A Country Marriage (4 page)

Left without time to recover her composure, though, she was forced by politeness to look back up. But when she made to offer her hand in greeting, she was left hovering awkwardly as the woman she now knew as Annie moved to kiss George’s cheek and whisper something to him. Although she couldn’t be entirely sure, it sounded like, ‘Given up at last then, George.’

‘Annie, this is Mary.’ The second half of his introduction sounded similarly devoid of feeling and she withdrew her hand, glad that she did so because the woman merely glanced towards her and in a tone that might more normally be used with a tedious child, said, ‘Hello, Mary.’

‘Hello.’ For some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to use the woman’s name. Annie. It sounded far too familiar. Friendly. And that was something that this particular Annie clearly was not. Not that the omission of her name seemed to trouble her because already, she had turned her attention back to George.

Well, at least she lacked her husband’s coarseness, although clearly, it was her intention to make plain her place as a newcomer. It felt, though, as if there was more to it than that and while she wouldn’t sing her own praises as a judge of character, she did think the woman odd. For a start, there was her appearance. For a farm girl, her ebony hair was sleek and, under the warm lantern light, possessed of a lustrous sheen. Tendrils of it tumbled about her face, framing her fulsome pout and drawing attention towards her dark and lively eyes. And then – as though by themselves such arresting features were insufficient – there was her figure; her bosom, on its own generous enough to defy polite description, was accentuated further by her drawn-in waist and rounded hips. It was an outline that reminded her of the hourglass that Granmer Springer kept on her mantel. Yes, Annie Strong was unusual. In fact, she seemed a woman for whom artless innocence was a waste of time, it being clear that she knew full well the impression she made on those around her. Then there was the assuredness of her stance; the way she seemed to exude conviction and radiate defiance, traits that gave her the air of being either fascinating or brazen, depending, she suspected then, on the generosity of the observer. And she didn’t think that she was alone in her opinion, either; the expressions of some of the women nearby being the perfect illustration of her mother’s old adage
if
looks
were
daggers
. But despite the less-than-flattering assessment of her new husband’s relative, she couldn’t stop herself staring, as holding George’s eyes for longer than could be considered polite, the woman drew her fingers slowly down his sleeve, ran them across the back of his hand and then with a supposedly casual toss of her tresses, followed her husband away.

At George’s side, she stood silently watching her go. As she kept reminding herself, she didn’t know him yet but in that instant, she did feel a sort of kinship with him; a recognition that he felt as uncomfortable as she did.

‘Ah, here’s Will.’ The tone of his announcement this time was altogether different and when she glanced up at him, his stance seemed altogether less tense. ‘Mary, this is my brother Will and his wife, Ellen.’

Much softer-looking and less dramatically coloured than either George or Tom and in stark contrast to what had gone before, she thought it was almost with shyness that Will bent to kiss her cheek. And from beside him, Ellen then stepped quickly forward to wrap her in a generous hug.

‘Hello Mary. Welcome to Summerleas. I’m
so
pleased you’re here and if I can do anything to help you settle in, well, you just come and find me. My, what a lovely dress! Such a perfect fit on you, too.’

‘Thank you, Ellen.’ As she said it, something in her neck suddenly relaxed and she could actually feel her cheeks softening into an unforced smile. Standing in front of her, Ellen was dainty; fragile almost and her hair was so fine that pulled smoothly back into a ribbon at the nape of her neck, it made her think of a scarf of pure-white silk. Her skin was as pale as ivory tinted with pink, her eyes were the lightest blue-grey and the only adornment to her appearance seemed to be the tiniest simple gold cross worn on a fine chain about her neck. Thankfully, here was someone friendly; someone who was welcoming in precisely the way that Annie wasn’t.

‘Someways,’ she became aware of George saying as Will and Ellen walked away, ‘are young Robert and my sister, Tabitha, although I’ve not set eyes on either of them since we got back.’

