Chapter Two
The cathedral was crowded. I spied some of our neighbours, noting how they nudged each other when they saw who accompanied me.
James wasn’t the only one distracted. Throughout the sermon, Oscar patted his pockets, wrung his hands and rubbed his chin. I’d not seen him so fidgety before; he was always brimming with confidence. It wasn’t until we rose to receive the final blessing that he regained his usual composure.
He gestured for my brothers to proceed us out of the church. ‘We’ll be right behind you,’ he assured them as they hesitated. I went to follow, but he grabbed my wrist. ‘Florrie, Florence,’ he said softly. ‘Wait a moment.’
‘But …’ I glanced towards the church entrance. ‘The boys …’
‘They’ll be fine. Come,’ he commanded, twining his fingers through mine. ‘Back here where it’s a tad more private.’
‘Why?’ I resisted.
‘Trust me.’
‘I do … but …’
Oscar gave a crooked smile. ‘But? You express uncertainty about my romantic intentions?’
‘You consider dragging me into the shadows of a church romantic?’ I raised a brow.
He chuckled roguishly. With a throat tighter than Granny Moo’s stays, I allowed him to lead me towards the darker recesses near the side wall. I willed my heart to steady. It was impossible.
When the congregation had shuffled out and we were alone, he spun towards me and rested his forehead against mine.
I could smell a mixture of cloves, musk, and something that was peculiarly Oscar; it made me think of leather chairs, fine wine and a good book.
His eyes were such a deep, profound blue.
The shape of his lips, their fullness, was as if they’d been carved by a master.
‘Face the aisle, Florrie,’ he commanded and placed his hands on my shoulders, encouraging me to twist around.
There was an elderly woman tidying a large floral arrangement across from the Lady Chapel.
There was the rasp of fabric, movement behind me.
A little hammer began to pound my temples.
Oscar’s fingers brushed the nape of my neck, sweeping aside the tendrils of hair that had escaped Phil’s careful ministrations, leaving a trail of fire.
Just as I wondered if anything more was going to happen, something cold struck my chin, then slithered down my dress. I gave a little cry, and before I could see what it was, Oscar’s fingers circled my neck.
‘This is for you,’ he whispered against my ear, his lips caressing the very edges of my lobe; the brush of a faery’s wing. ‘A necklace to wear and think of me. If I can’t literally be in your heart, I want to be as close to it as I can.’
I looked down and beheld a shining chain bearing a small gold cross.
Before I could examine it properly, his lips pressed against my neck. Warm, seeking, they nudged my head to one side and ever-so-gently explored, pausing at the top of my collar. I stiffened, eyes flashing towards the oblivious old woman.
‘Oscar, you mustn’t.’ I tried to wriggle away, but Oscar held me fast. His lips were silken ribbons, soft, caressing.
My eyelids fluttered as his liquid tongue travelled back and forth, back and forth from my ear to my nape, filling me with a burning heat that surely had no place in church.
‘What if we’re seen? We’ll cause a scandal. ’
‘Hush. I never cause scandal,’ he murmured.
‘Only gossip.’ His tongue ceased its exploration, only for his lips to replace it, insistent now, pushing the fabric of my dress down, down, seeking access to the soft parts betwixt jawline and collarbone.
Oscar groaned, a primal sound that found an answer in my molten centre.
I felt his teeth, a pinch of skin, an exquisite pain.
It was the most sensuous bite I could ever have imagined.
My head fell back against his shoulder, my lips parted, and my eyes flew open.
Above, the stained-glass saints glowered in a rainbow of disapproval.
All modesty fled. I tried to remember who I was, where I was, but sensible thoughts wrestled with yearning (for what?
I had to put a stop to this …) and, as my eyes closed, were lost. Dear God, I’d become a blasphemous wanton with a heaving bosom, an angel who’d lost her halo indeed.
Ungodly thoughts crowded my head and my body burned in my desire for more. More.
A wheezing cough drew us apart abruptly as the old woman shambled up the aisle. Whether or not she saw what we were doing, I don’t know.
I flushed with guilt and Oscar began to laugh.
We walked up the aisle, our stifled giggles making us collide with each other and the pews. With no Father Bowan to explain to or even bid a merry Christmas, we ran towards where the boys waited by the Sir Benjamin Guinness statue, shivering and very annoyed.
Phil ushered us inside the house and helped me remove my coat, her face filled with questions as she tried to catch my eye. Hearing us, Mother came into the hall, hugged Billy and James and guided us into the drawing room and the crackling fire.
‘How was Father Bowan today?’ asked Father, rising to shake Oscar’s hand.
‘Like all people who try to exhaust a subject,’ began Oscar, ‘he exhausted his listeners.’
‘Oscar!’ I exclaimed in mock outrage as Father laughed, shaking his head and resuming his seat. He invited Oscar to sit opposite and poured him a brandy.
Alice pointed at my necklace. ‘Where’d you get that?’ She didn’t miss a trick, that one. Setting aside the holly she’d been fiddling with, and with more delicacy than I expected, she picked it up in her fingers, turning it first one way, then the next.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ I said. ‘It’s a Christmas present from Oscar.’
