The Major's Daughter (26 page)

“It was a lovely party,” Collie said. “I enjoyed your father especially, Estelle. I had no idea he could liven things up as he did.”

“Yes, he likes a good time. That's one of his best traits. And that horrible slide whistle.”

“It was just mad,” Collie said. “It's going to be a lovely wedding. The caterers have been in. . . . The living room is done. I looked at it with your mother when we came back. It's quite beautiful.”

“Oh, it will come off all right, I'm sure. This time tomorrow I'll be a married woman.”

“On your
lune de miel.
Where will you stay in Chicago?”

“At the Biltmore. George had been there on business, and he likes it very much. They know him there. They know George everywhere he goes.”

“It's very exciting,” Collie said.

“Do you think so?” Estelle asked, genuinely curious and bemused. “I suppose it is. Life with George might be very exciting.”

Suddenly she felt on the verge of tears. She put her face in her hands. Collie instantly moved to put an arm over her shoulders. Estelle could no longer control her emotions. She broke down into small pieces, sobbing quietly, while Collie held her and whispered reassurances. The weight of the silent house seemed to bear down on them, Estelle realized. Everything waited. Tomorrow the guests arrived, along with great mounds of food, and flowers, and presents, and the house would gain immense gravity until it would sink lower and lower into the ground. They would all move more slowly, bound by the glue of their own expectations, and the thought was horrible, simply horrible, and she cried harder knowing that nothing could prevent the day's arrival.

“I'm pregnant,” Estelle whispered into Collie's ear. “Pregnant by George. It was so stupid. So stupid and so utterly damning.”

“Shhhhh.”

“You must have guessed. I'm beginning to show. Mother has her doubts, but she hasn't said anything. It's the reason we are hurrying along. No one gets married at Christmas! Oh, it's all spoiled, everything is spoiled.”

“What is spoiled?” Collie asked, patting her. “Nothing is spoiled. It will be all right. I didn't know. I had no idea. You're not the first. Not even among our friends. . . .”

“I let him . . . ,” Estelle said, then fell into a deep series of sobs.

“What is it? Tell me,” Collie said.

“I let George . . . he was my vaccination, you see?” Estelle said, recovering her breath at last. “My inoculation against Mr. Kamal. I had too many feelings. . . . I told myself that George was more my sort, safe and knowable, while Mr. Kamal . . .”

“Yes, I see. Of course. It makes sense when you explain it.”

“And so I let him. To bind him to me. To bind George and to keep Mr. Kamal at a distance . . .”

“I understand. I do. I see it now.”

“No one else knows. I've made a terrible mistake. I've thrown away my life and I knew I was doing it as I did it. Can you imagine what that feels like? It's a form of suicide, you know? It's despicable. I look down at George, I do, but I am the one who is deplorable. He at least is acting on honest feeling. He loves me. I haven't told him that I carry his child, but he wouldn't care. . . . It would make him love me more, you see? I don't even deserve his love.”

“It's going to be okay. It will be all right. George will be a good husband. You can see that, surely. And tonight . . . you can have that kind of joy and pleasure . . . that kind of evening. People around you love you. Your parents love you.”

“You're being kind,” Estelle said, then moved slightly away so that she could clear her head. “And you, Collie . . . I was just thinking that you could never strike the bargain I made. It's not in your character. But mine . . . that's the most painful part. I have had to look at what I truly am, and it is a sad portrait, I assure you. I am a quick purchase. I see that now. The opinion I had of myself . . . that's all plowed under now. That's the most disturbing part. I was deluded before. I believed myself to be a person of character, or principle, and now I see my true nature. . . .”

“You can't think that way. Don't even let such thoughts into your head. I know you, Estelle, and I know what you are capable of. You are not a cheap purchase, as you say. You're not. The war has thrown everything upside down. I see it every day. But maybe you're underestimating yourself . . . and underestimating George. He will be a good father, and he will dote on you. I'm not deaf to what you're saying, but all in the fullness of time . . .”

“You must promise me you won't let yourself forget your feelings for August,” Estelle said, feeling suddenly it was the most important thing in the world. “You mustn't tell yourself it isn't real or that it is unimportant. Do you promise? I couldn't stand it if you follow my example.”

“I'm not even sure. . . .”

