Chapter Twenty-Three #2
And so the months crawled by for Nicholas.
If he had feared doubt would set in once he was back in the familiar surroundings of his bachelor rooms and his work in London, he was proved very wrong.
He looked forward to everything that was being planned.
And he looked forward to bringing his bride home afterward to their new house.
He could scarcely wait.
—
From the beginning of September, which Joel and Camille Cunningham had always declared to be the end of their family summer, the arts center that was also their home was busier than ever.
Its reputation had spread, it seemed, and all sorts of music and drama and art and literature groups wanted to conduct a workshop or retreat there.
It came of having a talented cook who produced three plentiful and excellent meals a day, Camille said.
It came of being perfectly situated among quiet hills, overlooking Bath, with endless views in all directions, Joel claimed.
Winifred thought it came from the atmosphere of the place, from the fact that the house was also a private home and peopled with congenial, welcoming hosts and a large, diverse family of children, who seemed obviously happy despite various handicaps.
They were always willing to carry bags and instruments and easels and such, and always eager to watch the development of various art projects or listen to music or poetry readings or watch drama rehearsals without ever seeming intrusive or getting in anyone’s way.
Winifred welcomed the busy life. Time seemed to go faster when there was a group staying there. And everything else somehow got done.
There were the wedding invitations to be sent out.
She had the list Nicholas had given her of everyone on his side.
She and her mother between them, with a few interjections from Sarah and Alice, compiled their own list. The combined lists were dauntingly long.
Would all these people actually come? Would even half of them? Where would everyone stay?
There were several comfortable and prestigious hotels in Bath, her mother reminded her.
There was the sizable house on the Royal Crescent, where her grandmother—Winifred’s great-grandmama—had lived until her quiet passing in her sleep one night last winter.
It now belonged to Winifred’s grandmother and her great-uncle, the Reverend Michael Kingsley, whose church was in Dorset.
A number of people would stay with the Cunninghams since there would be no group booked into the house at that time.
Grandmama and Grandpapa, the Marquess of Dorchester, surely would stay there, Winifred thought, and probably Uncle Gil and Aunt Abby, her mother’s sister, and Uncle Harry, her brother, and Aunt Lydia. And their children, of course.
Would everyone who did come for the wedding also stay for Christmas?
They must all be invited to do so, Mama said, and then they would plan Christmas around those who said they would stay.
But that was a separate issue, which they need not think about at present.
It was enough to concentrate upon the wedding itself.
The wedding would definitely be at Bath Abbey two days before Christmas.
The wedding breakfast would be in the famed Upper Assembly Rooms, setting of many formal assemblies held in Bath during what passed for a Season there, though sadly the city had fallen somewhat out of fashion in recent years.
The rooms would be preferable to their own home as a venue for the reception, Mama said.
They would be a bit squashed here, assuming that all or most of those who were invited actually came.
Winifred wrote every invitation herself, having refused her mother’s help. Mama was already rushed off her feet with other things, but ever cheerful about it, it must be added.
There was a wedding dress for which to be fitted and a style and fabrics and accessories to choose. And since this dress was to be special—Mama put great emphasis upon the word—it must be professionally made. There was a dressmaker to be chosen.
Winifred gave in on the matter since it seemed important to Mama.
However, she insisted upon a design that was starkly simple, a round-necked, high-waisted, slender-skirted, long- and slim-sleeved dress of white velvet.
The dressmaker and Mama had the last laugh, however—though the former did not appear to have much of a sense of humor, being a bit too intent upon cultivating a French accent and exaggerated French hand gestures that did not seem quite authentic.
She followed Winifred’s instructions to the letter, but the dress she produced succeeded somehow in making Winifred look rather stunning.
Even she admitted it as she stared at herself, a bit goggle-eyed, in the full-length mirror.
How was that possible with a dress that had no discernible shape and was to be worn by a woman with no discernible shape either?
The dressmaker had somehow done it. Slim as it was, the dress moved about her when she moved and looked luxurious as the light caught various facets of the white velvet.
Winifred chose a white cloak with a wide hood, the whole lined with lambswool, to wear with the dress—it was going to be late December, after all, and the insides of churches were never really warm even in summer.
She would wear Papa’s gold chains and earbobs as her only accessories, she decided, with the gold slippers she had worn at Aunt Anna’s ball in London. And her daisy brooch, of course.
An hour of each day was spent at the escritoire in her room, writing her daily letter to Nicholas and reading and rereading his letter of the previous day to her, even when it was no more than a few lines long—and even when there was nothing but blank space between the greeting and the closing.
