Authors: Rebecca Dean
“You must understand Miss Warfield, that we as a family will not be able to render financial assistance to the two of you,” Win’s mousy-looking mother said when they were seated around the family dining table and before any other subject had been raised.
Wallis was just about to reply that as far as the wedding was concerned, everything would be traditionally done and, as the bride, her family would be attending to all the expenses of it, when she realized that Mrs. Spencer was speaking about not rendering them financial assistance
ever
.
“All our sons live on their own pay,” her future father-in-law said brusquely, saving her from having to make any kind of an answer to his wife. “Navy pay isn’t up to much, but it will just have to see the two of you through.”
It was the second time Wallis had been told that Navy pay wasn’t up to much, and though she had discounted the remark the first time it had been made, she was now feeling the beginnings of real anxiety.
Win eased them a little when, while passing a dish of peas across the table to the brother nearest to him in age, Dumaresque, he said with no concern at all in his voice, “There’s no need to worry about our financial future. We’re never going to need family help of any kind.”
Wallis was pleased to hear it, as, she was sure, were his parents.
In whatever situation as a newcomer she had been placed, Wallis had always made firm fast friends immediately. It was a talent that was innate and, when she had stepped into the large-frame turreted Spencer home, she had done so expecting that at least where Win’s sister was concerned, a friendship would be struck up almost instantly.
Looking at Ethel across the table, keeping a polite smile firmly on her face as she did so, Wallis knew instantly that, for the first time, her talent for making friends had deserted her, for Ethel barely acknowledged her presence.
Though they were dining as a family, there was no feeling of family cohesiveness. It was almost as if the Spencers had all met each other for the first time. The other odd thing about them was how dissimilar in looks they were to each other. Dumaresque was Nordically blond. Egbert was dark—but far too skinny to fall into Win’s brand of to-die-for good looks. The youngest brother, Frederick, looked more like a foreigner than an American. As for Ethel … she most certainly wasn’t pretty and, as she had no sparkle or conversation either, seemed destined for spinsterhood.
Somehow, thanks to Win’s attitude of behaving as if his family were nice and normal and close-knit, Wallis survived the evening, grateful that she wasn’t staying under the Spencer roof, but would be returning to Chicago and her Aunt Bessie’s friends.
On the ride back into the city neither she nor Win brought up the subject of how odd the evening had been. She, because she didn’t want to hurt Win’s feelings by letting him know how uncomfortable she had been made to feel. What Win’s reasons for remaining silent on the subject were she didn’t know, but she assumed it was all part and parcel of the way he had coped when there. The habit of behaving as if nothing at all were amiss was too deeply ingrained for him to break it, even with her.
It was something she understood. In a very different way, she, too, had always felt an outsider within the Warfield side of her family—and had developed her own ways of coping with that feeling. Now she saw quite clearly that where family was concerned, Win, too, was an outsider. It was yet another bond between them. Bonds that were, she was sure, becoming bonds of steel.
O
n their return to Pensacola she found a letter from Uncle Sol waiting for her.
You will need to be in Baltimore for the public announcement of your engagement
,
he had written, once he had finished with the preliminaries of asking about her visit to the Spencers,
and the social niceties in such a situation require that you remain in Baltimore until the wedding takes place
.
He went on to say much more. About how fortuitous it was that, like the Warfield family, Win was an Episcopalian. That he seemed like a man who had both feet firmly on the ground. A remark that, as Win was an aviator, amused Wallis vastly despite the earlier unwelcome part of his letter.
Looking at that unwelcome first part once again, her amusement died. Baltimore high society was a stiff and unforgiving world, and she knew that her uncle was right. She couldn’t possibly remain at Pensacola during the eight weeks between her engagement announcement in the
Baltimore Sun
and her wedding. There would be engagement celebration luncheons and dinners to attend—all of which would be reported on the
Baltimore Sun
’s society page. Not only that, there was her trousseau to be bought and her wedding gown to be made, neither of which could be achieved in a small town like Pensacola.