“Promise me. Learn from my mistake. At least then my ridiculous behavior will have some benefit to someone. I have compromised. That's the kindest interpretation you can put on it. Tell me you promise to allow him into your heart if it is inclined that way. Don't put up obstacles. Don't tell yourself it's impossible. You see how impossible things are for me? You don't want that. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“I've seen how you look at him,” Estelle said with feeling. “It's how I felt about Mr. Kamal. But I was too frightened, too mindful of opinion.”

“You may have made the right decision. You can't know everything yet. August is an Austrian soldier, a prisoner. None of us can know what will happen.”

“Can't I? I suppose not. What did they say in our introduction to philosophy class? I am presupposing. Oh, I'm just talking through my hat, Collie. It's late and we should get to bed. I'm sorry if I've put too much on you. I had to tell someone. Forgive me. I'm emotional right now.”

“You never have to ask my forgiveness. There's nothing to forgive.”

“Do you love August? Tell me honestly.”

“I don't know him well enough to say. I know I feel light-headed to be near him. I feel that we're meant to be together somehow, but my common sense tells me otherwise.”

“Don't give in to that. Not to that. Common sense is precisely the enemy, Collie. You've said you've gone out a few times with Henry, isn't that so? What did you feel? Was it the same feeling you had when you've been in the presence of August?”

“No, but I wanted to talk to you about Henry. He's not as bad as we had first thought.”

“I won't soon forget Amos,” Estelle said, her voice choking slightly as she said his name. “Oh, I know it can be confusing. How can we know what our hearts want? But if you love August, if you think he's what you need, then find a way. Find a way to be with him, promise me?”

“I will.”

Estelle felt herself gathered in a fierce hug. Collie nearly fell from the chair in her determination to comfort her. “Take the long view,” Collie whispered. It will be all right in the end. And Estelle, to her astonishment, half believed her friend.

 • • • 

Like candles, Collie thought from her position on the staircase, the guests spread out below her, their faces looking up. Like bright, beautiful candles.

That's how the bride's party appeared to her. The gowns fit exquisitely. And the short veils on their headpieces, a pale cream, seemed the shadow one forms by cupping a hand close to the flame. Estelle's taste, as usual, had been exquisite. The gowns, fitted taffeta with a stiff bodice and a softer skirt, flowed down in superb proportion. Tally's of Chicago had done the gowns, and what had initially seemed an unconscionable extravagance now seemed the wisest sort of expenditure. Even in war one had to dress, Collie realized, and one only married once. She had talked the subject to death with Estelle, but now, seeing them lined up and ready, their bouquets of lilies of the valley trembling in their nervous hands, Collie saw the reason for the cost. You could not fake such dresses.

She heard the low purr of an organ; the organ had been carried in this morning with great huffing and puffing, and Estelle's mother had despaired over the amount of floor space it consumed, but it earned its keep in these final moments. Collie turned to see if Estelle had come up on the landing yet. Estelle's father stood at the top step, his smoking jacket dark and definite among the candles of the bride's party. He smiled benevolently down at everyone.

Then the people on the landing near Estelle's father grew quiet, and suddenly Estelle herself appeared. Collie's eyes moistened at the sight of her friend reaching out to take her father's proffered arm. Someone down below must have reported Estelle's arrival to the crowd, because an expectant stiffness went through the people gathered, and the organ, as if clearing its throat, threw away its earlier musings and began Mendelssohn's stirring “Wedding March.” The first notes silenced everyone, and Collie felt the streets outdoors grow quiet, the late-afternoon light become solemn and pale, and then her cue came to advance down the stairs.

She experienced a moment of dislocation: she walked down the stairs comprehending, perhaps for the first time, what it would be like to descend as a bride. Yes, naturally people looked to see Estelle, but Collie came down the stairs carefully, her eyes bright with tears, her free hand sliding on the pinecone banister. She felt her emotions quivering inside her. She imagined herself descending some future staircase toward August. That was a foolish, girlish thought more appropriate to Marie, sweet Marie, than for a young woman Collie's age, but she couldn't help it. She pictured him standing below, his handsome face turned up to see her, his smile broadening as she approached. Was he really the one for her? It was his face she pictured, not Henry's, but had the war thrown them together and made them more attracted than they might have been otherwise? Or did fate simply seal what they could not escape? Their stars aligned, she understood, and in the ten or more steps she took toward the ground floor she promised herself to no longer resist but to give in to her feelings—as Estelle had made her pledge—and to cease combating what sought to bloom with August.