She had a good chuckle over that particular one.
So did Robbie when she showed it to him.
She did not usually share her letters with anyone, but she had learned to recognize the small absurd things that were likely to draw a rare smile and even a laugh from him.
Robbie, she thought, was slowly, ever so slowly, healing from whatever hurt he had held inside himself since early childhood.
She never quite understood why Nicholas found it so difficult to find things to write about.
His daily life was a busy one. She would have loved to read details of his work, especially as it related to horses and their training.
She would have loved details of his social life beyond just a stark sentence or two.
He was good with facts, but details eluded him when one was not present to coax and question them out of him.
Were all men the same? One could never generalize about a solid half of the population of the country, of course, but she did believe there was a great deal of truth in her suspicion.
How many men did she know who sat down almost daily to write letters?
She knew plenty of women who did so. Her mother, for example, wrote regularly to Grandmama and her siblings, including Aunt Anna, among others.
And they all wrote back—well, Aunt Lydia did on behalf of Uncle Harry.
Papa did not write many letters, though he did write to Mama when a painting commission kept him from home for longer than a few days.
She would not grow cross with Nicholas, then, Winifred decided. He did at least keep his promise to write daily, and he always assured her that he loved her.
He made no mention whatsoever of a house search.
And she would not ask him and seem to be pestering him.
She was disappointed, however. She had expected that he would give the search priority over almost everything else during the months they were apart.
She had expected him to describe properties and settings and neighborhoods and to ask her opinion.
She had hoped, if he purchased a home, to be consulted on furnishings and draperies and decorations.
She had wanted to be involved. But perhaps that was the whole point for him.
Perhaps he had decided to wait until after they were married so they could look together and share opinions and choices.
It was an attractive idea in one way. But…
Well, what would they do right after their wedding?
Would he take her to live with him in his bachelor rooms?
Would it be allowed? She knew that some areas of London were reserved exclusively for gentlemen.
So would he rent somewhere while they looked?
For how long would she have to remain in London?
And it would be during the winter, long before the spring Season brought the ton back to town in large numbers for the parliamentary session.
There would be no Aunt Anna to visit or Great-Aunt Louise.
Or Great-Aunt Matilda. No Bertrand or Estelle.
Oh, she wished Nicholas had done what he had said he would do. He did not have to do anything else in preparation for their wedding, after all. Surely he could have found some time to look for a house outside London but close to it to which to take her.
But she said nothing in her letters. She trusted that all would work out well in the end.
She did, after all, trust his love for her.
She never did doubt that, perhaps because she had stopped doubting herself.
She was no raving beauty, and she had no lineage or fortune beyond the generous dowry Mama and Papa had set aside for her.
But she was worthy of love and happiness, just like anyone else—even the love of an extraordinarily handsome and charming cavalry colonel and son and brother of an earl.
He was fortunate indeed to have her. She always enjoyed a private smile at the thought and even a chuckle if she was alone.
But she believed it. She was Winifred Cunningham, and she was proud of who she was.
So there, world. Take that!
Oh, the days and weeks and months rushed by and crawled by, and Christmas would surely never come.
In the meantime, there was always something at home to keep her both busy and interested, and replies to the invitations she had sent out began to arrive.
Everyone seemed to be coming except Nicholas’s grandparents, the elder Greenfields, who regretted they could not face the journey to Bath, especially in the dead of winter.
They had been invited to spend Christmas with their neighbors, the Reginald Taylors, and their family.
Estelle, Bertrand’s sister, was coming, however, with her husband, Justin, Earl of Brandon, and their young son.
They must not worry about accommodation, the Earl of Stratton assured them in his reply.
He would arrange for the Ware family to stay together at a hotel in Bath.
Aunt Anna, writing on behalf of Uncle Avery, the Duke of Netherby, gave similar assurances about the Westcott family.
They had stayed at the same hotel in Bath on a number of occasions and liked it.
They would reserve rooms there for everyone.
Winifred’s grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins, including Estelle and Bertrand, would stay at the house.
Great-Uncle Michael Kingsley and Aunt Mary would stay at the house on the Crescent, though they had made an interesting suggestion.
If there was room at Camille and Joel’s house to squeeze them in, they had written, they would vacate the house on the Crescent for the night of the wedding and a few days over Christmas for the convenience of the bride and groom.
Winifred blushed as she read it. She had wondered…
They would have a whole house to themselves.
If Christmas ever came, that was.
Sometimes she doubted it would.