Читать книгу A Lady in Waiting - Janice De Jesus - Страница 8

“Stop fidgeting, you look lovely,” Tía Silvia said to the bride who kept stooping down to smooth out her gown instead of facing the antique standing oval full-length mirror to assess the overall effect of her bridal ensemble.

“She’s right, you know,” Sara said. “It’s my job to worry about your train.”

And just when she uttered those words, Sara snuck a peak at herself in the mirror surveying her own maid-of-honor outfit: a cotton sea mist peasant dress tied at the waistline.

Amaia surveyed the miles of fabric behind her. “I think maybe it was a mistake to drag this long train down the aisle. I was supposed to keep it simple, remember?”

Sara’s eyebrows furrowed. Her sister, Amaia, older by four years but ever the meticulous worrywart, was also every bit the Virgo, always fussing about every little detail. Despite all her sister’s worrying, Amaia still presented herself as the picture of a perfectly composed bride when she stepped out of the car aided by Sara and Silvia.

As she and her family positioned themselves at the entrance of the church, Sara observed Fernan, her father, dressed in suit and tie, sporting his Sunday best as father of the bride.

“You look handsome, Papa,” Sara said, kissing both her father’s cheeks. “If only Mama could see you, could see Amaia now.”

“Ah but my child,” Fernan said, pointing heavenward. “Your Mama is here watching out for all of us.”

Sara raised her head toward the sky, tears welling. And indeed, Mama, you are here.

To the tune of a Moradonian folk song, Sara took the cue to stoop down and gather her sister’s train in her hands as the bride and her father took their positions at the church entrance. Maintaining a steady gaze as she glided behind her sister was her prime purpose and her task as maid-of-honor seemed simple enough as she politely nodded and smiled to familiar faces seated in the pews.

Just then Sara’s eyes connected with that now all-too familiar compelling sea blue gaze she had the pleasure of drowning in a mere two days ago.

It couldn’t be and yet…it was.

Viscount Arlen Spencer-Cromwell sat in one of the pews at the groom’s designated side of the church. What was he doing here? Did he buy the door greeter because he knew the groom or the bride? Once again, her mind raced. Her sister never mentioned being acquainted with a British lord. How was it that fate had placed Arlen Spencer-Cromwell, Viscount Rydelthorpe, in the very same wedding of Sara’s sister, Amaia, to one Gael Alcántara, her future brother-in-law, a man she realized she knew very little about?

Distracted, Sara nearly tripped on an edge of the long train that managed to slip through her fingers. Thankfully, Amaia had paused long enough for Sara to gather both the train and her wits together.

During the ceremony, Sara felt the back of her head and neck heat up as though someone was watching her. And sure enough, when she turned around, Lord Arlen’s eyes were trained directly on her. Frozen in place, she couldn’t look away even if she tried. When the organ music began at the conclusion of the ceremony and the congregation stood, it gave her the opportunity to draw her attention elsewhere.

And when the bride and groom walked down the aisle as a married couple, Sara tried her best not to gaze toward the viscount’s direction as she exited the church behind them. As well wishers kissed, hugged and greeted the couple outside the church, Sara’s peripheral vision was on high alert, hoping she wouldn’t be forced into making polite conversation with Viscount Rydelthorpe. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy his company. On the contrary. She recalled what a gentleman he was when, while she accompanied Princess Chantalise on a visit to his country home in England, jovial and hospitable “Lord Arlen” not only chatted with and entertained the princess but also made her ladies-in-waiting and bodyguards feel welcome.

But today, she realized, she needn’t worry. From where she stood, it seemed Lord Arlen, as she preferred to call him, was doing just fine. In fact more than fine for he was engaged in conversation with a lady of impeccable refinement and standing who no doubt was his date as well as his equal in terms of breeding and pedigree. The lady, a statuesque regal blonde, laughed at some remark he apparently made to humor her, being quite the charmer he was known to be.

