Ecru

Ecru. Not white. White was too stark. Ecru would be a better match for Marguerita’s skin tone, had been for generations of Equineaux women. 

Which meant Marguerita could wear her mother’s dress.

Selina looked across the room at the dress, freshly pressed and waiting on its lavender-scented padded hanger, and allowed herself a smile. It had taken hours to alter it for Marguerita’s more robust frame, but it would work. No one would notice the extra panel sewn in the back and Selina would finally have the exquisite pleasure of seeing her daughter dressed in her own wedding finery. Marguerita may not be quite the picture Selina had been, but no one, not even her own daughter, could come close to the beauty Selina had radiated on her wedding day. 

True love will do that.

Selina pulled her gaze from the dress and returned to the list.

Flowers. Something slender and elegant, to draw the eye away from Marguerita’s inelegant waistline. Selina had always known they would be calla lilies. Graceful. Refined. Even their aroma was restrained. Another perfect touch.

She reached up to smooth the hair above her ear where she had tucked her own simple wedding flower so many years ago. Startled by the movement in the mirror above her desk, she stopped mid-reach and stared at the woman in front of her. She was lost for a moment, scrambling to reconcile the radiant bride she remembered with the face looking back at her in the mirror. Her hand fluttered over the folds of skin at her neck, the creases framing her mouth. 

It was her eyes that finally brought her back to herself. Those dark, lustrous Equineaux eyes. They were what drew Roland to her so long ago. Even Father O’Brien had fallen into those dark pools a time or two over the years. She knew that for a fact.

Selina trailed her fingers along her cheek, lingering at the place where Roland had gently tilted her chin to lose himself in those eyes in the intoxicating moments before their first kiss. So many years later, it is the beginning she remembers. All that unaccustomed heat.

She pulled her gaze back to the papers in front of her.

Music. The music must be sedate, appropriate for a ceremony of such import. She would speak to Isabelle. Her lip curled at the thought of St. Mary’s organist. The woman was too exuberant, by far. Left to her own devices she would turn the event into a burlesque, but there were no other options.

Selina squared her shoulders and raised one thin, penciled eyebrow at her reflection. It would be tricky to broach the subject. Isabelle Collins was entirely too sensitive, but Selina would do whatever it took to ensure everything was perfect for her daughter’s big day.

She picked up her pen and held it for a moment, enjoying its gold-plated weight in her palm. It had taken years to find a pen such as this, a pen meant to be filled from an ink pot. Mere cartridges to be popped in and out on a whim simply would not do.

When Selina had seen it glowing on its velvet cushion in the showcase at Reid’s, she vowed it would be hers. She doubled her vow when the callous-fingered clerk let it drop carelessly into her waiting hand. No one, she swore to herself, no hands but hers would ever touch this perfect writing implement again. 

So fervent was this vow, that she pressed past her own hot-cheeked shame that very moment and counted out every coin in her savings envelope. The clerk had rolled his eyes when she came up short, but she demanded that he put the pen aside for her, insisted that she be the one to return it to its velvet-lined case, close the lid and write her own name on the small white card the fool of a clerk attached to the box. She did not leave the store until the box was safely out of sight beneath the counter.

It had taken months to complete the transaction. She never asked to see the pen again, but every Saturday she swept into the store to add another dollar or two, whatever she could glean from the week’s economies, until the triumphant morning she was handed the box once more, gift-wrapped in Reid’s distinctive gold foil. 

She didn’t even show her daughter, just tucked it, unopened, into the top drawer of her dresser, beneath her slips. Marguerita had just moved out and things were strained between them, but Selina, patient and forgiving as always, was certain that a little time and space away from the comforts of home would help Marguerita see that her mother had been right all along. 

The golden pen whispered across the paper, adding Isabelle’s name in ornate script beneath the music heading. The clock struck the hour, but Selina would not be rushed. She had waited too long for this moment, for this small package of moments. The pen, the ink, even the paper had been lying ready for years, waiting for the call from her only child.  