She nodded and offered a smile. After all, meeting a younger brother and sister couldn’t possibly be as worrisome a prospect as Tom and Annie had turned out to be. That said, her attention at that very moment was being drawn back to them. On the one hand, even setting eyes upon them made her squirm but on the other, there was something fascinating – compelling even – about watching the way that Annie was settling herself at the far end of the table. Her gestures seemed designed to lure an audience; the exaggerated fashion in which she was rearranging the folds of her skirt over her legs; the showy manner in which she was adjusting the neckline of her top; the excessive fingering of a curl of hair at her ear. What, precisely, though, was it all in aid of? It wasn’t as though she was young and unwed and courting male attention. In fact, the whole thing felt so contrived as to appear… unseemly. George was apparently oblivious, though, his attention given to pulling a chair from under the table and gesturing to her to sit down. Pulling out another, he then sat beside her and when a woman in a long pinafore arrived with a tray bearing earthenware jugs, he wasted no time in relieving her of three of them before reaching across for two mugs and setting one soundly before her.

‘Cider?’ he asked her, holding up one of the jugs. She shook her head. ‘Well I doubt very much that you drinks
ale
,’ he observed with a laugh and at which she felt herself blush. ‘Must be mead for you then,’ he deduced and poured her a generous draught.

Now what to do? She didn’t like mead either but to admit to it now felt ungracious, so she accepted it from him anyway and stood it in front of her. Honey; the fragrance from it was of dazzling sunshine and heady, summer meadows; the sickly sweetness of it cloying to her empty stomach such that momentarily, she closed her eyes. When he wasn’t looking, she would push it further away still but in turning her head from its reach, her attention was caught by the sight of several young girls bearing trays of food. And as they came to the table and set them down, the aromas of fresh bread and pastry made her feel weaker still.

Beside her, though, George’s father was getting to his feet, tugging at his waistcoat and raising himself on tiptoes to look about the barn.

‘Ahem. Beggin’ your indulgence now, folk, if you’d be so kind.’ From front to back, the hubbub of conversation ebbed away and in its place came the rustling of straw as guests turned in his direction and she felt their scrutiny all over again. In response, she ducked her head, hoping that any formalities would be brief. ‘Well then, welcome one and all on this joyous occasion of the weddin’ of my son George to Mary,’ Thomas Strong announced. Slowly, she looked up. ‘Now, being as we’re all one family here tonight, I’ll spare you all the speechifying.’ At the roar of approval, she couldn’t help smiling. Clearly, her father-in-law was practised at this. And popular, it seemed, too. ‘So with no more ado and in honour of the newlyweds, let’s feast and drink unsparingly. And then later tonight, for those of you so minded – and those of you still able – we’ll partake of some song an’ dance!’ His welcome finished, he landed heavily back in his chair, his teeth bared in a grin. ‘Aye, go to it lads,’ he shouted above the press of bodies surging towards the trestles laden with food.

‘Can’t remember when I last ate,’ she became aware of George confessing to her and watched as he reached to the trays in front of them for roughly torn hunks of grainy bread and thickly cut wedges of cheese. ‘Fair starving,’ he added, making room on his plate for a portion of pie, its gamey innards spilling from its crumbly, pastry case. ‘What about you? You hungry?’

She nodded her agreement, realising that she couldn’t remember her own last meal either. Oh yes: a single mouthful of porridge at dawn; that would have been it.

She scanned the trays. In front of them sat a particularly sumptuous-looking tart. She would take a slice – but only the smallest slice – because no doubt a good many eyes were still upon her and, as she knew from her mother, first impressions mattered greatly. Lifting it from her plate, she bit into the golden pastry, discovering that it was ham and leek and enjoying the way that it melted on her tongue. Chunks of ham and buttery leeks. And cheese, too, if she wasn’t mistaken. If only her mother could have been persuaded to come. Slow by nature to praise, even
she
would have commended this. Discreetly, she licked crumbs from her fingertips. Well, Ma may have refused the Strong’s invitation but she would still want to hear details of the affair; to judge it against her expectations; determine the measure of the hosts’ generosity and the quality of their provisions. She glanced around her. It was a bountiful spread but how would she do it justice without seeming disloyal to her mother? Oh well, that was a bridge she would cross when she came to it. For now she would just eat and be grateful. After all, there was no way of knowing how long it would be before she saw her mother again anyway.