From September to November was only eight weeks and, as a Navy wife, both she and Win would have to become accustomed to such separations—some of which would undoubtedly be of a much longer duration. Preparing for an extravaganza wedding in just a few short weeks would mean she’d be so busy the time would simply fly past.
All she had to do now was to break the news to Win. His face had immediately darkened, as she had known it would. Before he could go into a black mood over the necessity of her remaining in Baltimore between their engagement and wedding, she said soothingly, “Baltimore is Baltimore, darling. The conventions have to be followed. And aren’t you glad you’re getting a high-society Baltimorean for a wife, rather than someone for whom such things don’t matter?”
He was. He had never been shy about letting her know that it was her impeccable background that, in the beginning of their relationship, had made her stand out from the crowd. Because he was an ambitious Navy officer, when it came to marriage the right kind of wife was of vital importance, and Win knew that Wallis’s confident social skills and cultured elegance were going to be great assets to him.
The loving kisses and cuddles Wallis so enjoyed followed his agreement that it was essential she remain in Baltimore after their engagement had taken place and until they married.
For the next few weeks, until she left Pensacola for Baltimore, Wallis’s head was a whirl of wedding plans. Velvet was an unheard-of material for a wedding gown—even a winter wedding gown—but velvet was what she was determined to have. As to the candles that would so romantically light the church, plain tallow ones simply would not do. She would have to speak to the minister, the Reverend Edwin Barnes Niver, and arrange for the candles to be of scented beeswax. Then there were the flowers to think about: the flowers for her bridesmaids’ bouquets and her bouquet and the flowers that would decorate the church. And what color would her bridesmaids’ gowns be? And what style? There was so much to think about and to decide that she felt dizzy, and, though she didn’t let Win know, she couldn’t wait for the day when she would return to Baltimore and be able to make proper preparations for what she was sure was going to be the biggest day of her life.
I
n mid-September she once again made the train journey north, this time unaccompanied by Win, who was so devastated at the prospect of being parted from her that at one point, as she mounted the steps of the train, she thought he was going to drag her down from them and forcibly take her back to the air station.
Minutes later, safely aboard, she leaned out the carriage window, and, holding on to her hat with one hand, she waved with the other until Win—and Pensacola’s dusty little station—were lost to sight.
Then she seated herself in a corner of the carriage, opened her purse, took out a notebook and pencil, and, impervious to the passing countryside, began making lists.
“Y
our Uncle Sol has taken care of the engagement announcements,” Alice said to her, delighted to have Wallis back home for the next eight weeks. “They will appear in all the Baltimore newspapers at the end of the week, September sixteenth—and the wedding date, November eighth, is to be included. Now the first thing we have to do is to sort out your trousseau and wedding gown—and how they’re going to be paid for.”
“No, it isn’t, Mama. The first thing I have to do is to formally invite the cousins and friends I’ve chosen to be my bridesmaids. Then I have to see Uncle Sol.”
“Better you than me, honey,” Alice said with deep feeling. “The times I’ve had to go cap in hand to that old goat are more than I care to remember—and all too often I came away with either an empty cap or one that was only half full!”
W
allis had no intention of visiting Uncle Sol at the Continental Trust Bank. Their meeting would take place at the Warfield family home on East Preston Street to remind her uncle—if he so needed it—that she was a Warfield and that her wedding was a public family Warfield occasion and had to be funded as such.
“T
he expenses you speak of, Wallis. What are they?”
Even though he was in the comfort of his home, Sol was dressed formally in a frock coat. Wallis couldn’t help wondering if he was determined to be the last man in Baltimore to own one.
“My wedding gown, the matron of honor’s gown, the bridesmaids’ gowns, and, of course, their hats. With your permission I would like to wear my grandmother’s tulle veil, so no expense there.”
Solomon Warfield made a sound in his throat that could have meant anything.
