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Authors: Sara Craven
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wouldn't have to drive
with Uncle Hugh to the Parish Church and become Nicholas
Bristow's unwanted bride.
And at that moment heard a tap on the door, and her uncle asking
anxiously, 'Are you ready, my dear? It's time we were leaving.'
'Coming!' she made herself say. Then she pickedup the prayer-book
her father had given her at her confirmation, and went to the door.
His face lightened at the sight of her. 'You look lovely, child,' he
declared with false heartiness.
She smiled at him, knowing that neither he nor Aunt Beth could
comprehend why she was taking this step. They'd been stunned when
she first told them the news, then overtly disapproving, then resigned.
In fact, Aunt Beth had thawed sufficiently to make her niece a private
gift, in addition to the exquisite Georgian writing desk which had
been their official wedding present.
Alison hadn't known what to expect when she untied the ribbons on
the silver and white striped box, and hadn't known whether to laugh
or cry as she had inspected the contents—several sets of the most
exquisite handmade lingerie she had ever seen—satin and
crepe-de-chine trimmed with lace in shades of ivory, oyster and
coffee—a tacit acknowledgement, she thought drily, that Aunt Beth
considered she would need every weapon in the armoury to hold her
husband's interest. But what Aunt Beth never would—never could
know was that it was a battle which would never be fought. She'd left
the lovely things in their box in her wardrobe.
She was surprised to find how crowded the church was as she moved
up the aisle to the voluntary. She supposed the announcement of her
marriage had been something of a nine-day wonder locally. She was
glad to see a number of familiar faces from Mortimers. It still wasn't
certain what was going to happen to the works, but it looked as if it
was going to be saved, or so Nick had told her rather curtly when she
had timidly enquired. His intervention seemed to have been
successful.
But Simon wasn't there. His reception of the news that she was to be
married to Nicholas Bristow had made her wonder whether her
mother's assessment of him had been justified. It had clearly hit him
hard, and Alison hadn't known whether to be glad or sorry. Glad, she
supposed, because there had been one man who had actually wanted
her for herself. Sorry, on the other hand, because she knew she would
never have returned his feelings.
She realised with a start that the music was swelling to a crescendo,
and glanced up into the cold hard glitter of Nick's eyes as he waited
for her at the chancel steps.
His face was mask-like, but he was angry. She knew it—could feel it.
But why? Was he disappointed, perhaps, that she had not opted for
the white dress and the veil after all? Yet that had been the
agreement—no formal dress, family only, and a tiny reception at her
uncle's house afterwards.
She was no beauty, of course, but he'd known that from the
beginning, so it was hardly fair to blame her for it now.
And for appearances' sake at least, he might have smiled at her. She
wanted him to smile. She wanted to put up a hand and touch his face,
stroke away the harsh lines beside his mouth, and the fierceness of
that wanting sent a shock like an electric current through her entire
being.
In an agony of relief, she switched her attention to the kindly, familiar
figure of the Vicar, and the words he was beginning to say to them.
Obediently she repeated what she was told to say, put out her hand to
receive Nick's ring when obliged to, but all the time her mind was
whirling in small, frantic circles.
The tension of the last weeks had finally got to her. She was cracking
up. That was the only feasible explanation for that piercing rush of
feeling. And a fine way to embark on marriage—as a hopeless
neurotic.
She was amazed how soon it was over, how soon she was walking
back down the aisle, but on Nick's silent arm this time. The
with Uncle Hugh to the Parish Church and become Nicholas
Bristow's unwanted bride.
And at that moment heard a tap on the door, and her uncle asking
anxiously, 'Are you ready, my dear? It's time we were leaving.'
'Coming!' she made herself say. Then she pickedup the prayer-book
her father had given her at her confirmation, and went to the door.
His face lightened at the sight of her. 'You look lovely, child,' he
declared with false heartiness.
She smiled at him, knowing that neither he nor Aunt Beth could
comprehend why she was taking this step. They'd been stunned when
she first told them the news, then overtly disapproving, then resigned.
In fact, Aunt Beth had thawed sufficiently to make her niece a private
gift, in addition to the exquisite Georgian writing desk which had
been their official wedding present.
Alison hadn't known what to expect when she untied the ribbons on
the silver and white striped box, and hadn't known whether to laugh
or cry as she had inspected the contents—several sets of the most
exquisite handmade lingerie she had ever seen—satin and
crepe-de-chine trimmed with lace in shades of ivory, oyster and
coffee—a tacit acknowledgement, she thought drily, that Aunt Beth
considered she would need every weapon in the armoury to hold her
husband's interest. But what Aunt Beth never would—never could
know was that it was a battle which would never be fought. She'd left
the lovely things in their box in her wardrobe.
She was surprised to find how crowded the church was as she moved
up the aisle to the voluntary. She supposed the announcement of her
marriage had been something of a nine-day wonder locally. She was
glad to see a number of familiar faces from Mortimers. It still wasn't
certain what was going to happen to the works, but it looked as if it
was going to be saved, or so Nick had told her rather curtly when she
had timidly enquired. His intervention seemed to have been
successful.
But Simon wasn't there. His reception of the news that she was to be
married to Nicholas Bristow had made her wonder whether her
mother's assessment of him had been justified. It had clearly hit him
hard, and Alison hadn't known whether to be glad or sorry. Glad, she
supposed, because there had been one man who had actually wanted
her for herself. Sorry, on the other hand, because she knew she would
never have returned his feelings.
She realised with a start that the music was swelling to a crescendo,
and glanced up into the cold hard glitter of Nick's eyes as he waited
for her at the chancel steps.
His face was mask-like, but he was angry. She knew it—could feel it.
But why? Was he disappointed, perhaps, that she had not opted for
the white dress and the veil after all? Yet that had been the
agreement—no formal dress, family only, and a tiny reception at her
uncle's house afterwards.
She was no beauty, of course, but he'd known that from the
beginning, so it was hardly fair to blame her for it now.
And for appearances' sake at least, he might have smiled at her. She
wanted him to smile. She wanted to put up a hand and touch his face,
stroke away the harsh lines beside his mouth, and the fierceness of
that wanting sent a shock like an electric current through her entire
being.
In an agony of relief, she switched her attention to the kindly, familiar
figure of the Vicar, and the words he was beginning to say to them.
Obediently she repeated what she was told to say, put out her hand to
receive Nick's ring when obliged to, but all the time her mind was
whirling in small, frantic circles.
The tension of the last weeks had finally got to her. She was cracking
up. That was the only feasible explanation for that piercing rush of
feeling. And a fine way to embark on marriage—as a hopeless
neurotic.
She was amazed how soon it was over, how soon she was walking
back down the aisle, but on Nick's silent arm this time. The
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