Sara pivoted the other way, dismayed at how some members of the privileged class seemed only to associate with “their own kind” as this lady was apparently wont to do as her arm stayed linked to Arlen’s and she didn’t seem interested in engaging in conversation with any of the other guests. As the wedding gathering dispersed to move on to the reception—a short drive from the church— at the family’s country home, Sara thought that was the last she would see of Lord Arlen and his lady friend.

For the outdoor reception, Amaia and Silvia took the utmost care to see to it that guests truly felt welcomed by Moradonian countryside hospitality. Rustic old wooden tables were adorned with white tablecloths each with a charming marigold floral arrangement centerpiece. As a Moradonian folk band played sentimental tunes, guests stood in a buffet line to receive helpings of a catered meal: home-cooked hors d'oeuvres incorporating seasonal vegetables grown on local farms; entrées, all Moradonian seafood and vegetable dishes such as the country’s versions of cataplana, a seafood stew, and cazuela, a vegetable meat and potatoes stew made from locally-grown produce, along with specialties from the town of Citrine a few miles away as well as local dishes from the village of Morada.

Since this was no formal wedding, seating was flexible and the newly-married couple enjoyed a table to themselves close to Sara’s father, her aunt and the groom’s parents. Most of the people Sara grew up with had either moved to Santangelo or to nearby France or Spain so the other guests were mostly Amaia’s friends and her new brother-in-law’s relatives and friends.

“Hola mia!”

Holding her plate, Sara turned to see the familiar face of Danilo Pedrayes, a childhood friend who approached and kissed her on both cheeks.

While the rest of Moradonia was heavily influenced by French culture, the Morada village boasted its own cultural identity that had always been heavily influenced by Spain. It’s been said only the true Moradonians were Moradonians at heart—neither French nor Spanish but a brand all their own.

“Are you back from Madrid?” Sara asked as she slipped into a chair at a small unoccupied table and Danilo sat across from her.

“Only for the wedding then I have to head back,” Danilo said. “Qué bueno verte, mia,” he said, addressing her with a typical term of endearment for girls and young women used in the Moradonian countryside. His dark eyes bore into her and she lowered her eyes, flushed by his regard of her. When they were in their teens, they formed a friendship that turned awkward when Danilo had unabashedly admitted his romantic feelings toward her. To her relief, Sara left for university at Santangelo as she had not reconciled her true feelings for Danilo; she had wished the relationship to remain platonic. His dashing good looks—olive skin, dark hair and eyes—could have easily distracted her from her goal of leaving town to attend college and, as much as she loved this provincial life in Morada, Sara longed to travel and felt she had a brighter future ahead of her.

“It’s good seeing you again,” she said, alternating between eyeing her plate and Danilo.

“How are things over there at the palace? We all heard about your ‘gig.’ Everyone knows,” he said, appraising the guests gathered.

Of course, it’s a small town, word gets around.

“Is the princess as nice as she looks?” Danilo threw a wicked grin at her.

Sara smiled. “She’s exquisitely beautiful in person and yes, the princess is a lovely person to work for. More down-to-earth than most people think.”

Danilo nodded. “Probably from all those years spent in America incognito—attending public schools and working, doing things for herself.”

Although Sara wasn’t one of the ladies-in-waiting who accompanied Princess Chantalise to America, having only been in her employment for nearly two years, she heard stories about the “ordinary” lifestyle the princess led abroad.

Danilo eyed her plate. “Mmmm. That all looks good. I’m famished. Why don’t you start eating while I go get my food? You don’t have to wait for me.”

With that he was off and Sara was left raking her food with her fork observing the guests mingling. While she was back home where she had grown up, she somehow felt a bit of an outsider now. She hadn’t lived in her hometown since before college and so much had changed in her life. Her eyes rested on her sister and new husband as they gazed into each other’s eyes while they talked. While she and Amaia had been close growing up, when Sara left for university then to Africa, the sisters kept in touch but didn’t always confide in one another as they had before; she couldn’t quite recall where her sister had met Gael. And it was still a mystery as to why Lord Arlen was present at the wedding.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Detecting a teasing tone to that voice, Sara glanced up and to her surprise, a pair of blue eyes seared into hers.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Lord Arlen”—as she continued referring to him if only to herself—stood smiling, a plate of food in his hands. Observing their surroundings and noticing that his classic blonde lady friend was nowhere in sight, she managed to say, “Yes, of course, my lord.”

