one else would notice.
All brides were happy and joyful —she didn’t want her friends and relations
upset by her own misgivings. That was why she’d invoked her fantasy —it was one
of her favourites— and because of it she’d been able to act like a radiant bride
should. She hoped everyone had been taken in by her performance —she didn’t
want to disappoint them.
    She wondered where
they were sitting —she’d been