A Country Marriage (2 page)

Remembering then what he had originally come for, he swivelled about, and seeing a scythe propped in the corner, snatched it up, turned about and strode across the barn.

‘No, George,
wait
. I never meant you no malice. Forgive me. I love you. Always have. Just this one time.
Please
.
I
beg
of
you
.’

Surprised that she hadn’t come after him, he reached for the door latch. Maybe his threats had frightened her more than he first thought. Maybe. But even so, there could be no harm in reminding her and so as he pressed decisively on the thumb plate, he turned just sufficiently in her direction to say over his shoulder, ‘Heed my warning, woman. This business between us is done.’

But as he closed the door behind him and stepped out into the fresh night air, the weight of misgiving in his gut made him realise that he would be very fortunate indeed if it was any such thing.

Chapter 1

With My Body I Honour Thee

Mary Springer clutched the mantel; any moment now and another hairpin would dig into her scalp.

‘I wish I hadn’t agreed to this,’ she mused out loud.

‘Sorry, love but this last bit’s a mite tricky. Just a couple more pins, though and we’re done. After all, you don’t want it all to come a-tumbling down halfway through your vows, do you?’

Prevented from shaking her head, she sighed instead.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ she replied, her eyes fixed on the soot-blackened bricks of the hearth, her shoulders braced in anticipation.

‘There; all done now. Agreed to what, then?’

Wasn’t it obvious? Admittedly it was rather last minute to voice her concerns, but when all was said and done, the house had been filled with talk of nothing else for more than a week now. Nevertheless…

‘To wed George, of course.’

‘Oh, Mary, love,’ her mother began, ‘we all of us had the jitters; every one of us. It’s only natural to feel a bit anxious. Try not to dwell on it so. Now, turn around and let me look at you.’ She shook her head. Was that the best her mother could offer; that every bride felt anxious? What was anxiety, anyway? Was it greater or lesser than fear? Or was it simply what your fears turned into once you became a married woman? And as for trying not to dwell on it, well, Ma might as well have suggested that she try to fly. ‘Turn about then, love.’ Nonetheless, she did as she was bid. ‘Well, without word of a lie,’ her mother was continuing, ‘I ain’t never seen you look so lovely. George Strong is a lucky man.’

Standing as though still under her mother’s scrutiny, she let out a long sigh. It didn’t feel wise to move too much anyway in case, despite her mother’s best efforts with the pins, her hair did somehow fall out of place. Not that it felt like her own hair. Or even her own head. Dressed in such fancy fashion, it felt as though it should be on the shoulders of someone far more elegant and better suited to it.

‘I can’t see why you should think
him
so lucky. I’ve not the least notion what he sees in me. Many a time I’ve tried but I simply can’t fathom such a thing. After all, a man like him could have chosen a girl from almost anywhere.’

‘No doubt he could have. But as I’m sure I needn’t point out, he chose
you
. So don’t go putting yourself down.’ Clearly, then, Ma didn’t understand at all. ‘Now, since
you’re
all set, I’ll just dress young David and then we’ll all of us be ready to go.’

‘Ma…’

‘What now, love?’

The exasperation in her mother’s tone didn’t exactly invite confidences. But if she couldn’t share her fears with her mother, then with whom could she share them? She had never before longed for an older sister but at this precise moment…

‘I don’t feel… you know,
ready
.’ The words, once out of her mouth, sounded as feeble as she had known they would, not that she could help the way that she felt; the way that she had been feeling for some days now. It had been all right to start with – when George had taken her breath away by suggesting that they wed – but now, now that the day had finally arrived, the prospect of becoming his wife was utterly terrifying.

‘It’s like I said,’ her mother was continuing as she crossed towards the door, ‘none of us was ever ready and I’d be lying to let you think otherwise. ’Tis just the way of it. But one thing’s for certain: fretting over it won’t make it any better.’

Thinking that her mother’s shallow smile offered little by way of reassurance, she turned back to the hearth, only to find that the unfamiliar face staring back at her from the looking glass didn’t help much, either.

