Although a bridegroom is a useless enough specimen on his wedding day, the women jointly make up for his lack. Every one, be she friend, relative, nodding acquaintance, or total stranger, seems to have some vital role, which she pursues with as much chatter and flutter and perfume and feminine grace as possible. And each and every one is on the lookout for one particular person.
Foxbrush’s jaw sagged in dismay. Ducking his head and muttering “Pardon” as he went, he took the plunge, scraping along the wall, hoping against all reasonable hope.
“Just what do you think you are doing?”
It was all over now.
Upon that signal, every woman, matron or maid, turned her predatory gaze upon him and pounced.
“It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride on their wedding day!”
“Trying to sneak a peek before your time, you naughty boy!”
Foxbrush, pinned to the wall, put up his hands, hidden beneath Tortoiseshell’s too-long sleeves, to ward off the hosts of femininity attacking from all fronts. “Please,” he protested, his voice hoarse in his thickened throat. “Please, I need to talk to her, just one moment, I beg you!”
“That’s what they all say.” A severe personage, possibly a maiden aunt, with stubble on her chin, made gorgeous in silks and embroidered veils after the old Southlander style, stepped forward from the throng. Someone had gilded her fingernails so that they looked like the talons of some otherworldly eagle as she jabbed a finger into Foxbrush’s breastbone. “Nefarious!” she declared, and the surrounding women either laughed or growled their agreement.
Foxbrush was on the brink of muttering whatever feeble excuse sprang first to his lips and making good his escape when mercy fell in the form of a most unexpected angel.
“Lumé’s light, if it isn’t you, dear boy!”
At the voice of the mother of the bride, even the most avenging aunt must give way.
The crowd parted with a rustle of petticoats and creak of supportive wires to admit the passage of Baroness Middlecrescent. She was a creature made impressive by connection and influence rather than by any personal attribute, but this was hardly her fault. Her once renowned beauty long since turned to plumpness and good humor, she wielded the power of her husband’s title with all the cunning of a monkey playing the organ grinder’s instrument. Which is to say, none at all.
“What a delight!” cried the baroness, for it was her way to see joy and sunshine even where storm clouds gathered. She reached out and took Foxbrush’s hands in her bejeweled fingers, pressing them as though he were a long-lost son she had not seen in years rather than the scarcely known, soon-to-be son-in-law with whom she’d dined the night before.
“Have you come to see my dear ducky?” she asked, and it took the following statement before Foxbrush realized she meant Daylily. “Ducky” was not a diminutive one would naturally apply to the Baron of Middlecrescent’s daughter. “She looks glorious, simply glorious in her gown. You won’t even believe it! But then, you’ll see her in another few hours, so you’ll have to believe it then.”
The other women drew back, casting Foxbrush dire looks but not daring to interject as the baroness prattled on. “We had it made for her for the last wedding, you know, to your dear cousin. It was such a shame when they called that wedding off, but then, you’re probably not so disappointed, are you, lucky boy that you are! And now she gets to wear her beautiful gown all over again, and could the day be happier?”
Any moment could be the crucial one. Any moment could be too late.
“Please, baroness,” Foxbrush gasped, scarcely able to speak under the heavy scrutiny surrounding him. “Please, I’ve got to see Daylily, just for a moment.”
“Certainly not, young man!” the maiden aunt interrupted sternly. But the baroness silenced her with a wave. Then, turning another smile upon Foxbrush, she said, “I do hope you’ll call me ‘Mum.’”
“Please . . . Mum?” Foxbrush whispered, and his ears burned.
“Why, of course you may!” the baroness said with the most brilliant of smiles. She took Foxbrush by the elbow and led him through the protesting gathering.
“Niece of mine, you cannot!” cried the maiden aunt, appalled.
“I don’t see why not,” the baroness replied, reveling in her power. “It’s their wedding after all. I don’t see why they shouldn’t see one another.”
“Think of tradition!” someone pleaded. But the baroness said only, “Bother tradition!” and flung open the door to Daylily’s dressing room.
It was as empty as an unused tomb, and equally as quiet, save for the gentle breeze murmuring in the curtains.
“That’s odd,” said the baroness, tapping her chin with a fingertip. “I could have sworn she was just here with her goodwoman, getting fastened up . . .”
“If you please, my lady.”
Foxbrush and the baroness turned to the bobbing women in white servants’ linen who appeared at the baroness’s elbow. “Lady Daylily sent me and all her waiting women from the room when the letter arrived for her. Told us not to come back till she called, if it please you.”