‘Now come on there, young Richard, it ain’t like you to hold back when someone else’s ale is flowing,’ she heard her father-in-law teasing loudly, his merriment infectious, even more so when she turned to discover that the young Richard in question was a fellow of considerably advanced years.

She smiled. Further along, she could see George’s mother holding court with an endless stream of flush-faced women coming to offer congratulations and comment on the spread.

‘Most generous of you to invite us,’ seemed to be the general consensus.

‘You’re most welcome,’ Hannah’s unvarying response.

Further along still, she could see that Ellen and Will were bent together in quiet conversation, whereas at the other end of the table, Tom and Annie were behaving in a manner that made her want to avoid looking in their direction altogether. Nevertheless, something about the two of them together continued to draw her gaze.

‘Wo-ho-ho,’ Tom’s laughter was ringing out as he beckoned for more ale. And alongside him, Annie seemed to be making what Ma would no doubt have called a shameful exhibition of herself, feigning fatigue by extending clasped fingers above her head and elongating her neck, the effect of which was to place the neckline of her blouse under considerable strain. She looked away, thinking that it would be nothing less than mortifying to be caught watching such a display.

With night now closing in, guests had begun to settle into smaller groups; the women seeming to prefer to sit and chat apart from the men, their hair bright with coloured scarves and their blouses bearing embroidery or ribbons at the neckline as befitted a few hours away from their usual drudgery. Their husbands – hatless for once and pressed into wearing their best smocks – seemed to prefer to stand or lean, replete of body and relaxed of mind, their conversations altogether more rowdy. But those she found most fascinating to watch were the young girls. In their eagerness to attract a particular pair of eyes, limited means apparently presented no boundary. Their hair was pinned high, their bodices drawn in tight, and wearing the necklines of their blouses as low as they dared, they swished their skirts and preened like broody hens.

‘An’ I say he’s
watching
you,’ she overheard one girl hiss to another, the latter turning to hide scarlet cheeks and whisper back, ‘An’
I
say he is
not
!’

She followed the direction of their snatched glances. In the far corner, downing cider and pretending indifference to the charms being paraded for their benefit, a group of lads seemed nevertheless enthralled.

‘Well if that look weren’t intended for
you
, Peter Lunn, I’ll eat my cap,’ was the gist of a nearby conversation.

‘Don’t be daft, Dickie Tait; I told you afore, I ain’t the least chance with
her
,’ the bones of the reply.

She smiled. There had been young people like that in her own village. She had grown up knowing them by sight and by name; knowing their parents, their brothers and sisters, their homes. They had been the same age as her or near enough. The difference, though, was that by and large, they were the younger children in their families and so had grown up unfettered by the constraints and the burdens to which their elder siblings had been born. And as a result, they were lighter of spirit. Bolder.
She
had certainly never gambolled as they did tonight. No, she was the one who would have washed them, fed them, watched over them. It was simply, she realised then, what the first-born daughter did. It had been expected of her just as it had been of her mother, also an eldest daughter. And whilst other youngsters around her had spent last summer frolicking and flirting, she had been courted by George – sedately and distantly – such that she was now wed; it being just the way of these things, she supposed.

It was hearing strains of music that brought her contemplations to an end and made her turn to the corner where the musicians were warming up. Sporting floor-length smocks the colour of wheat-chaff, they were more easily picked out by their neckerchiefs in a shade of scarlet so vibrant as to rival field poppies. This time, a longer snatch of a familiar refrain hushed the chatter; the final stave hanging tantalisingly until the fiddler called the first dance. All around her, guests scrabbled to their feet and dragged partners into a line in the centre of the dusty floor. Couples shuffled for space, the flute player blew a single, introductory note and then barely a full second later, the features of the individual dancers were lost to a swirl of colour and movement. She tapped her foot; the melody swept along by the wistful flute, the harmony scraped robustly by the fiddle and both urged onward by the relentless beat of the tabor.