An Unsuitable Attachment (29 page)

The best man was tall and fair, surely the librarian from the library where Ianthe worked, Rupert thought, though he understood that there had been some slight unpleasantness, even a quarrel, over the engagement. There were no bridesmaids or other attendants.

Mark Ainger and Basil Branche were to perform the ceremony and the church was filled with a varied collection of well-wishers and sightseers, among whom Rupert recognized all the usual congregation of St Basil's and some rather unexpected people such as Mrs Grandison, the mother of Sophia and Penelope, and Lady Selvedge, who had opened the Christmas bazaar.

Later, when they were all crowding out of the church into the hall for the reception, Rupert found himself standing by Sophia and Penelope, the tears still glistening in their eyes.

'Weddings always make me cry, no matter
whose
they happen to be,' said Penny fiercely.

She looked up at him and he noticed that her eyes had a curious blundering, half-blind look, as if she could scarcely open them. After a moment he realized that she was wearing false eyelashes, longer, darker and more abundant than her normal ones, and surely there were far too many of them? He wondered if he was supposed to know that they were false and felt embarrassed and somehow mean at having guessed the secret. Quickly he looked away from her face and concentrated on her yellow tulle hat shaped like a soufflé.

'Yes, weddings are very moving,' he said, a little more stiffly than he had intended, 'the whole atmosphere generates emotion.'

'The wedding march, really,' said Sophia, 'don't you think that's what it is, partly? There is something almost sad about Mendelssohn.'

'Not perhaps as music,' said Rupert, 'but the idea of the Victorian age altogether.'

'Did you think Ianthe looked nice?' asked Sophia.

Rupert hesitated, feeling that Sophia was setting a sort of trap for him and that Penny too was waiting for his answer. 'Oh, brides always look nice,' he said in a cowardly way, 'but of course I'm no judge of the details.'

'That ivory prayer book belonged to her mother,' said Penny.

'Yes, it's strange, that use of ivory,' said Rupert. 'When I was in East Africa I didn't somehow associate the tusks of elephants with covers for Anglican devotional books.'

'Well, if you put it like
that
.
. .' said Penny in a disgusted tone, and turning on her heel she left him and made off towards the tables where the food was spread out.

Rupert looked appealingly towards Sophia for help but she gave him none.

'I must be talking to people,' she said, 'so I'll leave you to observe the scene. After all, you're used to doing that.'

Rupert, feeling that his role had been assigned to him, strolled up to one of the tables and with what he hoped was the right amount of nonchalance took a glass of white wine. A sweet Spanish 'Sauterne', he decided, quite a suitable choice. Noticing that Basil Branche was also sipping it he went up to him and recalled their meeting in Rome in the spring.

'That evening in Trastevere,' said Basil, 'and now this. Do you remember the toast on that occasion?'

'It was to Sister Dew and her sprained ankle, as far as I remember,' said Rupert. 'I suppose this occasion is a happier one.'

'You
suppose
—well that's one way of putting it.'

Rupert felt slightly embarrassed, for he had not meant his remark literally and he found the young clergyman's cynicism a little shocking.

'I'm sure they will be very happy,' he said reproachfully.

'Imparadised in one another's arms, as Milton put it,'

Basil went on. 'Or encasseroled, perhaps—the bay leaf resting on the
boeuf bourguignon.'
He drained his glass with a flourish and took another. 'Entre Deux Mers, would you say?'

'I was thinking Spanish perhaps,' said Rupert.

'Ah, yes, a
dulce
from the land of Ignatius Loyola,' said Basil. 'And the best possible for a mixed gathering like this, though I believe there's champagne for the toasts.'

'I sincerely hope so,' said Mervyn Cantrell, coming up to them. 'This is a little sweet for my liking, but I'm sure it's what Ianthe prefers.'

'Well, women are said to like sweet wines,' said Rupert, 'though I think that's a fallacy.'

'Of course I suppose I know Ianthe better than anyone here,' said Mervyn complacently. 'In fact if it hadn't been for me we shouldn't be here at her wedding today.'

'You "brought them together", as it were,' said Rupert awkwardly.

'Oh, yes. I watched them fall in love in the library—I was very touched when they asked me to be best man, I can tell you. What do you think of these eats?' he asked, lowering his voice.

'Very nice.'

'A bit unimaginative—ham sandwiches and that, but you know what people are. Did you get one of those lobster patties?'

'No, I think I've eaten enough for the moment,' said Rupert, edging away into a corner where he could see Edwin and Daisy Pettigrew. It was restful being with them, for they were quiet animals. Edwin was watching the time because of his afternoon surgery and Daisy was anxious not to be late for the cats' feeding time.

