Читать книгу Sarah’s Story: An emotional family saga that you won’t be able to put down - Lynne Francis - Страница 16

The day of the wedding dawned full of promise. Sarah was awake early, having passed a fretful night full of nervous anxiety. She thought that she had heard Ada moving about in the night, but decided not to venture from her room herself until dawn had broken. She didn’t want to have to hear anything further on her wedding day itself about how she was a disappointment to Ada, and to the family.

When Sarah went downstairs, rejoicing at the sight of the first blue sky to be seen in several days, she found Ada already seated at the table.

‘Are you all right?’ Sarah was concerned, hurrying to stoke up the range to ease the chill in the kitchen. She feared she hadn’t escaped a lecture, after all, but Ada didn’t seem to be disposed to be critical. She sat quietly and accepted a cup of tea with thanks, after Sarah had hurried upstairs to fetch a bed quilt to wrap around her. It looked as though Ada had been sitting there for some time; her hands and face were thoroughly chilled.

Ada accepted the breakfast that was put in front of her without question and Sarah, feeling if anything more unnerved by her grandmother’s strangely quiet behaviour than by her anger or contempt, noted that she didn’t eat a great deal of it.

‘I had a troubled night,’ Ada said, once breakfast was over. ‘I’m going to try to rest a little before we must go. Be sure to wake me in plenty of time to dress.’ And with that she left the table, trailing the quilt behind her as she slowly mounted the stairs. Sarah was struck by how her grandmother seemed to have suddenly aged: it was as though ten years had been added to her overnight.

She busied herself tidying the kitchen, glad of something to keep her occupied until it was time to leave the house. Her dress for the day was hanging in her room and so, once she was satisfied that there was no more housework to be done, she took off her apron and went upstairs.

She felt that she should be making a special effort with her appearance, something that there had been little call for in the past, so she unpinned her hair, letting it fall halfway down her back. She brushed it well before pinning it back in place. If it had been summertime she would have left it long and dressed it with flowers, but there was nothing much to be had from the garden at this time of year, other than a few berries. So she settled on a tortoiseshell comb, decorated with artificial flowers, as an adornment.

Sarah took her dress off its hanger, spread it out on the bed and scrutinised it. It was plain in style, the fabric lightly sprigged with cream flowers on a brown background. She wished that it could have been a little more elegant for such a special day but, once she had pulled it on and done up the buttons, pinning a brooch at the throat of the high neck, she felt it would do. Appraising herself critically in the freckled glass of the mirror, Sarah wondered whether her appearance was a little sombre for the occasion. She supposed that she would, at least, have colour in her cheeks after their walk to the chapel, for the blue skies and sunshine had brought with them a chilly wind.

Mindful of the time, Sarah went to wake Ada. Her grandmother, who was lying on the bed, already awake, nodded approvingly when she saw how Sarah was dressed.

‘How well you look! No one can criticise your appearance on your wedding day, Sarah. Joe is a lucky man to have you.’ Ada sighed and shook her head but said no more, simply holding out her hand for Sarah to assist her from the high iron bedstead. ‘Help me with my dress then we must be on our way,’ she said.

Within the half-hour Sarah and her grandmother were making their way down the garden path. Sarah had wondered whether, once they reached Northwaite, her grandmother would choose quiet alleyways rather than their usual Sunday route to reach the chapel. But no, she marched along the road through the village, greeting everyone whom they met. The conversation never strayed beyond commenting on the weather, but Sarah could see the villagers’ curiosity as to why she should be abroad on a weekday with her grandmother, both of them dressed in their best clothes. She felt relieved when they had turned off to take the quieter path down to the chapel, then became filled with anxiety as to whether Joe would be there.

She needn’t have worried. As they entered by the main door, the small group waiting at the altar turned around to look. Sarah felt Ada stiffen slightly, then she withdrew her arm from Sarah’s.

‘You should go forward. I will take a seat. Now, don’t rush.’ The last words were uttered as an admonishment to Sarah who, legs made shaky suddenly from the overwhelming nature of what was about to happen, had started forward down the centre aisle, almost at a trot.

‘Oh, Sarah, I almost forgot.’

Sarah turned back towards her grandmother, who had opened her reticule and, to Sarah’s surprise, taken out a tiny posy. There were no flowers, just plants and herbs of different hues of blue and green, some with spiky leaves, some with soft, silver-furred leaves, all tied with a cream satin ribbon. Sarah recognised rosemary, sage, bay and ivy. She buried her nose in the posy, then smiled her thanks at her grandmother. The aromatic scent seemed to steady her sudden agitation and the posy gave her something to do with her nervous hands.

Sarah turned back towards the altar and walked at a more measured pace down the aisle. As she did so, she took in the appearance of her groom-to-be and his best man and realised why her grandmother had reacted as she had when they had entered the chapel. Joe and his best man made a poor show against the smart, restrained appearance of the minister and his chaplain. The latter looked at ease in their Sunday suits; Joe and his friend looked as though their attire had been borrowed from a number of different acquaintances. It was all mismatched, the jackets being of a different tone to the trousers, and Sarah couldn’t help but notice that the sleeves of Joe’s jacket were a good few inches too short for him and that the fabric strained slightly across the back.

He’d made an effort to slick down the wave of his hair, she observed, finding it comical and trying not to laugh. She caught a glimpse of one of his bright waistcoats, partly hidden by his tightly buttoned jacket, and he’d given his love of bright colours full rein in the red neckerchief that he wore at his throat.

Sarah gave Joe her biggest smile, feeling a little lurch of her heart as he reached out his hand to grasp her fingers and pull her towards him. His hands were warm and dry; hers felt clammy and sweaty by comparison. She stole a glance past him at his companion and her smile faltered. No amount of slicking down his hair with water or trying to adopt a smarter dress could disguise the fact that he looked, as her grandmother would have described it, ‘rough’. His nose had the appearance of having borne many a punch in a fight and, when he smiled at Sarah, the gaps in his teeth only backed up that impression.

Sarah raised her posy to her nose, breathed deeply and turned to glance back at Ada, the only guest, who had seated herself halfway down the hall, before letting her gaze roam around the octagonal chapel. Light was streaming in through the windows on each wall, and splashes of colour fell to the floor in front of her from the single stained-glass window behind the altar. Someone had recently polished the pews and the wooden panelling: Sarah could smell the rich scent of beeswax on the air.

Joe squeezed her arm to draw her attention to the minister. Her senses seemed heightened as she waited respectfully for the minister to begin, and so the sudden crash of the main door being flung open, and just as quickly closed again, made her start violently.