A Country Marriage (39 page)

But the next evening, although he went out as usual, he was quickly back, saying without preamble, ‘I been talking to Ma and she told me how all this weddin’ food is proving to be a real struggle, so I told her that tomorrow and Saturday you’ll go down there and help her.’

‘
What
?’ Whatever had possessed him to volunteer her services without even talking to her first? ‘Well, that’s a nuisance and I don’t mind saying. I was in Wembridge all morning and then with that rain this afternoon I got scarce to nothing done.’

‘Well I can’t help the weather. Some of us were working in it anyway. I’ve said you’ll go and help, so for once, do as I say.’

‘George—’

‘For heaven’s sake Mary, why must you constantly question me? I’m sorry if it ain’t to your liking but sometimes that’s the way things are, plain and simple. So just go and help.’ And then, without giving her time to answer, he went back out again.

Puzzled by his outburst and more than a little frightened, she sank into the chair and hugged her knees to her chest. She hadn’t been going to refuse to go and help; she had merely wanted to comment on the inconvenience of being landed with more work when she was barely coping with her own. Bewildered both by his unrelenting mood and what felt like his increasing hostility towards her, she started to cry; her tears as much in sadness for the continued tension between them, as with her irritation for what she had just been volunteered to do.

Chapter 15

A Young Man’s Fancy

With the weather on Saturday turning out to be perfect for a wedding, and with the morning’s work already complete, Annie and Lottie sat down together in the narrow band of shade afforded by the house to fashion garlands for the bridal table, their activity releasing a cloud of soft fragrance from the blooms of the sweet briar and a mist of apple-like scent from its leaves. In the kitchen, though, where the heat from the fire was slowly exhausting them, Hannah and Ellen, together with Martha and Mary, were struggling to prepare the last of the numerous trays of food.

‘Remind me again why the weddin’ of Martha’s daughter’s is being held
here
?’ Mary hissed to Ellen.

‘All I can tell you is that Ma Strong said summat about it being the best place for it.’

‘Well, I suppose she has a point but to be honest, with the way I feel at this very moment, I could well do without having to go to church for the wedding of two people I scarcely know,’ she confessed, pulling another batch of loaves from the bread oven and wiping her face with the corner of her blouse.

‘Oh no, that’s the bettermost part.’

She turned about. The other thing she didn’t need at the moment, but seemed now to have unwittingly invited, was a sermon from Ellen.

‘If you say so.’

‘Marriage is a gift of God in creation through which husband and wife may know the grace of God. Aye, I’m real fond of the marriage service. ’Tis full of joy and hope and love. And do you know, given the chance, I’d marry Will all over again, right this very moment, just to hear all them uplifting words.’

Wedging the loaves onto the single remaining space on the table, she sighed. Joy and hope. Huh. Stark terror and agonising nerves would be a better description of her own wedding day. And, as she could never help but recall, the night that followed had been even worse.

‘Well, if you’re going to foist another wedding upon us, perhaps I could prevail upon you to at least wait a week or two until we’re done and dusted with this one.’

‘Here, let me finish that. You go and get washed. We’re nigh on done here now anyway.’

Grateful for Ellen’s thoughtfulness, but with little enthusiasm, she did as she was told. Having spent the last day and a half helping her mother-in-law, the simple truth of the matter was that she was just plain exhausted. And while she knew that they were all feeling the same, it didn’t negate the displeasure she still felt with her husband for having volunteered her in the first place.
And
it was so unbearably hot.
And
even though her duty was now done, she still had a wedding service to sit through. And then, after that, there would still be the randy, which, as was the way with these things, would no doubt simply amount to a good deal of drunkenness and cavorting. And even when
that
was done, she would most likely
still
be expected back at first light to help clear up. Was it any wonder, then, that she was in such bad humour?

Peering into the tiny looking glass propped up on top of the chest, it was impossible not to notice that she looked furious – but even when she tried softening her expression, the furrows between her brows seemed to remain just as deeply engraved. Turning in frustration from her scowling reflection, she reached instead for her hairbrush, only to have the instrument of torture become tangled in a knot at the back of her head. Cursing the agony to her scalp she dragged it out. And anyway, where was George? She was certain that she had heard him in the yard, talking to Lottie and Annie a while back; not that he had seen fit to put his head around the door and say hello. No. No doubt he knew all too well how annoyed she would still be. Well, that was fine: he could avoid her if he liked, but if that was his aim, then he needn’t think that he would find her in the least obliging later on.

