Page 63 of The Gathering Storm (Morland Dynasty #36)

At the chateau, they set about creating something like a chapel in the Music Room with a massive oak chest for an altar and a fine white tablecloth for an altar cloth.

Chairs for the guests were arranged before it.

A plain silver cross and silver candlesticks had to be borrowed from a nearby Protestant chapel to stand on it – Jardine wouldn’t have a crucifix.

Then Mrs Simpson demanded more candles: the whole ceremony was to be candlelit.

Electric lamps were tacky. She ordered more mirrors to be brought in to reflect the candles, and directed where they were to be put.

Here. There. And there. A little more to the left.

A little higher. That’s it. James wondered what Fern would think about the nails being hammered into her newly restored woodwork.

On the eve of the wedding James had to go to Tours station and meet the last two guests.

Emma, in a close hat and a fox fur over a dark cloth suit, stopped in astonishment, then came towards him with outstretched hands.

‘James! What on earth are you doing here? Surely you don’t know David and Wally. ’

‘No, I’m Charlie Bedaux’s assistant. I’ve worked for him on and off for years.’

‘Well, it’s wonderful to see a friendly face,’ she said.

Kit shook his hand. ‘How are things at the chateau? Is it all tantrums and scalded cats? Or is everything proceeding calmly, like a liner gliding across a tranquil sea?’

‘A bit of one and a bit of the other. I think we’ve got it all set out now, barring last-minute changes. I can’t help feeling,’ he added, carrying Emma’s bag to the car, ‘that a wedding would go off much more smoothly if there were no bride and groom involved.’

‘Especially this bride and groom,’ Kit said, heaving the other bag in beside Emma’s.

‘I’m sorry about the car. The press are everywhere, and they know the good motors by sight, so we have to trundle about in these battered things we’ve borrowed from the neighbours. Charlie calls them the Old Contemptibles.’

‘Who else is here?’ Kit asked.

‘The Metcalfes, of course. Mrs and Mrs Rogers have arrived, and I picked up Mr Monckton this afternoon. Mrs Simpson’s Aunt Bessie has been here for a while.’

‘Is that all?’

‘I understand so. Well, there’s Charlie and Fern, and me, of course – if you count us.’

Kit looked at Emma. ‘So it’s come to this – only seven English people will witness the wedding of the man who just six months ago was King of England and Emperor of India.’

‘Actually, I’m not sure if I’ll be at the ceremony,’ James said.

‘I’m not a guest, you know, just an assistant, and I’m staying in the staff wing.

In fact, I may even be told not to talk to you once we get there.

Mrs Simpson doesn’t like the staff taking liberties – she likes the distinctions to be maintained. ’

‘If I know Wally,’ Kit said, ‘and I do, she’ll want you at the wedding, for decoration. She likes handsome young men. I hope you have a good suit with you?’

The wedding day was fine: sunshine, clear skies, and a very light cooling breeze. Charlie went over to the chateau after breakfast, and returned with an order from Mrs Simpson that James was to attend the ceremonies, ‘in case any translations need to be done’. So Kit had been right, James thought.

The mayor arrived promptly at noon to perform the civil ceremony in the Library, wearing over his suit an immense red-white-and-blue sash.

‘It’s lucky they’re the colours of America and Great Britain as well as France,’ Baba Metcalfe said to Emma, ‘or it might be seen as a revolutionary taunt to a king without a throne.’

The civil ceremony was short, registers were signed, and then everyone passed into the Music Room, where the carefully placed mirrors reflected a prodigious twinkling from the multitude of candles, and from the bride’s diamonds.

Wally was in her Main Bocher gown: floor-length and close-fitting in ice-blue crêpe, under a tight, boxy jacket with long sleeves and a ruched bodice, and a halo-shaped straw hat with a tulle half-veil.

Fruity Metcalfe was the Duke’s supporter, and Herman Rogers gave away the bride.

‘I think the hat is a mistake,’ Kit murmured to Emma. ‘Straw? Too picnic-like. I’d have thought a tiara …’

‘Ssh!’ Emma said.

‘She looks tense,’ he went on, unrepentant. ‘And I think David’s going to cry.’

Emma pinched him and he subsided. The Duke did cry when they were pronounced man and wife.

Wally remained rigid throughout, evincing no emotion of any kind, as though she had braced herself to go through with it at any cost. When it was over, the Duke turned to her and took her hands, as though he expected some gesture, a smile, perhaps, or a kiss, but she merely rearranged him, folding his arm across his stomach so that she could put her hand through the crook, and turning him to face the company for their congratulations.