Then the music and the people around her canceled any thoughts except for Estelle. Collie met her groomsman—a man named Neil who had remained indefinite in her mind, a friend of George's, a blustering, vest-popping man who demonstrated his disappointment several times already that he had been matched with this girl from New Hampshire—and took his arm. The music swelled and filled every corner of the room. A number of women held handkerchiefs to their eyes, and just ahead, looking back and smiling, was Estelle's mother. Collie exchanged a smile with her, a small nod, then she had to turn left, separating from Neil, so that they might form a semicircle around the wedding couple, men on the right, women on the left. George stood on the right, his hands folded calmly together at his belt buckle.

Estelle! How lovely she looked, Collie saw with satisfaction as she turned and took her position. Estelle was perfect. Every bride is perfect in her own way, Collie observed, but Estelle had outdone any bride she had ever seen. Her dress, full but not absurdly so, floated down the floor like a fairy broom. Her bare shoulders spread back—Estelle's posture had always been impeccable—but the veil flowed down and covered everything in a gentle modesty. Collie smiled. Here was Estelle, a Smith girl only moments before in cardigans and plaid skirts, in saddle shoes and white socks, who now glimmered like the brightest candle of all. Her confession of the night before . . . what did it matter in the final analysis? Collie knew her friend would try, would be a good wife, and George, Eternal George, might surprise them all. Life was a silly, silly game with impossible rules and unanticipated turns that defied all logic or expectation. Collie understood that now and she vowed to remember it.

Then handing the bride over. A kiss from her father, a warm smile at her mother, and then Estelle's girlhood ended. George stepped forward and held out his arm, and Estelle, not pausing, not faltering, took his arm and smiled at him. Collie nearly wept at the quiet bravery demonstrated by her friend. The minister—an ancient-looking man who resembled a turtle, Estelle had promised, with a pale neck protruding from a black suit, and slow-blinking eyes—raised his voice, and the organ subsided. He lifted his hand and asked the guests to be seated. The afternoon light from the windows bathed everything in honey.

Collie told herself to listen to the ceremony, but her mind drifted restlessly. She could not concentrate, though she tuned in to hear the classic questions and replies:
Do you accept, forsaking all others, from this day forward, till death do you part?
but the light carried her away. She pictured the late-afternoon light back in New Hampshire, the trees passing it slowly toward the hills, the deer-quiet momentary pause before evening. At this moment, she knew, the birds stopped calling and the light grew faint and only the river remained. Sometimes a late car passed over the covered bridge, giving the tires an echo that raised in pitch and then released once the car gained solid earth again. Mrs. Hammond would be readying dinner and the fire would crackle and snap, and the chairs might scrape as they pulled out for the boarders. At the center of it all August waited, his intelligent hands prepared to play the piano, his lovely smile warm and friendly.
Go to him
, she told herself. And then she raised her hands to clap at the first married kiss of George and Estelle's young lives.

 • • • 

She was married, Estelle realized.

It was not a line one crossed, it was not anything, but as she clung to George's arm, people crowded around them both, she comprehended something had changed. Now and then she caught sight of the gold band George had slipped onto her finger; yes, that had happened, too, and as she accepted congratulations, kissed cheeks, she heard George's booming voice beside her. This was it, then. This was how they would go through life, and she took in details of the moment, the dying sunlight, the music purling and bubbling out of the organ—like a skating party, she could not prevent herself from thinking—and the giddy confusion of the event overwhelmed her. She felt her mother press near, warmly exchange a kiss, then her father and then aunts and uncles, near-strangers, her father's medical colleagues. Everyone, she imagined, looked relieved, doubtless to have the ceremony finished and drinks being served. A few boisterous laughs rang out from near the stairs, and she saw the outline of several men who had already slipped out to the front porch to smoke cigars. She smelled the cigars and the delicious odor of food from the kitchen, and George discovered a line he liked and repeated: “Well, she nearly got away, but I roped her.” The line always brought hearty laughs, and a pat on the shoulder, then they went on, wading through the crowd. Where were they going? She didn't know; in all the frenzied planning, she could not recall a single discussion about what to do after the ceremony. At some point they were to do a portrait, but that could not be now, at this moment, and she looked for her mother to give her guidance.