'You wouldn't believe how long it takes to prepare their meat,' she confided, 'and each animal has its own individual dish. We're very full up at the moment because of the summer holidays. I've even got a cat from Ealing here, a dear old black and white fellow. You know, Mr Stonebird,' she drew him into a corner, 'I hope you don't mind me saying this, but I always used to think that
you
would marry Ianthe Broome. Do you remember that evening at the vicarage in the winter? I felt it then. It only goes to show that feelings aren't always right. Yet the instincts of
animals
are unfailing . . '

Rupert now edged quietly away from Daisy, without seeming to do so, he hoped. He had not so far approached Ianthe, for she had been so surrounded by well-wishers that there had been no opportunity to speak to her. Now, when there seemed to be a chance, he did not know what to say, and his being perhaps the last of her friends to wish her well gave the occasion a 'significance' he had not intended. He wished that John would go away, so that he could have a moment alone with her, but John, naturally enough, stood his ground and Rupert remembered that they were married now and must be treated as one.

'You will be near neighbours now,' Rupert brought out, speaking to John rather than to her, 'and I hope you'll come and dine with me when you're settled down.'

A formal and meaningless speech, he reflected, but had his relationship with Ianthe ever been more than that? He had been slow to seize his opportunities, but had he ever really wanted to get anywhere with her? A line of poetry came into his mind, something about a garland of red roses on the habit of a nun—loving her might have been like that. 'Farewell, Ianthe . . .' he thought and wondered if Landor had ever written such a line.

'John has put up some more shelves in the kitchen,' he heard her saying to another guest, and it seemed suitable for him to move on.

'Rupert. . .' he realized that the hall was emptying and Sophia was at his side.

'It's all over,' she said. 'Wasn't it dreadful, I almost hoped somebody might stand up at the back of the church and forbid the marriage—like in
Jane Eyre
—and expose John as an impostor. I wanted it to happen, and not only for Ianthe's
good.'
Sophia bowed her head, a little ashamed of having confessed so much to Rupert. John was not an impostor, or no more of one than are most of the men who promise to be something they cannot possibly be.

'Yes, I know how you felt,' said Rupert. 'I think I almost wanted it myself. How dreadful we are basically in our so-called civilized society,' he added complacently.

They walked slowly out of the hall while behind them Faustina stalked towards the table where some eatables still remained. After sniffing critically at several plates she finally picked up the last lobster patty in her mouth and jumped down under the table to devour it at her leisure.

'Oh, you naughty pussy,' said Sister Dew ineffectually, and began collecting together the food that remained and covering it with a cloth.

'There's a cup of tea in the vicarage,' said Sophia, is there ever
not?'

'Thank you, that would be nice. It will bring us down to earth again. And afterwards, I was wondering if perhaps Penny would have dinner with me?' He looked around, not seeing her anywhere.

'Penny? Oh, but she's gone,' said Sophia. 'She has a date for this evening.'

'Oh, I see,' said Rupert flatly, wondering if Sophia and Penny had contrived the whole thing between them on purpose to spite him. Women were so deceitful that he could well believe it. 'But I wanted to take her out,' he went on almost peevishly. What was he to do with the evening now, he wondered, as he walked home. It was the tradition that one took a girl out on the evening of a wedding day and now here he was left in his study with the prospect of an evening spent alone correcting proofs.

As he sat despondently at his desk, the telephone rang. But it was only Esther Clovis, reminding him that he had promised to give a paper at the first autumn meeting of a certain learned society and asking if he had decided on the subject and title.

'Yes—"The Wiles of Nice Women in a Civilized Society",' he said quickly and hung up before she could exclaim or question.

***

A few days went by before he could make up his mind to approach Penelope with another invitation. He would make her wait, he decided, but then it occurred to him that if he made her wait too long it might well be too late.

He discovered from Sophia that she was now working in an office near St Paul's Cathedral and he looked forward to calling on her suddenly one day, taking her by surprise so that she could not refuse a casual invitation to lunch. But when, at half-past twelve, he went into her office and asked for her he was told that she had already gone.

Feeling rather dispirited he began to walk up towards the cathedral. On the steps a boys' band was playing the Pilgrims' Chorus from
Tannhäuser,
a piece he always found particularly depressing. It was better, though not much, when they changed to 'Land of Hope and Glory'. He went on aimlessly and found himself round at the back of the building among the heaps of broken marble. In the middle of one such pile, as if on rocks at the seaside, sat a woman—middle-aged of course—drinking tea from a plastic cup, the traffic swirling in front of her. If only this could have been Penelope, he thought, what a splendid and unusual place for a love scene!

Coming into the gardens he found himself among the office workers sitting on the iron chairs, some with sandwiches, others with knitting or books, and still others with their eyes closed and faces raised in the mild sunshine. Here, at the end of a row, sat Penelope, a half-eaten sandwich in her hand.

She hasn't seen me, he thought, and I must go carefully and not say anything to annoy or upset her. For the tears that seem romantic and even fitting in Rome on the Spanish Steps at night would be quite otherwise in St Paul's churchyard at lunchtime.