*

‘You all right, there?’ Ellen wanted to know, as she sat down next to Mary and gave a weary sigh. With the celebrations well under way, the atmosphere in the barn had already become stifling, the effects evident in the flush on Ellen’s normally pale face and the dewy beads of perspiration on her forehead.

‘Just worn out.’ She had been on the point of confessing that she was well and truly fed up with her husband, but recognised just in time how that would only invite the sort of discussion that she could well do without. In Ellen’s eyes, George was well on the road to sainthood.

‘Me too,’ she heard Ellen agreeing. ‘Don’t Rachel look pretty though?’

Waving away a determined wasp, she didn’t even bother to follow Ellen’s gaze.

‘Seems to me all the Troke girls look pretty… with their shiny red hair and milky skin. I can’t imagine there’s an ugly one amongst them.’

‘Oh dear, you
are
tired, aren’t you? Look, why don’t you slip across to the house and sneak a lie down? After all, it ain’t
your
family’s weddin’. Most likely no one will notice you’re gone and then you can come back over later, all nice an’ refreshed. I’m tempted meself, you know. After all, this’ll carry on for hours yet.’

Slowly, she shook her head.

‘I’d
like
to but for certain
someone
would take offence.’

‘Oh well, think on it. But if later on, you can’t find me anywhere, then you’ll know where I’ve gone. Just don’t go letting on!’

Feeling a pat on her arm, she looked up to follow Ellen’s progress through the throng to where she could see Will. It was all very well for
her
; if she was to tell
her
husband that she was worn out then no doubt he would suggest that she went to bed anyway. Not George, though. No, he would simply tell her to stop looking so miserable. Struck by a twinge of guilt and the fear that he might at this very moment be watching her, she looked hastily about but, as usual, he was nowhere to be seen.

On the far side of the barn, though, she could see that the fiddler was about to call the first dance and found herself watching as what appeared to be the entire Troke family formed two lines in the centre of the floor. At the far end of the row she had no difficulty in making out the blonde head of Francis standing opposite what she imagined to be one of his flame-haired cousins, and although the fiddle and the flute were barely audible above the boisterous banter, when the two rows of partners eventually settled into the rhythm, the synchronised dipping and bobbing of so many red heads made for quite a sight.

With the first dance coming to a close, a second was quickly called and a new set of dancers gathered, the thick dust they kicked up from the floor obscuring their feet. From her vantage point in the shadows, she gave a grudging smile as she noticed how the effects of the ale and cider seemed to be leaving more and more of them out of position or facing entirely the wrong way.

When the musicians took a break for refreshments she looked once again about the barn. It had been a tedious evening, all told; she still hadn’t set eyes on George, let alone danced with him. Not that it particularly mattered, since all she really wanted to do was go to sleep. But there would be no chance of that happening any time soon since George would never leave a randy until he had no choice but to cave to exhaustion. And to cap it all, by the look of everyone else she was the only one not enjoying herself. Well, if she couldn’t go home to her bed, then perhaps a breath of fresher air might help; might, in fact, lift her mood and make the rest of the evening more bearable.

Once out in the yard she was surprised to find daylight still holding out against the dusk, and for some reason that alone seemed sufficient to brighten her spirits. She had always thought that May evenings were some of the nicest, anyway, and with less weariness to her step she strolled as far as the gate pillar, its drunken angle suggesting that it too had been partaking of the merriment.

‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ she chided herself, unable to ignore the sounds of the gaiety carrying on without her. If there was one thing she disliked in other people it was self-pity and so, swivelling on the spot, she decided to head back. Yes: she would see whether Will needed a partner for one of the next dances and if not – given that he was always in great demand – then she would persuade Robert to accompany her instead. Sometimes, she reflected, she really was her own worst enemy, dwelling on petty things to the point that they made her miserable. After all, look how she had fretted over George’s behaviour, and how foolish she had felt after discovering what lay behind it. This, she reminded herself with a wag of her finger, was a randy, and since they were few and far between, then it was up to her to make the most of it.

