“That sounds sensible,” Mildred said.
“And what about Abby?” Jessica asked. “She and Gil must be invited too.”
That was when the suggestion of an awkward moment happened. Jessica and Abigail had always been the closest of friends. Jessica had been as hurt as her cousin when Abigail’s illegitimacy had been revealed just as she was about to make her come-out into society.
“They have only recently gone home to Gloucestershire,” Louise said quickly. “It is too much to expect them to return so soon. I am sure you will write to them with the news, of course, Viola, if you have not already done so.”
“But—” Jessica said.
“Who else?” her mother said more loudly than seemed necessary, directing a pointed look her daughter’s way.
There was an awkward pause before Mildred rushed in with a new suggestion. “How about—”
But Barbara Dewhurst interrupted her. “No, really,” she said. “We are quite well aware of who Gil Bennington is, are we not, Jane? He is married to the former Abigail Westcott, your daughter, ma’am.” She nodded in Viola’s direction. “And he is our father’s natural son.”
“There is really no need—” Louise began.
“No, there really is no need to hush up all mention of his existence, ma’am,” Jane, Lady Frater, said, interrupting her. “We know of him. Our father has told us. We also know that he will have nothing to do with Papa. That hurts him, though he has not openly admitted it. Our brother, Adrian, however, is determined to meet him sometime. It has been a shock to discover this late in our lives that we have a half brother. But we do feel as curious about him as Adrian does.”
“We do,” Barbara agreed. “And now there is this extraordinary circumstance of our father being about to marry Abigail Bennington’s aunt.”
“He has a young daughter,” Jane said, sounding almost wistful. “Our niece. I do long to see her.”
“Are you suggesting, then,” Anna, Duchess of Netherby, asked, “that they be invited to the wedding?”
“Well,” Barbara said, frowning, “our father would doubtless be horrified. And it seems almost certain Gil himself would refuse to come. But—”
“Perhaps Abigail will come alone,” Wren suggested. “Though it would be a shame.”
“Shallwe invite them?” Anna asked.
“I really do not see why not,” Jessica said. “Abby is as much a part of our family as any of us.”
“And weareinviting Camille,” Elizabeth said, “even though it seems equally doubtful that she will come. Perhaps we ought to send an invitation and let Abigail and Gil decide for themselves.”
“What do you think?” Viola asked Charles’s daughters. “Please be honest. And will you inform your father if we do invite them?”
Barbara smiled. “He has told us,” she said, “that we may do anything we wish for this wedding provided we do nothing of which Lady Matilda would disapprove, and provided we do not expect him to have his ears assailed with details.”
“Ah,” Mildred said, smiling back. “Then we need to consult Matilda, do we? And letherdecide.”
“We know what her answer will be,” Elizabeth said.
“Do we?” Mildred asked.
“Of course,” Elizabeth said, laughing. “Matilda is a romantic. She always has been. She will certainly want them to be invited to her wedding.”
“Oh, I hope so,” Jessica said. “Idohope they come.”
Matilda had asserted herself, something she had rarely done all her life, at least on her own account. Oh, she had allowed the women of her family and Charles’s to organize her wedding according to their wishes, it was true. She had made the decision to have a grand society wedding, despite the fact that privately she changed her mind at least once every waking hour. Having done so, she was content to leave the details to the grand committee—of which she would have been a leading member if it had been anyone else’s wedding.
But she had asserted herself in other ways. She had selected an outfit for the occasion, a simple, elegant walking dress of pale blue when her sisters had wanted her to wear a finer, more elaborate gown, one more suited to the occasion. And they had wanted her to choose a more vivid color, since pastel shades were associated with youth and she surely would not wish to be accused of trying to minimize her age.
She was now—on her wedding day—wearing the pale blue walking dress. She was also wearing a straw hat—nota bonnet—which was held on her head with pins and was tipped slightly forward over her eyes. It was trimmed with silk cornflowers, which were a slightly darker shade than her dress. Louise had described it as frivolous, and Mildred had suggested that she change the trim to a simple ribbon instead of the flowers. Matilda was wearing it this morning—complete with flowers.
She was also wearing silver gloves and silver slippers and silver earrings, something she rarely wore because after an hour or two she invariably found that the earrings pinching her earlobes caused excruciating pain if she did not pull them off. But that always left the lobes red and painful-looking, often with the imprints of the earrings upon them. This morning she had donned the earrings the last of all her accessories in the hope that she could get through her wedding and maybe even the breakfast afterward without screaming in agony. They were in the form of bells and tinkled slightly when she moved her head. Another frivolity.
And she had asserted herself over Abigail and Gil.Of coursethey must be invited, she had assured the delegation that had come to put the question to her—Viola and Anna and Louise and Mildred. It was very probable, she agreed, that Gil would refuse to come and that Abigail would not come without him. And it was altogether possible that if theydidcome, Charles would be horribly embarrassed and perhaps Adrian and Barbara and Jane too despite what the latter two had said to the contrary. Butof coursethey must be invited. Rational adults ought to be allowed to make up their own minds about what they wished to do with their lives. It ought not to be up to their families to try to live their lives for them.
