high and mighty pride.”
“She’s got nothing to be high and mighty about,” snapped Philip, feeling edgy as he again thought of the ceremony on the morrow.
“You’re nervous, that’s all,” said Peter, pulling off his cap and staring at it for a few seconds in amazement. “Otherwise I should be deuced angry at you for talking such snobbish fustian.”
“I suppose I am,” sighed Philip with a disarming smile. “Getting to sound quite like my sister, eh? Oh well, there’s nothing can be done about it now.”
“Come round to the Cocoa Tree and have a bumper with me,” said Peter. “You’re as blue-devilled as a monkey’s arse.”
Lord Philip grinned. “For a poet, you have a strange way with words, Peter,” he said with a laugh. “Yes, I’ll go with you, but, dear God, I wish this curst, boring wedding were over and finished with!”
There had been the awkward question of who would give the bride away. The ever efficient Evans had been roped in to help and had come up with an old friend of Constance’s father, Squire Benjamin Coates, a bluff and heavyset man who looked ill at ease in his finery, and smelled strongly of the stables.
He was nonetheless a kindly fatherly man who had given away four of his own daughters at the altar, and Constance was grateful for his reassuring presence on the following morning as she was helped into the chariot—or “charrot,” as she had been taught to pronounce it by the ladies of the
ton
.
It was a splendid “charrot” drawn by satin-skinned chestnuts with silver-plated harness, hung with sumptuous hammer cloths, blazing with armorial bearings. The coachman in the spun-glass wig and pink stockings who sat atop the box was sporting a large nosegay in his buttonhole in honor of the occasion, as did the two huge flunkeys who clung to the back straps.
The sun blazed down with a ferocious, yellow, glittering light which to Constance’s countrybred eyes meant there was a windy storm shortly to follow. She sat awkwardly in the uncomfortable confines of a French corset which seemed designed to push her bosoms up round her ears. Constance felt her wedding dress was overly fussy with its masses of white silk and lace, all flounced and gored and tucked and ruched and vandyked.
But the waiting, watching crowds of servants along Brook Street who had come out on the steps to see her off found nothing amiss. They thought Constance looked exactly how a bride should look, pretty and fresh and virginal.
Lord Philip when he turned from the altar to watch Constance coming up the aisle on Squire Benjamin’s arm was inclined to share their opinion, and felt some new and strange stirrings of pride as he viewed the ethereal vision in white.
The sun slanted in flashes of gold and blue and crimson through the tall, stained-glass windows.
To Constance, Lord Philip seemed like a stranger in the rose silk grandeur of his wedding coat and knee breeches, with jewels flashing on his shoes, his fingers and his cravat.
With a feeling of unreality, she took her place beside him. Peter was best man. There was no maid of honor for Constance, Mr. Evans’s energies having stopped short at the squire.
The Barringtons were present, since social custom decreed that even the most poisonous of one’s relatives must be on the guest list.
Constance made her responses in a low, clear voice, until she was asked whether she would take this man in marriage. She opened and shut her mouth, overcome with a wave of nervous fear, wondering if there was any alternative to marrying a man she loved but who obviously did not love her.
Lord Philip stared down at her in angry embarrassment, and then turned his head away impatiently and stared up at the gallery of the church.
And that is how he noticed the long barrel of a pistol poking over the edge of the gallery, pointing straight at Constance’s heart.
In a faltering voice, Constance said, “I do,” and then everything seemed to happen at once.
“She’s got nothing to be high and mighty about,” snapped Philip, feeling edgy as he again thought of the ceremony on the morrow.
“You’re nervous, that’s all,” said Peter, pulling off his cap and staring at it for a few seconds in amazement. “Otherwise I should be deuced angry at you for talking such snobbish fustian.”
“I suppose I am,” sighed Philip with a disarming smile. “Getting to sound quite like my sister, eh? Oh well, there’s nothing can be done about it now.”
“Come round to the Cocoa Tree and have a bumper with me,” said Peter. “You’re as blue-devilled as a monkey’s arse.”
Lord Philip grinned. “For a poet, you have a strange way with words, Peter,” he said with a laugh. “Yes, I’ll go with you, but, dear God, I wish this curst, boring wedding were over and finished with!”
There had been the awkward question of who would give the bride away. The ever efficient Evans had been roped in to help and had come up with an old friend of Constance’s father, Squire Benjamin Coates, a bluff and heavyset man who looked ill at ease in his finery, and smelled strongly of the stables.
He was nonetheless a kindly fatherly man who had given away four of his own daughters at the altar, and Constance was grateful for his reassuring presence on the following morning as she was helped into the chariot—or “charrot,” as she had been taught to pronounce it by the ladies of the
ton
.
It was a splendid “charrot” drawn by satin-skinned chestnuts with silver-plated harness, hung with sumptuous hammer cloths, blazing with armorial bearings. The coachman in the spun-glass wig and pink stockings who sat atop the box was sporting a large nosegay in his buttonhole in honor of the occasion, as did the two huge flunkeys who clung to the back straps.
The sun blazed down with a ferocious, yellow, glittering light which to Constance’s countrybred eyes meant there was a windy storm shortly to follow. She sat awkwardly in the uncomfortable confines of a French corset which seemed designed to push her bosoms up round her ears. Constance felt her wedding dress was overly fussy with its masses of white silk and lace, all flounced and gored and tucked and ruched and vandyked.
But the waiting, watching crowds of servants along Brook Street who had come out on the steps to see her off found nothing amiss. They thought Constance looked exactly how a bride should look, pretty and fresh and virginal.
Lord Philip when he turned from the altar to watch Constance coming up the aisle on Squire Benjamin’s arm was inclined to share their opinion, and felt some new and strange stirrings of pride as he viewed the ethereal vision in white.
The sun slanted in flashes of gold and blue and crimson through the tall, stained-glass windows.
To Constance, Lord Philip seemed like a stranger in the rose silk grandeur of his wedding coat and knee breeches, with jewels flashing on his shoes, his fingers and his cravat.
With a feeling of unreality, she took her place beside him. Peter was best man. There was no maid of honor for Constance, Mr. Evans’s energies having stopped short at the squire.
The Barringtons were present, since social custom decreed that even the most poisonous of one’s relatives must be on the guest list.
Constance made her responses in a low, clear voice, until she was asked whether she would take this man in marriage. She opened and shut her mouth, overcome with a wave of nervous fear, wondering if there was any alternative to marrying a man she loved but who obviously did not love her.
Lord Philip stared down at her in angry embarrassment, and then turned his head away impatiently and stared up at the gallery of the church.
And that is how he noticed the long barrel of a pistol poking over the edge of the gallery, pointing straight at Constance’s heart.
In a faltering voice, Constance said, “I do,” and then everything seemed to happen at once.
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