He sat down across from her and immediately she felt the heat of his gaze as she diverted her eyes, preferring to focus on her food.

“Well, if we’re to dine together in this idyllic setting, let’s just get one thing straight,” he said. “I would prefer that you call me Arlen. None of this ‘my lord’ stuff.” He plunged his fork into a cherry tomato wedge of his salad and, to her surprise, playfully waved it like a wand at her. “Deal?”

While Sara had attended university, spent two years teaching English in Africa, then trained in royal protocol to become a lady-in-waiting, nowhere did the manual say anything about what to do when a member of British nobility waves a tomato-impaled fork at you. After she smiled and nodded, he popped the tiny tomato in his mouth.

“You have a lovely family,” Arlen said, between bites of food.

“Thank you.” Sara lowered her head; her curiosity overcame her timidity. “So you know the groom then—my new brother-in-law?”

Her eyes focused on Arlen’s pink lips as he wiped them with a napkin and nodded. “Gael was my valet for a few years. When I opened hotels in Madrid and Buenos Aires, he became my tutor in Spanish.”

Chewing her food thoughtfully, Sara blinked in understanding. All she knew about her new brother-in-law was that while his family was originally from her hometown, Gael had lived abroad for work and recently got hired to be a Spanish language tutor and art instructor at the newly-resurrected arts academy in Santangelo.

“Mia.”

Danilo’s voice made her jump as she noticed her childhood friend standing by their table. Arlen raised his eyes and the two men took time sizing each other up.

“Danilo, this is…”

“Arlen,” he said, between chews, an act that Sara found endearing. Swallowing his food, the viscount extended his hand which Danilo took with his free hand, the other hand balancing his food plate. “Won’t you join us?”

Sara’s eyes darted from Arlen then to Danilo and back again. “Yes, please do.” She watched as the two men ever so subtly continued to scrutinize each other.

“So you are Sara’s relative, I presume?”

“I am her friend,” Danilo said, intensely regarding Sara as he sat down. “A very dear friend.”

“I see.” Arlen sliced his leafy greens eyeing Sara then Danilo.

“And you are?” Danilo, who had yet to touch his food, held onto his wine glass.

Arlen and Sara’s eyes met before Sara faced Danilo. “I met Arlen through Princess Chantalise.”

If Danilo noticed she hadn’t formally addressed the viscount as “Lord Rydelthorpe,” she hoped he wouldn’t mention it. Instead, Danilo sat back and sipped his wine. Then, as if a light went on in his head, he smiled.

“Ah yes, I remember now,” Danilo said, nodding at Arlen. “About a year or so ago, you were engaged to Her Royal Highness. It was all in the news.”

Arlen took a gulp of his wine. “Yes,” he said rather softly. “Sadly, it was.”

As Danilo heartily took up knife and fork, evidently about to dive into his grilled salmon cutlet, he paused, his flatware in mid-air. “I—I am sorry I brought it up.”

Arlen shrugged, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “It’s all in the past.”

With her hands on her lap, Sara processed this brief, albeit awkward, interaction. She did remember the time when it seemed all of Europe, and even in America, celebrated the upcoming royal nuptials, only to hear that the princess had abruptly canceled her brief engagement to Arlen. It garnered that much public attention only because of the media and the public’s fascination with the princess who, after her father, Prince Sebastien’s attempted assassination, lived incognito in America for half of her life. She wanted to mention that but held her tongue out of respect for Arlen who clearly was not yet over the princess.

“So how long do you plan on staying here?” Sara asked before taking a sip of rosado.

Arlen refilled all their wine glasses. “Indefinitely. I would certainly like to tour some of the area while I’m here.”

“No doubt you’ll want to spend more time in Santangelo, the ‘Little Paris of the Mediterranean,’ as we locals like to call it,” said Danilo, wrapping up some grilled prawns with soft, crisp thin buttered flat bread. “It’s more cosmopolitan than this place.”

