Weddings of the Century: A Pair of Wedding Novellas(39)
As she prepared for their arrival, she surreptitiously studied her husband. His expression was as impassive as always, even though he was bringing his bride home for the first time. Didn’t he ever feel anything? In three weeks of marriage, he had never been anything but unfailingly polite. Civil. Kind. As remote as if he were on the opposite side of the earth.
Not that she should complain, for his calm detachment had made it possible to reach a modus vivendi very quickly. In public, she took his arm and smiled so that they presented a companionable picture to the world.
Naturally neither of them ever referred to what happened in the silence of the night. Justin always ordered suites with two bedrooms so they could sleep separately. Every three or four days, with his gaze on the middle distance, he would ask if it was convenient for him to visit her.
She always gave her embarrassed assent, except for once when she had stammered that she was “indisposed.” She would have died of mortification if he had asked what was wrong, but he had obviously understood. Five days passed before he asked again, and by then she was able to give him permission to come.
As he had promised, there had been no pain after the first occasion, and soon her fear had gone away. Dutifully she obeyed her mother’s dictum and lay perfectly still while her husband did what husbands did. The marital act took only a few minutes, and he always left directly after.
Once or twice, she had felt his fingers brush through her hair before he climbed from the bed. She liked to think that it was a gesture of affection, though perhaps it was mere accident, a result of fumbling in the dark.
But her mother had been right; passive acceptance of her wifely role had won Justin’s respect. Besides treating her with the utmost consideration, he also encouraged her to speak her opinions. That was certainly an unusual sign of respect, as well as a pleasure few wives had.
They discussed a wide variety of topics: British and American politics, art and music, architecture and history. Though Justin was never talkative, his observations were perceptive and he seemed to genuinely enjoy listening to her chatter. Best of all, the conversations were slowly building a rapport between them. It wasn’t love—but perhaps someday it might be.
She prayed that that would happen, for living without love was a sad business.
Getting to her feet, she pulled on her sable-lined coat. Though it would warm her on the raw November day, that practical use was secondary. Before they left New York, her mother had emphasized that it was essential to wear her furs as a sign of wealth when she was first introduced to her new home and family. A good thing it wasn’t August. Unable to see all of herself in the mirror, she asked, “Do I look all right?”
Her husband studied her gravely. “You look very lovely. Exactly as a duchess should, but seldom does.”
The train squealed to a halt, and she glanced out to see a bunting-draped platform. “Good heavens!” she said blankly. “There are hundreds of people out there.”
“I did warn you.” He stood and walked to the carriage door. “It’s probably the entire population of Swindon Minor and everyone for five miles around. The schools will have given a holiday so that the pupils can come and wave flags at you.”
“It’s different actually seeing them.” Observing her husband’s closed expression, she said, “You don’t look very enthusiastic.”
“Gavin was much better at this sort of thing.” Perhaps that was true, but when Justin opened the door and stepped onto the platform, a roar of welcome went up. He gave a nod of acknowledgment, then turned to help Sunny step down. Another cheer went up, so she gave a friendly wave.
She met a blur of local dignities, all of whom gave speeches of welcome. Luckily she was good at smiling graciously, and the sables kept her from freezing in the chill, damp air.
The only part that stood out in her mind was the little girl who was pushed forward, clutching a bouquet in her tiny hands. “Give the posies to the duchess, Ellie,” her mother hissed.
Unclear on the theory, Ellie swept the bouquet around in circles. With a grin, Sunny intercepted it, then dropped a kiss on the child’s soft brown curls. “Thank you, Ellie!”
Another cheer arose. Sunny blushed. Her gesture had not been calculated, but apparently kissing babies was good policy everywhere.
The mayor of the borough assisted her into the waiting carriage and Justin settled beside her. However, instead of starting for the palace, there was a delay while the horses were unhitched. A dozen men seized the shafts and began pulling the carriage up the village high street as the church bell began to ring clamorously.
Sunny gave her husband a doubtful glance. “This seems dreadfully feudal.”
He lifted his hand in response to a group of exuberant uniformed schoolchildren. “This isn’t really for you, or for me, either. It’s a celebration of continuity. Of a life lived on this land for centuries. Swindon Palace belongs as much to the tenants as it does to the Aubreys.”
She supposed he was right, and certainly the crowd seemed to be having a very jolly time. Nonetheless, her democratic American soul twitched a bit. Trying to look like a duchess, she smiled and waved for the slow two miles to Swindon Palace.
Another crowd waited in the courtyard. After the newlyweds had climbed the front steps, Justin turned and gave a short thank-you speech in a voice that carried easily to everyone present. Gavin might have had a talent for grand gestures, but the tenants had had more daily contact with Justin, and they seemed to heartily approve of him.