The Bridal Season (34 page)

“Yes.”

Abruptly he released her. He stepped back, with that precise
military grace she so admired. Formally, as though accepting a commission or a
sentence, he bowed, his manner grave, his face wiped of emotion.

“I shall hold you to your word.”

Happily-ever-afters

happen only at matinees.

APPEARING IN THE
LONDON HERALD’S
Society pages:

The wedding of Miss Angela Frances Bigglesworth to Lord
Hugh Denton Sheffield, Marquis of Cotton, took place Saturday at The Hollies,
country home of Miss Bigglesworth’s father, Mr. Anton Bartholomew Bigglesworth
of Little Bidewell, Northumberland. The extensive guest list included Society’s
most notable lights as well as many of the bride’s friends and acquaintances
from neighboring estates.

(Omitted here: three paragraphs citing the names of those
participating in the ceremony and two columns devoted to an intricate analysis
of the wedding party’s apparel.)

The postnuptial celebration was not only wonderfully
festive but highly original, as could only be expected having been orchestrated
by Whyte’s Nuptial Celebrations, although in this instance it surpassed all
expectations for novelty and élan.

After the wedding the bride and her groom were driven from
the church in a victoria of striking beauty, the vehicle painted in ebony
lacquer and having real orange blossoms pressed into the paint, achieving the
artful effect of japanned papier-mâché inlaid with mother-of-pearl. This pretty
and frolicsome Oriental flavor established the tone and tempo of the subsequent
festivities.

Arriving at The Hollies, the guests were greeted by
servants dressed in Oriental garb, the women clad in kimonos and the men in
loose trousers and blouses of silk, bowing silently. Their delightfully feigned
obsequiousness continued through the evening.

From the front of the manor, the guests were escorted to a
gently uncoiling path strewn with fragrant jasmine blossoms that led beneath
arches twined in flowers and topped with fluttering silk kites in the various
and wonderful shapes of goldfish, swallows, and butterflies.

At the back of the venerable Bigglesworth estate, the
guests were greeted by the sight of a little colony of pagodas atop a grassy
knoll. Brilliantly colored striped silk pavilions had been set beneath the
lofty branches of beech and flowering rowan. Below, on the mirror like expanse
of a picturesque lake, male servants poled miniature sampans, while from within
the exotic boats a sextet of singers, so diminutive in stature one suspected
they were children, sang popular ballads in consummately beautiful three-part
harmony.

Under the pavilions sat long tables resplendent with
exquisite blue-willow china and silver place settings. At each setting were
small favors, the gentlemen receiving red silk smoking caps with black tassels
and the women exquisitely painted silk fans depicting scenes taken from the
surrounding countryside.

(Omitted here, a lengthy discourse on the various food items
served, including a full column devoted to the wedding cake prepared by one of
England’s hitherto undiscovered treasures of the culinary arts, Mrs. Grace
Poole.)

Incense in cunning little ceramic bowls placed discreetly
amidst the pavilions scented the air nearly as sweetly as the singers’ voices,
while a flock of swans foraged along the lake’s bank. As dusk fell, little
paper lanterns bobbed in the light breeze, casting playful shadows upon the
Oriental wonderland. Yet, the festivities were not finished, for once darkness
had fully enveloped the landscape, fairy lights appeared amongst the
rhododendrons and deep within the pine copses bordering the knoll. These
heralded the arrival of a troupe of Oriental acrobats, dancing and
somersaulting and brilliantly displaying the athleticism of their kind in a
variety of amazing maneuvers. After which the festivities were brought to a
spectacular close by a display of fireworks set off across the lake that
spangled the night sky with glitter.

The unanimous opinion of those fortunate enough to be counted
amongst the guests at this exclusive, enchanting, and startlingly original fete
was that, much to Society’s regret, the Season will not see its like again this
year.

The following excerpt from the
London Sentinel’s
review
of
The Bohemian Girl
appeared approximately six months after the
preceding article:

. . .
Miss Letty Potts in the role of Arline is a
revelation. Miss Potts may be remembered for her roles last year in a series of
curtain raisers, when she was lauded as a contralto soprano of fine voice and
delightful comedic timing, but thought to be generally lacking the depth of
emotion necessary to inspire an audience. Clearly such criticisms have been
premature, for in the character of the Gypsy-girl-cum-aristocrat, Miss Potts
sings with an ardor and sincerity that is astounding.

One song in particular, “I Dreamt I Dwelt In Marble Halls,”
continued to bring audiences to their feet. Though the song is a standard
sentimental favorite, Miss Potts has imbued the ethereal aria with such
delicacy of feeling and poignancy of phrasing that not one eye in the house
remained dry. Brava, Miss Potts, brava!

One month later, the
London Sentinel
carried this
notice on the bottom of a page devoted to politics:

Lord Elliot March, lately created Baron March of Bidewell,
having received his writ of summons, will take his seat in the House of Lords
in the opening session of Parliament this afternoon.

Letty folded the newspaper and handed it to the boot boy.
“Thank you for going out in the rain for this, Vinny. Put it in my room, there’s
a duck, and don’t set it on the makeup. I want to keep it nice and clean,
right?”

“Right, Miss Potts,” the boy said, and nipped off
to
do
her bidding. Letty’s gaze followed him, her determined cheerfulness dimming.

This afternoon had been the day, then. Elliot had taken his
seat in the House of Lords and the world would be a better place. She pulled
back the curtains and looked out across the audience. Good house tonight in
spite of the storm outside.

Good for both of them, then. Elliot had his barony and she had
the career she’d always wanted. She ought to be glad. And she was.