‘Well?’ she mouthed at it, aware that for the moment at least, she was alone. But the lopsided glass, speckled from an eternity of reflecting lives more normally carried on without reference to it, returned no judgement.

She leaned closer. In the murky light it was hard to be certain of very much at all apart from the fact that the sombre young woman staring back at her did appear more grown up than usual; certainly more grown up than the one on this side of the mirror actually felt. She angled her head and reconsidered but no; no matter which way she looked at it, the result amounted to much the same thing: it was a lie, an act of deception. That apparently presentable young woman was not the one George Strong was about to gain as a wife. No, sadly, the real Mary Springer was far more ordinary.
She
had unkempt hair the colour of old thatch and features that were entirely unremarkable. Her face was indifferently roundish, her nose short and slightly stubby and her eyes a rather ordinary hazel colour. Admittedly, they were neither too large nor too small, and her lips were at least a pleasingly deep pink colour. But, as the saying went, no one was ever going to stop a runaway horse to look at her. In fact, the more she considered it, the more uncomfortable she felt with this fancy, dressed-up rendering of her ordinariness. If nothing else it was dishonest; dishonest enough to spell disaster.

‘Oh, for goodness sake, Mary. In all my days I’ve never seen a bride looking so glum.’

Turning stiffly, she saw her mother dragging David towards the bowl of water on the table.

‘Well, I’m real sorry Ma, but I’m given to wondering whether this ain’t a mistake. I mean, what if once we’re wed, he don’t like me? What if I’m not what he thinks I am?’

‘Jitters again.’

‘But he barely knows me.’

‘He knows enough.’

‘And it’s so important that he
likes
me.’

‘He will.’

‘But
Ma
…’ Oh, this was hopeless.

‘Mary, child, you said it yourself; George Strong is a fine fellow and at five an’ twenty, certainly old enough to be sure what he wants in a wife. So you can rest assured that he ain’t entering into this lightly. And as you remarked yourself not a few moments back, no doubt he had the pick of a very many young women, all of them ready to wed him in the blink of an eye.’

‘So why’d he choose
me
then?’ She didn’t mean to sound ungrateful but the closer it drew, the more implausible it seemed. What on earth
did
he see in her?

‘Well, since I can’t read his mind I couldn’t say. But what I
do
know for certain, is that no man wants a wife with fanciful thoughts and a head that’s constantly in the clouds. If I’ve told you once to stop daydreaming, then I’ve told you a dozen times this morning alone. So I suggest you stop all this nonsense, make peace with your good fortune and try not to be so joppety-joppety. And if you’re
still
troubled by doubt, then just remind yourself how that family of his
owns
Summerleas and maybe offer up some thanks for the security that will bring you; the sort that most folk around here would give their right arm for.’

Her mother was right, of course. Indeed, she was right about most of it but it still didn’t alter the way she felt.

‘I know.’

‘Then for heaven’s sake stop looking so miserable. Walk up the aisle with that face and he’d be well within his rights to change his mind.’

Would that, she wondered then, be such a terrible outcome? It would certainly bring an end to her dilemma.

‘But there’s just so much I don’t
know
about,’ she ventured, the glance she gave in her mother’s direction, suggesting, though that continuing to voice her fears was pointless. In fact, as she watched her jerk at David, scolding him to stand still, she could see that she was no longer even listening. No, over the last few days, Ma had made it quite plain that in her view, she was making a good marriage and ought to be thankful. So perhaps, in the same way that she was always telling David that he would grow into his hand-me-down boots, there was a chance that she herself would somehow grow into being married. It was a hope at least worth trying to hold on to because at this precise moment, she felt as though she was teetering at the edge of a sheer drop; a feeling worsened by the knowledge that very shortly now, she would be expected to step – willingly – over the edge. Then she must make the most of these last minutes. Yes, if she only had one, final chance to ease her concerns, then she would have to find a way to broach the matter bothering her most.