‘Well, hello!’ Crashing against her face she felt a shirt – a very warm and earthy-smelling shirt – that snatched her breath and brought her to an unexpected stop. And, at the feel of a hand steadying her arm, she looked up. ‘Not
quite
what I had in mind when I told you to come and find me, but pleasing all the same.’

Taking a hasty step backwards, she ducked her head. His hand, though, remained where it was, hot and clammy on her arm. Of all of the people –
all
of the people – here tonight, it had to be Francis Troke that she was careless enough to collide with.

‘Forgive me.’

‘No forgiveness necessary, although I trust you ain’t hurt?’

‘Perfectly unhurt, thank you.’

‘Well,’ he continued, his voice sounding as though it was inappropriately close to her ear, ‘don’t forget that dance you promised me,’ and with his words seeming to trickle down her neck, she skirted around him and plunged through the door into the clamour and the heat of the continuing revelry.

Unsettled, though, she wandered aimlessly, keeping to the shadows and hoping rather contrarily now that she
wouldn’t
come across George. A few minutes ago, her idea to come back and enjoy the randy had seemed appealing, but the truth was that she was so weary that all she really wanted to do was to sit down. With all of the formerly quiet corners now filled with guests, she had just settled upon going across to join Lottie and Ma Strong sitting on a bench when she once again felt a hand grasp her arm. With a brisk rebuke forming on her tongue, she spun around.

‘Da-ance… with my w-wife?’

With her eyes wide, she shut her mouth. George. Although, with his hair dishevelled and his eyes glazed, she might have been forgiven for not immediately recognising him, and confused by the sudden bitter taste in her mouth, she nodded and let him lead her over to the assembling dancers. The atmosphere away from the doors was even more close and sultry, and with a tired sigh she took her place in the row of women, glancing without enthusiasm along the line of men opposite: George: Will of course, Robert surprisingly, her father-in-law and then, at the very end, Francis. The weakening of her knees beneath her was, she knew for certain, on his account, but with the musicians striking a chord and her husband making an ungainly attempt at a bow in front of her, she had no choice but to curtsey back and join in.

Between the grittiness of the fiddle scraping its tune, the band of tightness encircling her skull and the force with which George was – inadvertently, it seemed – gripping her fingers, her discomfort felt beyond her power to endure. Why couldn’t he have just left her alone? Why, now, at this late stage of the evening, had he bothered to ask her to dance? But then, at the sight of how unsteady he was on his feet and how far behind the music he was, she was unable to prevent her lips forming into a kind of ironic grin. And when the moment for the first partner-change eventually came, she watched without surprise as he fumbled her hand across to Will.

Will, though, proved to be still as nimble on his feet as when she had watched him earlier. And, delighted by the way that he led her deftly about, she smiled back at him, the crispness of his steps a perfect match for the clarity of the notes of the flute. And when the passage of music ended, he handed her with immaculate timing on to Robert, who, in contrast, and looking rather weary, missed a couple of the direction changes, for which he apologised profusely and blushed deeply, seemingly relieved when the time came to pass her on to his father.

She couldn’t recall having danced with Thomas before but quickly found that he was both skilled and surprisingly agile. But, acutely aware of who was going to be her next partner, she missed a step, only adding to the agitation she felt as, inescapably, she was handed on to Francis.

Giddy; she felt so giddy. And the air was so thick and muggy that there was no earthly chance of regaining her composure, either. And that was without the fact that he now had hold of her hand; that he could probably feel through her fingers the rapid pace of her heartbeat. Was that possible? Well, if he could, then he could: either way there was nothing she could do about it. Nor was there anything she could have done about the distantly familiar shock of excitement that had run through her insides at the very moment that he had touched her. He knew of her turmoil anyway; knew that she was relishing his grasp – warm and soft and sensual – and there could be no mistaking either that when the dance required him to put his arm around her waist, he knew that she found his touch exhilarating. With the seductive and compelling beat of the tabor to urge them on, she willed fiercely for this turn not to end, but even while she was praying for it, she could hear that the refrain was drawing to a close. In a hot and heady whirl, oblivious to everything else, she felt him hook her arm in his, and as he spun her around for the final time, she felt certain that she was no longer in her own body. But all too soon it was time for the cast off; for him to release her to skip back along the line of clapping dancers to return to George.