A Traitor to Memory

“That has nothing to do with this. You're having her. Jill, this isn't at all like you. You've always known your own mind, but you're acting as if you're worried now, as if you might do something to drive him away. That's absurd, you know. He's lucky to have you. Considering his age, he's lucky to have any—”

“Mum.” This was one area that they'd long ago agreed not to discuss: Richard's age and the fact that he was two years older than Jill's own father and five years older than her mother. “You're right. I know my own mind. It's made up: I'll speak to Richard when he comes home. But I won't go to Wiltshire without speaking to him and I certainly won't go and just leave him a note.” She gave her voice The Edge, a tone she'd long used at the BBC, just the inflection that had been needed to bring every production in on time and on budget. No one argued with her when her voice had The Edge.

And Dora Foster didn't argue with her now. Instead, she sighed. She gazed on the ivory wedding dress that hung beneath its transparent shroud on the door. She said, “I never thought it would be like this.”

“It'll be fine, Mum.” Jill told herself that she meant it.

But when her mother had departed, she was left with her thoughts, those mischievous companions of one's solitude. They insisted she consider her mother's words carefully, which took her over the ground of her association with Richard.

It didn't mean anything that he'd been the one who wished to wait. There had been logic involved in the decision. And they'd taken it mutually, hadn't they? What difference did it make that he'd been the one to suggest it? He'd used sound reasoning. She'd told him she was pregnant, and he'd been joyful at the news, as joyful as she herself had been. He'd said, “We'll get married. Tell me we'll get married,” and she had laughed at the sight of his face looking so much like a little boy's, afraid of being disappointed. She'd said, “Of course we'll get married,” and he'd pulled her into his arms and led her off into the bedroom.

After their coupling they lay entwined and he talked about their wedding. She'd been filled with bliss, with that gratified and grateful aftermath of orgasm during which everything seems possible and anything seems reasonable, so when he declared that he wanted her to have a proper wedding and no rushed affair, she sleepily had said, “Yes. Yes. A proper wedding, darling.” To which he'd added, “With a proper gown for you. Flowers and attendants. A church. A photographer. A reception. I want to celebrate, Jill.”

Which, of course, he could not do if they had to shoe-horn the planning into the seven months before the baby's birth. And even if they were able to manage that, no amount of shoe-horning would fit her into an elegant wedding gown once she had a bump. It was so practical to wait. In fact, Jill realised as she thought about it, Richard had led her right up to the idea so that when he said at the conclusion of her recitation of everything that had to be done in order to produce the kind of wedding he wanted her to have, “I'd no idea how many months … Will you be comfortable, Jill, with a wedding that far along into your pregnancy?” she'd been more than ready for his next line of thinking. “No one ought to enjoy the day more than you. And as you're so small …” He put his hand on her stomach as if for emphasis. It was flat and taut, but it wouldn't be soon. “D'you think we ought to wait?” he'd suggested.

Why not, she'd thought. She'd waited thirty-seven years for her wedding day. There was no problem waiting a few months more.

But that had been before Gideon's troubles had taken up primary residence in Richard's mind. And Gideon's troubles had brought on Eugenie.

Jill could see now that Richard's preoccupation after Wigmore Hall may have had a secondary source beyond his son's failure to perform that night. And when she set that secondary source next to his apparent reluctance to marry, she felt an uneasiness creep over her, like a fog bank gliding noiselessly onto an unsuspecting shore.

She blamed her mother for this. Dora Foster was happy enough to be on the road to having her first grandchild, but she wasn't pleased with Jill's choice of father, although she knew better than to say so directly. Still, she would feel the need to voice her objections subtly, and what better way than to create an inroad in Jill's implicit faith in Richard's honour. Not that she actually thought in terms of a man doing “the honourable thing.” She didn't, after all, live in a Hardy novel. When she thought of honour, she merely thought of a man telling the truth about his actions and intentions. Richard said they would marry; ergo, they would.