Part 11 (1/2)
There on the porch stood an old, old man, leaning on a stick. His hair was snow-white with age, his skin black as Annimae's pianoforte. Though it was a moonless night, he wore smoked spectacles that hid his eyes. He was dressed in a black suit of formal cut, and was just drawing off his tall silk hat. Holding it before him, he bowed. On the drive behind him was the carriage, indeed painted a deep violet, with two great black horses. .h.i.tched to it. Visible within the carriage was a tiny woman, swathed in a purple lap robe. Perhaps there was something behind her, huddled up in the shadows.
And Annimae felt a wave of summer heat blow in from the night, and it seemed the perfume of strange flowers was on that wind, and the music of insects creaking loud in the darkness.
”Good Evening, Miss. Is Mr. Devereaux Loveland at home?” the old man inquired, in a nasal voice.
”What do you want here, boy?” demanded Great-Aunt Merrion.
”I do beg your pardon, Ma'am, but my mistress is crippled with the rheumatism and hopes you will excuse her if she don't get out of the carriage to speak to you herself,” said the old man. ”She wishes to know if Mr. Loveland would be so kind as to call on her at Nightengale Manor, at any convenient hour tomorrow.”
Annimae's father started forward, and stared past the old man at the carriage.
”You may tell her I would be delighted to do so, boy,” he said hoa.r.s.ely. ”What is it your mistress wishes to discuss with me?”
”Matters of mutual advantage, Sir,” said the old man, and bowed again.
”Then I shall call on her at one o'clock in the afternoon,” said Annimae's father.
When Annimae had closed the door, Aunt Pugh said scornfully: ”A lady would have left a caking card.”
But the next day Annimae's father dressed in his finest clothes, saddled his white horse and rode away down Monterey Road, well ahead of the hour so as not to be late. It was seven in the evening before he came riding back.
When he had led his horse to the stable himself (for the Mexican groom had been discharged) he returned and came straight into the house, and standing before his hearth he said to Annimae: ”Daughter, I have arranged your marriage. You are to become the wife of Daniel Nightengale.”
Annimae stood there stunned. Great-Aunt Merrion gasped, and Aunt Pugh sputtered, and then the pair of them raised twenty concerted objections, as her father ignored them and poured himself a gla.s.s of brandy from the parlor decanter. But Annimae felt again the strange warm wind, and a reckless joy rising in her heart.
”What d'you mean, that woman has a son?” roared Great-Aunt Merrion. ”A marriageable son?”
”I am given to understand he is an invalid,” said Annimae's father, with a significant look at the old women.
A certain silence fell.
”And he is the only child and heir?” said Aunt Pugh delicately.
”He is, Madam,” replied Annimae's father.
”Mm-hm,” said Great-Aunt Merrion. Adamant was not so hard and bright as the speculative gaze she turned on Annimae. ”Well, child, you have indeed been favored by fortune.”
Annimae said: ”Is he handsome, Daddy?”
”I did not see him,” said Annimae's father, studying the ceiling beams. Taking a drink of the brandy he went on: ”The, ah, the young gentleman is unable to receive visitors. Mrs. Nightengale offered his proposal.”
”But-how did he fall in love with me, then?” asked Annimae.
The two Aunts pursed their old lips tight. Annimae's father lowered his head, met his child's eves and said: ”I was informed he goes out riding a'nights in the carriage, and has glimpsed you seated at the window, and was entranced by the vision of beauty and gentility you presented. And he burns for love of you, or so his dear Mamma says.”
”Why then, I will surely love him!” said Annimae with firm conviction.
”That is your duty child,” said Great-Aunt Merrion.
But neither Great-Aunt Merrion nor Aunt Pugh were pleased with the conditions set on the match: which were, that there was to be no grand church wedding, blazoned in the Society Pages, no pubic ceremony or indeed a church ceremony at all, but one conducted in Mrs. Nightengale's private chapel, and that within the next three days. And they were in agonies of mixed emotions about the small trunkful of twenty-dollar gold pieces Mrs. Nightengale had sent to pay for Annimae's trousseau.
”Charity? Who does she think we are? How dare she!” said Great-Aunt Merrion.
”Imagine having to buy a wedding dress ready-made! Such a shame!” said Aunt Pugh.
But they spent the gold lavishly, and as a result Annimae looked exquisite, a very magnolia in ivory lace, when she mounted into the hired carriage with her father. they set off in state, with the Aunts following in another carriage behind, and rolled away down dusty commonplace Monterey Road.
