Chapter Thirty-One
It was hard for Cynthia to hide her disappointment when Mr. Fielding was not home by the morning of Harriet’s wedding.
But she stifled it and, after her morning chores, went to put on her brown velvet dress and the headdress.
Then, driven by heaven knows what impulse, she boldly teased a few curls out of her bands, so that they fell around her face.
She hoped she didn’t look, as her mother would have said, like mutton dressed as lamb.
She didn’t think so, and anyway, she told herself no one would be looking at her.
All eyes would be on Harriet. But in that, she proved to be mistaken.
The bridegroom had arranged that a carriage would pick up Cynthia and then his bride, and convey them to the church.
When she climbed in, Cynthia saw a lovely bouquet of white roses tied with gold ribbons lying on the banquette.
Where Mr. Throgmorton had procured them, she had no idea.
But it was clear the groom thought nothing too good for his bride.
She was glad her friend had found the spouse she had so desperately wanted, and reflected that it was all due to Mr. Fielding’s portrait.
That brought her thoughts back to Andrew. Oh, how she missed him!
They arrived to find as much of the village as could get in already assembled inside the church, with late comers clustered around outside.
They put up a shout when they saw the carriage.
The bride and her handmaiden removed their cloaks, and Harriet was revealed resplendent in a gold gown with a gold tiara on her head, from which fell a fine lace veil.
Cynthia arranged the veil over the bride’s face, smoothed out her gown and train, and handed her the bouquet.
She then fell into step behind her as she proceeded slowly down the aisle towards the waiting groom and his best man.
Harriet had barely looked at Cynthia as she removed her cloak, registering only that she was not, after all, wearing her everlasting blue.
But as they processed down the aisle, the whispers were as much for the transformed Miss Rowley as they were for the bride.
They were accustomed to Mrs. Witherill being dressed to the nines, but Miss Rowley was usually so unremarkable as to be invisible.
Today, the flattering brown velvet gown, fitted to her slim shape, with the bosom enhanced by the deep flounce of lace, made her very noticeable indeed, and the elusive gold in the depths of its rich color brought a shine to her hair and eyes.
No one was more struck than Ben Vernon. By God, he thought, Miss Cynthia was looking mighty fine today.
Quite the lady! When she did herself up a bit, she was a good-looking piece!
He had already noticed that the gentleman artist wasn’t in attendance.
Good. This was his chance. He came to an immediate decision.
Today was the day she would agree to be his wife.
The service followed its accustomed course.
No one stood up to object, vows were exchanged, the lady was presented with a ring and the couple proceeded to the vestry to sign the Register.
To Harriet’s delight, another councilman, a friend of her new husband, and his wife, had agreed to be the witnesses.
When the gentleman signed William Forsythe, Councilman she felt the seal had been put on her having moved up in the world.
Cynthia hung back while congratulations were expressed and received, then followed her friend back into the church, where she handed Harriet back her bouquet, arranged her train and veil, and proceeded behind her out of the church, as the bells rang out to the overcast sky.
There was the usual mêlée outside, with friends and neighbors shaking hands with the groom and kissing the bride.
Cynthia also came in for enthusiastic good wishes and a number of enquiries as to where she had procured her lovely gown.
Her incurable honesty made her admit she had made it from an old one of her mother’s, which led either to astonished congratulations or raised eyebrows.
At last the happy pair was handed up into their carriage.
The groom flung handfuls of small coins (copper, not silver, noticed Cynthia) to upraised hands, and they left, waving joyously to their well-wishers.
Cynthia then realized with dismay that, though her ride to the church had been provided, neither she nor anyone else had thought to arrange her ride from the church to the wedding breakfast. Ruby and Will, who were not going to Harriet’s, had already left, looking forward to their dinner.
Ben Vernon, who had decided he would find some excuse to delay Miss Rowley’s departure, was all ready to ask her to return to the vestry for some imagined problem, when he realized there was no need. Everyone had left, and there she was, standing alone in front of the church.
Cynthia shrugged her shoulders and had begun to walk to Harriet’s, when she heard the familiar sound of Mr. Vernon’s gig behind her. For once, she was quite glad of it. It had begun to drizzle and she was already cold and damp, for she had left her cloak in the carriage that brought her.
“Left yer be’ind, ’ave they?” his voice came cheerily. “Well, yer knows who yer friends are! I ’aven’t forgot yer.”
She turned with a smile and said, “How kind! In all the excitement I’m afraid I forgot to make arrangements for my conveyance to Miss Wither…I mean Mrs. Throgmorton’s. Oh dear, I don’t know how long it will take me to think of her with that name!”
Mr. Vernon had jumped down and was helping her up as he replied, “Mighty pleased she is with it, I’d wager,” he said. “A woman always likes t’ take the protection of a man’s name.”
Thinking only to make polite conversation, Cynthia replied, “Yes, I imagine that is so.”
This was music to Mr. Vernon’s ears. Clicking up his horse, he pressed what he saw as his advantage. “Yer thinking that way yerself, are yer? Any name in partic’lar?”
For a wild moment, Cynthia had the vision of herself taking the name of Fielding, and turned to him with a smile on her face and happiness glowing in her eyes.
He took that as a sign of encouragement. “Well, tell, yer what,” he said, “you come along o’me and we’ll talk it over.”
He wheeled his horse and gig around, and started them bowling along in the opposite direction.
Coming out of her reverie, Cynthia cried, “W…what are you doing? Stop, Mr. Vernon, stop!”
“Now, don’t come the old maid wiv me,” said her would-be swain. “I seen how yer looked!” And he whipped poor Rufus up into a gallop.
Cynthia was at first confused, then frightened, as they made a wild swerve onto a lane running off the main street.
“Yer comin’ ’ome along a me,” cried Mr. Vernon. “We kin ’ave a drink, or a cup o’tea if that’s what yer want, and talk about yer change o’ name to Vernon.”
“No! No. Mr. Vernon! You misunderstand me completely! I… I wasn’t thinking of becoming your wife.”
He looked at her. “No need to pretend,” he said, “I seen that look in yer eyes. I knows when a woman wants a man!” and, her cries carried away by the sound of the creaking gig and the galloping horse, he laughed.