No-one seemed to know quite what to do next, until Fern, always the thoughtful hostess, said in a quiet but carrying voice, ‘Shall we retire to the Drawing-room for champagne? Luncheon will be served shortly.’

The newly-weds walked out, and the guests formed a little procession behind them as they moved to the Drawing-room, where two footmen stood with trays of glasses.

The flower arrangements were magnificent in every room, almost more than the rooms could stand.

‘There can’t be a paeony left standing anywhere in France,’ Kit said.

‘I wonder if Mrs Spry will get paid. I don’t think Main Bocher has ever had a penny for any of his efforts. ’

‘He gets the publicity,’ Emma said automatically.

Kit left her to go and talk to Herman Rogers.

‘What a sad little wedding,’ Baba said, appearing at Emma’s side as she took a glass from a tray. ‘The final act in a tragicomedy that nearly toppled an empire. Why was Wally so granite-faced?’

‘The poor thing broke out in spots this morning,’ Emma said, ‘so I imagine her stomach’s been playing up these last few days. It’s usually a sign.’

‘She’s got her man,’ Baba pointed out. ‘She should be happy.’

‘She never wanted this,’ Emma said. ‘Any of it.’

‘Well, she’s got it now, so she might as well make the best of it.

You can see the love is all one-sided,’ she said, gesturing towards the couple, standing at the other end of the room.

The ex-King was looking at her adoringly; her face was taut and turned away from him.

‘I’d feel warmer towards her if I’d seen one loving gesture from her today – if she’d just touched his arm, or once looked at him kindly.

’ She emptied her glass and met Emma’s eyes.

‘She’s like a woman unmoved by the infatuation of a much younger man.

’ She took another glass from a passing attendant.

‘Talking of younger men, who is that Adonis, whom you seem to know? Bedaux’s assistant? ’

‘James Morland – a distant cousin of mine. I used to go and stay at his father’s house, Morland Place, when I was a girl. I loved it there – the house was always full of people and servants and dogs, and Uncle Teddy made it such fun, with riding and picnics and games and dancing.’

‘You sound positively nostalgic!’

‘I was always happy at Morland Place. Uncle Teddy taught me to shoot and my cousin Jessie taught me to drive. And Aunt Hen – she was Uncle Teddy’s widowed sister, she lived there and ran the place – she was a mother to me, when my own died.’

‘And is he married?’ Baba asked.

‘Uncle Teddy? He’s dead now.’

‘No, the divine young man – James Morland, you said?’

Emma frowned. Baba was famed for having affairs – Emma knew of at least six lovers, including, a little awkwardly in the circumstances, Walter Monckton. ‘No, he’s not married – I really don’t know why. You’re not thinking of—’

‘Oh, no, I don’t get involved with unmarried men. But he’s rather delicious. Why on earth hasn’t he been snapped up? Perhaps he’s an invert – the pretty ones often are.’

Luncheon was lobster and champagne followed by strawberries.

Neither bride nor groom ate much – the Duke never did eat luncheon, and the new Duchess looked unwell.

Immediately afterwards they left for their honeymoon at the Schloss Wasserleonburg in Austria, lent to them by a cousin of their friend Lord Dudley.

‘Another mistake,’ Baba said to Emma. ‘The last thing those two need is to be alone together. They should have gone to Vienna.’

At the very last, when Emma said goodbye to her, Wally’s iron control wavered. Her lips trembled as Emma leaned in to kiss her cheek, and her hands gripped Emma’s tightly for an instant. But she said nothing, turned away and got into the car.

Fruity, who really loved the Duke, wept a little as he said goodbye to him; and the Duke’s eyes were wet.

Then they were gone. The guests turned away to walk back into the house. ‘Are you crying?’ Emma said in amazement, seeing Kit run a knuckle under his eye.

‘No!’ Kit said immediately. Then, ‘A little, perhaps. That really is the end of it.’

‘What will they do from now on?’ Emma wondered.

‘We’ve seen enough exiled royalty since the war to know how it goes.

They’ll wander from place to place, fêted by excitable second-raters, staying wherever anyone will give them a lavish enough welcome.

Until their hosts discover they’re too expensive and hint them away.

Everything gradually getting smaller and shabbier as their glamour fades and they’re forgotten. ’

‘No, that’s too sad!’ Emma protested.

‘They should go to Hollywood,’ Kit said, ‘and attach themselves to the movie-celebrity circuit.’

‘You’re not serious?’