‘Ma…’

In front of the hearth, though, her mother’s attention was now on her own appearance and as she stood tugging at her best shawl, her impatience with it spilled over into her tone.

‘Yes, love.’

Go
on
, she urged her faltering tongue.

‘Tonight…’

‘I know, love. It’s a shame we won’t be at the randy but as I said to Pa, that’s a fearful long traipse to make with the little ones.’

She shook her head, and grasping hard on the back of the chair, watched as her fingernails turned a deeper shade of pink.

‘No, I know that. And I understand. It’s not the randy…’

‘What then? You know, this really ain’t the sort of appearance I wanted.’

‘Tonight,
after
the randy…’
Go
on
, she willed herself again. Ask before it’s too late. ‘What will
he
, George, I mean, what will he expect me to…
do
?’

Even in the grime of the mirror, the reddening of her mother’s face was obvious.

‘Lord, child, let that be the least of your worries. As you’ll find out soon enough now, it’s summat of nothing and for certain not worth getting all worked up about. Trust me, when the time comes you’ll just know what’s wanted of you.’

‘But Ma—’

‘Well, I suppose this will have to do since no amount of wishing is going to turn wool into silk, is it?’

‘No.’

‘Well, then, seems we’re all set.’

All set? That was
it
? Her mother’s advice about what was about to be the most momentous event of her life amounted to
wait
and
see
? By her sides, her fingers had curled into fists, and – not nearly far enough away – the church clock had begun its ponderous announcement of the hour. One… two… three, she counted; the pause between each chime separated by at least a dozen beats of her heart.

‘Anyone in there ready yet?’

‘On our way, love,’ she heard her mother responding so ordinarily to her father’s enquiry.

Everyone, then, was ready; everyone except for her. She
wanted
to smile, truly she did, but her most powerful feeling of all was an urge to run. In all probability, though, it was too late now anyway: George and all of his family would already be gathered in the church, waiting for her. Yes, the chance for changing her mind was long past, the recognition of which seemed simply to knot her stomach even tighter. There was nothing more for it, then: she must force her feet out through the door and up the lane to the church to become the wife of George Strong of Summerleas Farm.

Taking a final glance over her shoulder at the strangely silent room, her eyes came to rest on the clutter that represented the seventeen years of her life so far, the realisation dawning on her then that the next time she set eyes on it all, it would be as a visitor. That daily life here would go on without her only made matters worse, and so, pressing her eyes briefly shut, she lifted her skirts to be clear of the sawdust on the floor of her father’s workshop and followed in her mother’s wake.

Walking through the village with the rest of the family trailing in sombre fashion behind, she tried to distract herself from the tautness of her stomach by concentrating instead on the most minute and irrelevant details along the familiar path. Here, she focused her eyes on the purple-blue, waxy bloom of the sloe berries on the spiny blackthorn bush outside Ma Flood’s cottage and there, she remarked silently upon the way in which the mottled crab apples were beginning to weigh down the branches of her much-prized tree. Further along, she noted the hard, scarlet gloss on the rose hips not yet softened by frost, caught the sharp, scolding ‘
churrr’
of a wren somewhere in the quickthorn hedge and filled her nostrils with the damp tang that signalled the yielding of summer to autumn. But as each new distraction faded, the squat and rather smug tower of the church loomed a step larger, and despite the steadiness of her father’s tread beside her, her own feet seemed more and more reluctant to move. Her throat was constricting harder, too. And that was without the fear that was numbing her limbs and the wild tattoo from her heart that was now loud enough to obliterate everything except the scrunching of their feet on the gravel.

‘Pa…’ she whispered, her fingernails digging into the scratchy cloth of his sleeve. But already they were through the lychgate and heading towards the porch; towards the dark doorway waiting to consume her. And then, in an act that was nothing short of treachery, her feet were conducting her over flagstones worn to smoothness by the passage of so many brides before her to bring her alongside the man who was about to become her husband.