After all, it wasn’t as though she’d expected to hear from him
again. She’d always known he’d come to his senses. And he
had
come to
his senses. Not once, in any manner or form, had he attempted to contact her.
Not once had he come to see her perform.

She knew; she’d asked the manager to keep an eye out for him.
And no one, least of all the manager of a theater looking to draw the swell
crowd, would have overlooked the presence of one of London’s rising
politicians. No, he hadn’t come to her, but he’d gone other places. The
newspapers loved him.

He’d been seen shopping in Mayfair with a wealthy
philanthropist’s daughter. He’d dined with the widow of a socially prominent
politician. He had been to the opera and the legitimate theater, but he’d never
gone slumming down in the West End. It was as if he didn’t want to risk the
embarrassment of accidentally running into her.

Aye, the newspapers loved the new Lord March. And what’s not
to love, Letty asked herself with a little laugh. The illustrations didn’t do
him justice, but even those were handsome in a severe sort of way.

When he smiled, he probably bowled them over in droves. Not
that he seemed to smile much. Words like sober, serious-minded, and stern
appended themselves to his name in newspaper articles. He took his duty
seriously. He took life seriously.

And
that
she regretted. For his sake. Because he’d
laughed easily once. With her. It seemed a pity that he should lose that.

“Two minutes, Miss Potts,” the stage manager whispered as the
end of the first act drew near. She watched the scene rise to a climactic
conclusion, with the little girl who played Arline as a child swept into the
Gypsy’s arms to be carried away from her father’s court.

At the audience’s gasp, the stage crew hauled down on the
ropes, snapping the curtains shut. Silently the workers swarmed the stage,
positioning the new set. Letty twitched the ragged paisley shawl into place
over her breasts and shook out her Gypsy mane of hair so that it tumbled loose
about her shoulders.

She hurried onstage and dropped to the floor, lying curled on
her side. The second act opened twelve years later. She closed her eyes,
willing herself into the role. She was Arline, stolen daughter of an
aristocrat, beloved fosterling of a Gypsy tribe, well versed in guile and
connivance yet still dimly remembering another life, another time.

She felt the rush of air as the curtains swept open, and heard
the murmurs from the audience. She waited for her cue and then opened her eyes.
The footlights blinded her, and a blaze of color surrounded her as the Gypsy
dancers gathered around.

She’d played this role three dozen times, knew in her heart
that it was hokey and trite and overwrought and the essence of the gooey,
sappy, sentimental drivel she’d once so bitterly denounced. But tonight ...
tonight...

Perhaps it was hearing the door shut on the last of her hopes.
Perhaps it was seeing the evidence of his success and knowing she’d loved him
enough to give him up. Perhaps it was the words to her opening aria, words that
seemed a mirror reflection of her own experience in Little Bidewell, that for a
short dreamlike time, she’d been a lady and had known the love of a gentleman.
And perhaps it was because she, too, had wakened from the dream—but not from
being in love.

Whatever the reason, she sang as if her heart were breaking,
sang as if every word was an entreaty, every phrase redolent with dying hope.
Yet still her dream was so beautiful, so perfect, that even the memory of him
filled her heart with unutterable joy... and love.

When she was finished, not a rustle disturbed the silence in
the packed house. Every breath was held, every face riveted on the piquant
figure kneeling center stage.

Suddenly the doors at the back of the house burst open.
Surprised by the unexpected interruption, Letty peered into the darkness. She
couldn’t see anything, but she heard the murmurs of the curious audience and
the sound of boot heels striding down the long aisle toward the stage.

And then there was a tall figure standing below her, just past
the lights. A hand appeared on the edge of the stage, flat on the flooring, and
a man vaulted lightly from the audience up onto the stage.

It was Elliot. His white tie was askew and his black hair was
dripping wet. Rain had soaked through his coat and darkened his trousers. But
his eyes glimmered behind their twin banks of black lashes, and there was a
stubborn set to his chin. She stared up at him in amazement. He took one step
toward her. The audience held its collective breath.

“I took my seat in the House of Lords this afternoon at five o’clock
and stayed through the evening session,” he said. “When I came out I could not
find a cab and I would not wait, and so I must ask you to forgive my
appearance.”

She gulped.

“Forgive my appearance,” he continued harshly,
“and
keep
your promise.”

“My promise?” This could not be happening. The other actors
onstage had slowly drifted back, leaving them alone in the center of the stage.

“You said I was to come to you after I took my seat in the
House of Lords and that then you would marry me.”

“But...” She had to be dreaming. She was delirious. He wasn’t
here. He hadn’t even written her a note. “You didn’t even write a note,” she
mumbled through her delirium.

He grasped her arms, gentle but firm and—by God! he didn’t
feel like a mirage! He felt like flesh and blood and masculine strength and
Elliot, dear Lord! He felt like
Elliot.

“I didn’t dare. I didn’t dare because I knew that if I ever
saw you I would not have the strength or resolve to stay away, and I knew that
you would accept nothing less from me than the best I could give, not only for
you, but for myself. So I didn’t write and I didn’t come, but God knows the
torture it has been, and now you must end it!” he ground out, his eyes blazing
with passion and promise and everything she had ever wanted. “You must!”

Abruptly, as though he could not stand his torment a second
longer, in front of eight hundred audience members, Baron March swept the
rising musical star Letty Potts up into his arms.

“You must marry me. You must, my darling, beautiful, audacious
Letty,” he said his voice softening to a low rumble that only she could hear.
“Now, quickly, before I kiss you and embarrass you in front of all these
people, say you will.”

She grinned, delighted and triumphant and dizzy with
happiness, raining kisses on his chin and cheeks and throat and mouth.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Yes and yes and yes.”

Letty Potts was no fool.