There were quickly stifled exclamations.
‘Your name’s engraved on it,’ said Alice, turning to stare at Oscar. ‘You must really like Florrie.’
‘Alice …’ I cautioned.
‘Oh, but I do.’ Oscar launched himself out of the chair and came to my side. ‘Almost as much as myself.’
There were guffaws.
One by one, with barely suppressed excitement on the part of my sisters and Mother, and feigned indifference from the boys (Father didn’t leave his seat), they examined the necklace, Oscar’s presence restraining their comments.
‘It’s lovely.’
‘Very pretty.’
‘You shouldn’t have, Oscar.’ That was Mother.
‘Yes, he should have.’ That was Alice.
‘A special gift,’ said Phil, and looked meaningfully at me.
Everyone resumed their seats, Oscar too, helping themselves to more brandy, eggnog and mince pies as the conversation turned to our Christmas tree and the number of cards we’d received this year (twice as many as last year; the innovation was catching on).
Mother made sure to sit beside Oscar, discussing the merits of Dickens’s novel Hard Times, which Oscar had loaned her a few months earlier.
‘I had to read it twice to really appreciate the satire. Mr Gradgrind is a wonderful parody of Utilitarianism.’
‘Can’t be a very good book if you didn’t grasp the author’s intention the first time,’ said Father.
Before Mother could reply, Oscar leapt to her defence. ‘If one cannot enjoy re-reading a book there’s no use reading it at all, I say.’
There was a collective intake of breath. No-one dared correct Father, especially in company.
Father narrowed his eyes, but before he could utter a word, I spoke.
‘Surely, that depends on the book. Like a person, literature often merits more than one chance to be fully appreciated.’
‘And some people only need one,’ added Oscar, gazing at me.
There was a moment of quiet before a debate began about the virtues of Charles Dickens versus Herman Melville. Phil looked at Oscar, then the necklace, then me, beaming.
Oscar departed soon after and the family eagerly gathered around our large dining table.
Mother and Father had overlooked our usual austerity so we might celebrate the season, and a platter bearing a huge golden goose swimming in glossy juices was placed centre stage by Mrs Gallagher, who paused to accept compliments and admire my new jewellery.
Plates with slices of boiled ham, roast potatoes, emerald peas drowning in lard and glistening carrots followed.
Crusty bread, pats of butter, tureens of rich gravy all tempted.
In between appreciative sounds, hungry oohs and aahs, the sing-song voices of Alice and Billy as they studied the laden table, and the saying of Grace, carving and serving commenced, as did discussion about the necklace.
‘You know what that means, don’t you?’ said Phil, pointing at me with a fork claiming a slice of ham. ‘You’re as good as engaged.’
‘No, no —’ I protested meekly. ‘It’s just a necklace, not a ring.’
‘Same thing if you ask me,’ said Maude.
Mother nodded sagely. ‘One doesn’t give such gifts lightly, do they, James?’ She turned to Father. At once, the clang of cutlery ceased. Alice sat back in her chair, renouncing the haunch of goose she’d speared. All eyes were upon Father.
‘No, my dear,’ said Father, in his gravelly voice. ‘They do not. No gentleman, much less a student, gives a respectable young lady of his acquaintance jewellery of any description unless his intentions are honourable.’
Mother smiled approvingly and gave Father an extra pour of gravy. ‘Exactly.’
Phil gave an unladylike whoop. Maude clapped delightedly. Alice bopped up and down on her chair while Catherine blushed and twittered.
Mother was forever telling us girls that being part of a large family of ‘small means’ (we all knew she meant destitute), the only dowry of any value we possessed was our looks.
‘Florence,’ Mother would declare, ‘you have beauty in abundance; use it to your advantage’ – ‘your’ meaning ‘our’.
One less mouth to feed. She would also remind us that the clock was ticking.
Beauty, like milk, would sour eventually.
All of us – me, Phil, Catherine and Alice – had it drummed into us that we needed to find husbands quickly lest we turn into vinegar-tongued old spinsters, knitting socks and making endless cups of tea for our elderly parents, brothers, and their future brides.
Naturally, none of this was ever said to Maude, who had the good sense to already become engaged.
As for poor sweet Mary and Maggie, well, they died in infancy and never had to endure Mother’s lectures or Father’s speculative looks as he tried to measure our worth to other men.
I could feel his eyes upon me now. Weighing up Oscar’s gift, what it signified.
‘Imagine,’ said Phil, dramatically levelling her knife at each of us. ‘Oscar Wilde is going to be our brother.’ She stopped when the blade pinned young James and Billy.
‘Good,’ said Alice through a mouthful of goose, grease dripping down her chin. ‘He can replace the scaldy ones I’ve got.’
Before a donnybrook could erupt, Father cleared his throat loudly, drawing all eyes to the head of the table. ‘The main problem, as far as I can see,’ he began, waiting until there was complete silence, ‘is how on earth are we going to pay for another damn wedding.’
Dear Father; he could always be relied upon to put a dampener on the brightest moment. Not that anything could dull the sheen of this enchanted day. Not for me.
After all, one day soon I was going to be Mrs Oscar Wilde.