“Yes, I’ve spent time in the capital before.” As Arlen said this, Sara guessed the viscount had his fair share of Santangelo during his visits with his former royal fiancée. “Santangelo holds possible business potential.” He gazed at Sara. “But what you have here is very enchanting; Morada is quite a charming town. You’re fortunate to have grown up here.”

Sara smiled, grateful to Arlen for recognizing the appeal of her hometown of which she was proud to share her humble beginnings. In contrast, she thought about the British nobleman’s upbringing and recalled that, in addition to being a viscount and heir to his father’s estate and fortune, Lord Arlen Spencer-Cromwell amassed a fortune of his own as an entrepreneur establishing hotels in major cities all over the world.

“But I would like to spend more time here in the countryside.” Arlen contemplated, casting eyes at Sara. “I think there’s just as much potential here.”

Feeling heat rise to her cheeks, Sara lowered her head, peering at him through her lashes.

Soon, the band began playing much livelier music. Danilo stood up and took Sara’s hand leading her to the dance floor for a more freestyle dance. As she swayed to the rhythm of the music, she felt as though she was being closely watched. Sure enough, as she turned toward the viscount’s direction, he was observing her. Then it dawned on her. What did happen to his elegant lady companion? And who was she to him?

Two dances later, it was time for the newly-married couple to cut their cake. Sara and the guests applauded as the bride and groom fed each other pumpkin spice cream cheesecake then kissed with their whipped cream-laden lips. As the sun began its iconic descent amid a lavender sky, the band began its slow serenade. Sara stood up. This time the wedding reception was surely an awkward one as first, it reminded her of her own broken engagement a few years ago and second, she didn’t wish to slow dance. Slow dances were intimate ways to connect with a partner, which neither Arlen nor Danilo qualified as such, so this type of dance held no benefits for her. None whatsoever.

Instead, she wandered away from the wedding party, her pumps crunching dry brown leaves as she ambled along a dirt path leading to the vineyards, the warm evening sea breeze caressing her face. From a distance, she heard the birds’ evening serenade give way to a choir of chirping crickets, cawing crows and clucking chickens preparing to roost. Treading slowly between the rows of vines caressed by the glow of the descending sun, Sara recalled how sad she felt at weddings which explained why she attended so few of them even as she was invited by friends to their nuptials through the years. She was known as the single girl with the sense of adventure who wanted to see the world not just be a part of it, enjoying her independence until she met Torsten while serving in the Peace Corps in Africa. Together they experienced so much during their stay there and she thought they wanted the same things. It wasn’t until they returned back to their lives in Europe that Sara felt a shift, Torsten’s marriage proposal on safari a mere distant memory. He seemed to have lost his sense of adventure, preferring to return to Germany to work as an architect and play in his rock band. Heartbroken after he called off their engagement, Sara returned to Moradonia just in time to apply for the lady-in-waiting position which she prepared for with as much exuberance as one would plan her own wedding. There was simply no time to grieve. The prospect of serving a princess in the Royal Palace of Moradonia of all places was the opportunity of a lifetime. She would be in service to someone else besides herself. As a Moradonian, there was no greater honor than that.

“To think these vines have helped to complement a great many meals and celebrations through the generations.”

Startled, but pleasantly so, she recognized Arlen’s voice and turned to see him standing a few feet from her. She watched as he touched the vines with his fingertips, the setting sun casting a glow on his golden brown head.

“With proper care, grapevines can live for fifty to a hundred years or more, but I’m sure you already know that,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

“Some of Morada's oldest vineyards have grapevines dating back to the 1880s,” she said, her fingertips grazing a few grapes. Suddenly, emboldened by a surge of courage and energy that coursed through her, she said, “What say we visit a pumpkin farm tomorrow since you’ll be in town a while?”

Soon as the words escaped her mouth, regret hung over her like a large dark hovering cloud. As she wished she could scoop up that sentence and throw it far afield, the corners of Arlen’s lips curled up.

“I—I don’t know why I…” she began.