As they rode along, Annimae's father cleared his throat and said: ”I expect the old ladies have explained to you your duty to your husband, Daughter?”
”Oh, yes,” said Annimae, a.s.suming he meant the selection of suitable house servants and how to entertain guests.
Annimae's father was silent a moment, and at last said: ”I expect any child of mine to be able to withstand adversity with courage. You may find married life a trial. Consider yourself a soldier on the battlefield, Daughter; for the fortunes of our family all depend upon this match. Do not fail us.”
”Of course I won't, Daddy,” said Annimae, wondering what on earth that had to do with valentine hearts and white doves.
So they came to Nightengale Manor.
Annimae had expected it would be a lofty castle on a crag, and of course this was not so, for it sat on the flat yellow orchard plain of San Jose. But it did rise like a mountain in its way. She glimpsed it out the window a long way off, and caught her breath. High turrets and spires, cupolas, gables, balconies, corbels, cornices, finials and weatherc.o.c.ks, with its walls scaled in every shape of gingerbread s.h.i.+ngle and painted all the colors of a fruit bowl! And all rising from a grand park miles long.
they drew up before the gate at last, and Annimae cried out in delight. It was a wildly lush garden, for that dry country Lawns green as emerald, formal rose beds-edged by boxwood hedges planted in circles, in stars, in crescent moons and diamonds. A double row of palms and oleanders lined the carriage drive. Annimae counted at least three fountains sending up fine sprays through the heavy air. The house itself seemed to spread out in all directions; nowhere could one look, however far out into the park, without catching a glimpse of roofline or a tower somewhere among the trees. Annimae heard the sound of hammering. It seemed far-away and m.u.f.fled, but it was continuous.
As the carriages drew up before the porch (a fretwork fantasy of spindlewood, scrolls and stained gla.s.s), the front door was already being opened by the old black man. He smiled, with fine white teeth, and bowed low.
”Welcome to Nightengale Manor, Sir and Ladies. My mistress is expecting you all in the chapel. If you'll please to follow me?”
They stepped across the threshold, and Annimae heard her aunts breathing heavily, keeping their lips tight together for fear lest they should exclaim aloud. The old man led them through a succession of the most beautiful rooms Annimae had ever seen. Fine carpets, polished paneling of rare inlaid woods, stained gla.s.s windows set with crystals that sent rainbows dancing even-where. Golden rooms, green rooms, red rooms, rooms blue with every color of the sea, and the deeper they went into the house, the more dimly lit it all was. But after they had been walking for fifteen minutes, Aunt Pugh exclaimed: ”Boy, you have been leading us in circles! I declare I have walked five miles!”
”It's a long way to the chapel,” said the old man, in tones of sincerest apology. ”And the house is designed like a maze, you see. If I was to leave you now, I don't reckon you folks could find your way back. I do beg your pardon. We're nearly there.”
And only three rooms and a staircase later they were there, too. They entered a chamber vaulted like a church, set all around with more stained gla.s.s, though a curious cold light shone through the panes that was not like daylight at all. Before a little altar of black and porphyry marble stood just three people, two of them looking ill-at-ease.
One was the Reverend Air. Stevens, clutching his Book of Common Prayer. The other was clearly a workman, middle-aged, dressed in heavy overalls. He was sweating, twisting his cap between his hands.
He smelted of sawdust and glue.
The third was the woman Annimae had glimpsed in the carriage. She was merely a plain plump middle-aged little lady, all in purple bombazine, who had been pretty once. Her eves were still remarkable, though at the moment their stare was rather fixed and hostile.
”Miss Annimae Loveland; Mr. Devereaux Loveland; the Misses Merrion and Pugh,” announced the old man, with proper solemnity. The mistress of the house inclined her head in acknowledgement.
”Reverend, you may commence,” she said.
”I beg your pardon, but where is the groom?” demanded Great-Aunt Merrion, whose feet were hurting her a great deal.
”Great-Aunt, hush,” said Annimae's father. Airs. Nightengale merely said: ”My son's condition does not permit him to venture from his room at present. The marriage will be conducted with Mr. Hansen standing proxy.”
”Why, I never heard of such a thing!” squealed Aunt Pugh.
”Hold your tongue!” said Annimae's father, in a tone of such venom Aunt Pugh went pale.
Annimae scarcely knew what to think, and was further troubled when the Reverend Mr. Stevens leaned forward and said quietly: ”My child, do you freely consent to this marriage?”