Undeterred, Wallis continued counting off the things that would need paying for. “Flowers. Flowers for the bridal bouquets and for the church and for the decoration of the tables at the wedding breakfast.”
“Where,” Sol asked, “do you intend this wedding breakfast to take place?”
“I thought the Stafford Hotel. It has a magnificent ballroom and a wonderful orchestra.”
She paused in order for her uncle to make comment on her choice of venue, but as he did not, she continued with her list of wedding expenses.
“Then there is the honeymoon. I thought the Greenbrier Hotel at White Sulphur Springs. West Virginia countryside is so beautiful in the fall when all the trees are brilliant orange and sizzling red.”
Uncle Sol had taken up his usual stance in front of the fireplace, his legs apart, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Dare I ask, Wallis, if you have calculated the financial total of all these expenses? You didn’t mention champagne, but I am assuming champagne will play a large part at the wedding breakfast, nor did you mention the number of guests you intend to invite.”
“I guess the expenses will come to about two or three thousand dollars, Uncle Sol, perhaps more. As to the guests, the number, including relatives from both sides of both families—and friends—comes to just over three hundred.”
He regarded her steadily from beneath bushy grizzled eyebrows.
“Who, Wallis, do you intend to take the place of your late father and to give you away?”
“Why, you, Uncle Sol.” That he would do so was so obvious, his question startled her. There wasn’t, after all, anyone else who could give her away. Her other two Warfield uncles were Sol’s younger brothers and had never played the part in her life that Sol had.
Seated on the slippery leather sofa she had never been comfortable on, even as a child, she waited for him to return to the nub of their conversation: the amount he was going to pony up for a grand Warfield wedding.
The silence between seemed to stretch into the eternities.
At last he said, “Firstly, I shall of course walk you down the aisle in Christ Church in order to give you away in marriage to Lieutenant Spencer. For me not to do so would, as I am pleased to see that you agree, be unthinkable. Secondly, I shall not be paying so much as a dollar toward the expense of a wedding as lavish as the one you are planning. Such a wedding would have been suitable if you had been marrying into a distinguished, socially prominent Baltimore family of the kind I had always hoped to see you marry into. As it is, your wedding to Lieutenant Spencer should be a tastefully small affair—especially as it is a time of war—with far fewer bridesmaids, a more modest venue for the wedding breakfast, and a guest list of no more than eighty.”
Wallis could hardly believe her ears. Keeping control of her temper with difficulty, she rose to her feet and walked toward him.
Not until there were only inches left between them did she come to a halt.
Looking him straight in the eyes, she said tightly, “Uncle Sol, I am a Warfield. I am entitled to the kind of a wedding that Warfields are accustomed to having—to the kind of wedding my father would have given me if he were alive.”
Sol eyeballed her straight back. “Teackle isn’t alive,” he snapped back with a crudity so shocking she felt as if she had been slapped across the face. “And on the subject of the financing of your wedding to Lieutenant Spencer I have said my last word. A small wedding and I will pick up the tab. The kind of wedding you are planning—and you are on your own, Wallis. I shall pay for nothing.”
Of all the many unpleasant encounters she’d had with her uncle over the years, this was most definitely the worst. That he meant to stand by every word he’d said was so obvious she didn’t even attempt to argue with him—and she sure as hell wasn’t going to plead.
She said through gritted teeth, “I’m going to have a wedding worthy of a Warfield—and if I have to pay for it myself, I shall do so out of the legacy my grandmother left me.”
Sol sucked in his breath. “That money was not left to you to spend frivolously. That
any
money left to you would be spent in such a manner was something your grandmother always suspected—which is why her legacy to you, in comparison to her total estate, was so small. You have too much Montague in you for your own good. Like your mother, when it comes to financial matters you haven’t a lick of sense.”
Wallis’s eyes narrowed into slits as she fought the urge to push him backward into the fireplace. Instead she hissed, “I thank God every day I have some Montague mixed in with my Warfield blood, and when this wedding is over I shall never set foot in Thirty-Four East Preston Street ever again!”