The Wedding Veil(54)
The door opened and Emma, Edith’s lady’s maid, entered. When she saw Cornelia, she put her hands to her mouth. “You are beautiful.” She paused. “But Mrs. Donahue is going to have a coronary if you don’t go down and have your picture made.”
They all laughed. Mrs. Donahue was the head housekeeper and in charge of, well, everything. There was no doubt she had been the one to orchestrate the unforgettable serenade that the workers had arranged for Cornelia and Jack the evening before. They had gathered on the lawn with lights and lanterns, noisemakers and whistles. Cornelia ran out the door gaily to greet the terrific noise. She couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate her impending nuptials.
As Cornelia stood to head downstairs, her mother protested, “No, darling! Not yet!”
“You are forgetting the most important thing!” Pauline added.
“Isn’t the groom the most important thing?” Bunchy quipped.
“Not when you have a wedding veil like this,” Susan said.
Cornelia was quite tall, but her mother was taller. She placed the four yards of tulle and Brussels rose point lace, adorned with Florida orange blossoms for the occasion—a nod to Edith’s own wedding—on her daughter’s hair. Cornelia smiled down at her satin wedding slippers, which were also each adorned with a single orange blossom. Her father’s close friend and trusted advisor Chauncey Beadle, who had brought so much of Biltmore to life, had gifted them to her from his own supply for the occasion.
Bunchy handed the bride her bouquet of orchids and lilies of the valley, from local Middlemount Gardens. Cornelia had insisted that everything be from Asheville, or, barring that option, as near Asheville as possible. The one point on which her mother had not conceded was the wedding cake, which was brought in from Washington, D.C. Upon seeing the layers of perfectly white, fluffy frosting, Cornelia had to admit that this was a case of mother knowing best.
“You have never been lovelier,” Edith said, adjusting the veil around her daughter’s shoulders and face.
“You have never been lovelier either,” Cornelia said. And she meant it. Her mother, in her gown of pale green and gold crepe de chine, was known as much for her kind heart, brilliance, and generosity, as for her impeccable sense of style. Her mother really could put together an outfit, choose an accessory, or place a hat in the way that was most flattering. It didn’t hurt that, with her tall and slender build, everything looked particularly spectacular on her. Cornelia was grateful to have inherited her mother’s figure, especially since she loved sweets so much.
In a bustle of tulle and silk, the bridal party made their way down the grand staircase. Bunchy held Cornelia’s arm, her mother holding the train of her dress and length of the veil behind her so as not to wrinkle them. As the party moved out of the way Cornelia paused at the bottom of the steps, veil arranged all around her, bouquet cascading nearly to her knees, for the photographer to snap and snap.
“Smile, lovely bride!” the photographer called as Cornelia leaned against the wall at the bottom of the grand limestone stairs.
“Just imagine All Souls draped in flowers and bathed in candlelight,” her mother said from where she stood behind the photographer, taking in her beautiful daughter. All Souls Church was as near to George’s heart as any project he had ever undertaken. Designed by close family friend Richard Morris Hunt out of the same red brick, pebble dash stucco, and timber trim as so many of his other buildings, it was truly a work of George’s heart, aptly named since it was his wish to bring all the souls in the Asheville community together. But if it was George who had begun that mission, it was his wife and daughter who had truly carried it out.
“Imagine the church? Just think of your handsome groom smiling from the end of the aisle!” Bunchy chimed in.
Cornelia smiled, thinking of her fiancé. “Oh, he’ll look handsome,” Edith said as the photographer snapped away. “But you, my dear, are simply breathtaking.”
After a dozen or so more photos, Mrs. Donahue appeared at the top of the stairs. “All right, all right,” she said, scolding. “That’s enough or we are going to be late.” Cornelia, for one, was relieved. But before she could get out the door, she wondered what it would be like to return to this house—which some would say was too large to ever be a home but was, undoubtedly, for Cornelia—as a Cecil.
A lump formed in her throat at the thought. Before the lump could turn to tears, her mother helped her out the door, and Cornelia gasped at the sight of Old Frank, Biltmore’s longtime gatekeeper, on the esplanade, in a brand-new coat—a wedding gift from her mother—and a jaunty top hat. “Frank!” she declared. “You are more than dashing! Aren’t you every bit the gentleman?” As he reached her, she leaned down to kiss him on the cheek, much to his delight.
Frank dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief. “Our little Nell is all grown up.” Frank had been on the estate even longer than Cornelia and doted on her like a kind uncle or close family friend; he had played games in the garden with her when she was a child. Remembering the jacks he always kept in his pocket for days that seemed to stretch too long, she squeezed his arm just as Mrs. Donahue began shooing her to the car.
“That car is for you and your bride, Frank,” Edith said, pointing to the fifth car in line.
“For us?” Frank gasped.
Dear Frank was overcome with joy.