“That sounds perfect,” he said promptly, with a clap of his hands. “I was just going to suggest that myself.” He flashed her a wink. “But you beat me to it.”

Relieved, Sara let out a light laugh. From a distance, laughter and music carried through the air along with the gentle breeze of a cool autumn evening. Arlen extended his hand out to her and cocked his head in the direction of the party.

“We simply can’t end this night without at least a dance,” he said. “Or two.”

She stood there, her eyes on his proffered hand which appeared to glow in the fading sunlight. Slowly she inched toward him and took his hand which was warm, his grip gentle but firm. There was a certain familiarity about walking hand-in-hand with Arlen, whom she barely knew apart from a few encounters with him during his visit to the palace and her accompanying the princess to his country home in England. She didn’t even know if it was proper for them to be holding hands and she fully expected him to release his hold on her once they emerged from their vineyard cocoon.

Instead, Arlen’s hand, with its warm, strong, secure hold, stayed firm as he led her to the dance floor and their sunset promenade segued to a slow dance that seemed utterly natural. She’d always heard about people who claimed that, when entwined, they felt as though they were the only ones in a crowd. Clichéd as that sounded, experiencing it now for herself, she found it was true, yet it still felt surreal.

In fact as she lay in bed in her old room later that evening, the moonlight glow emanating from her window bathing her, her mind flashed back to the time she first met Arlen. Sara, who had accompanied Princess Chantalise to Arlen’s countryside manor, was bringing Her Highness’ luggage in from the car when a tall man dressed in a sky blue long-sleeved buttoned shirt and gray slacks looking like he just stepped out of a Giorgio Armani ad, scooped up the valise. Surprised, her eyes locked with the bluest pair she’d ever set her own eyes on.

“I’ve got that for you, Miss,” the handsome stranger said in a British accent.

She thanked him as they shared a smile, and even now, she remembered how his charm caused her heart to flutter.

“First time visiting England?” he asked, wheeling the valise behind him as they strode together side by side on their walk up to the manor entrance.

“I’ve actually been to London only,” Sara said, stealing a glance at him. “But I look forward to seeing the countryside.” In a move she never dared before, she flashed him a smile with a coquettish sideways glance. “Perhaps you can you show me around sometime.” To this day, she had no idea why she, normally shy, boldly even asked.

And she would never forget the high-wattage grin that he rewarded her, eyes twinkling. “I would love to.”

Suddenly, hurried footsteps sped their way. “Allow me to take that for you, my Lord,” said another young man Sara realized was the actual footman and not the handsome blue-eyed demi-god she’d been conversing with all along.

Immediately then, Sara felt her cheeks flush, imagining her face turning a beet red. Her cheeks, neck and ears heated up. As a new lady-in-waiting, she should have known, should have done her research and inquired about his appearance. She silently cursed herself. “I—I apologize.” As she bowed, she couldn’t face him.

He shook his head. “There’s no need for apologies or formalities.” He held out his hand by way of introduction. “Arlen Cromwell.”

Even as she lay in bed now, she recalled her embarrassment from that first meeting. Indeed, he was none other than the Arlen Spencer-Cromwell, Viscount Rydelthorpe. Fiancé of her mistress, Princess Chantalise. For the rest of their stay there, Arlen kept his word and showed Chantalise and her entourage around the village and countryside, but Sara, so embarrassed by her earlier show of bravado, appropriately stayed clear of Arlen so that he could proceed with his courtship of the princess.

Blushing at the memory now, she realized the reason she blocked out that embarrassing introduction and Arlen altogether. Until now.

Alas, months after the visit, the engagement was broken and nearly two years later, here he was, back in her life.

Sara thought that it was possible this evening of her sister’s wedding had all been but a dream. Chatting with Arlen in the vineyards amid the backdrop of a Moradonian purple sunset, holding hands as they passed through the vineyards toward the reception, slow dancing for God only knows how many dances, and the pregnant albeit tranquil silence shared by the two of them as he walked her home beneath the incandescent moon and glittering stars. A wonderful dream Sara wanted to lose herself in forever.