Hello, Mother. It’s me, Marguerita.  

Oh, she was indulging in pure fantasy now. No matter how Selina tried she could not get her daughter to claim her full and glorious name. Consequently, Marguerita had never grown beyond the narrow parameters of the diminutive Maggie. In fact, she seemed to delight in flinging that common name in her mother’s face, refusing to recognize how completely it chained her to mediocrity. 

Selina often despaired, especially in those trying years after Marguerita moved out, that without at least the beautiful name, her daughter would be hidden forever from love. But even the bleakest times were tempered by her deep knowing that the day would come when some astute and deserving young man would see beyond her daughter’s more unpleasant traits to the beauty within. And she was right. Marguerita had finally been seen and claimed and now Selina must prepare for the ceremony.

She added food and drink to the list. There would be no alcohol. She wrote Sarah Ferguson’s name with a flourish. As much as Selina despised Sarah’s aristocratic airs, she had to admit the woman knew what was appropriate.  Selina had always imagined a sumptuous repast, guests served on china at linen-covered tables. Not one of those horrid buffets where people jostled each other for wilted salads and a hunk of rubbery beef. But considering the circumstances, she would have to let the Ladies Auxiliary have their way with the menu.

She sighed. Such short notice. So many years of waiting and everything had to be pulled together so quickly. Luckily, she had retained membership in the Ladies Auxiliary. All those excruciating volunteer hours at teas and bake sales, all those endlessly trite conversations could now be used to call in favours.

She paused in her list-making and picked up the heavy frame sitting on the corner of her desk, another purchase requiring months of careful budgeting. She touched Roland’s face, ran her finger down the length of his lean body. The photo had been snapped as he strode down the sidewalk, intent on his manly business, a half-smile playing at his lips. The street photographer was trying to sell it to him when Selina had stepped out of the deli where she worked. Roland tried to brush the fellow off, but she had begged him to buy it. It was such a handsome picture.

Selina cradled the photo against her chest. They were such a handsome pair. She smiled at herself in the mirror, smoothed her hair into place and ran through the list again. What else? Oh, thank you cards. They must be perfect as well -- elegantly understated. Nothing too showy. Simple raised letters on a creamy background. Calla lilies, perhaps? A subtle reminder of the day’s unparalleled beauty, elegance and grace.  

Oh, yes, calla lilies in silver and white with “thank you” written in elegant script. 

No. No words. Just the lilies. On an ecru background. An appropriate message written in Selina’s neat script on the inside. Yes, that would be perfect.  

Oh, but there wasn’t time to order them. She’d have to find something suitable elsewhere, perhaps at the store where she had discovered the pen. 

No. That would not do. She would order them today and mail them off when the printer delivered them. They could be fashionably late. A bride didn’t have a lot of time to send out thank you notes when she was whisked away right after the ceremony. 

Selina nodded and returned Roland’s half-smile, remembering a time when young couples would travel through Europe for a full half year after their nuptials. Although, even on an extended honeymoon it would still be expected that the thank you notes would arrive in good time, with exotic foreign addresses in the return address corner. 

Selina put down her pen and gently pinched the top of her nose. So many decisions. So many opportunities to mis-step, miscalculate, say or do the wrong thing. One never knew what stray phrase or too-wide smile or inappropriate choice would crumble everything to ashes and dust. She had to get it right. 

But who could have imagined there would be so many details to attend to for a ceremony less than an hour in duration? And she didn’t have the luxury of time to carefully weigh and measure each decision.  

All those years. Wasted.

She pushed back her chair and stood up. Turning to walk away, she was stopped once again by her reflection in the mirror. She drew herself to her full height. Straightened her spine. Lifted her head. But the dowager’s hump clung to her back like a faithless monkey. She sighed and sat back down.

She read the next item on the list.

Cake.  

                                                           * * * 

Selina scanned the sanctuary, her eyes coming to rest on Father O’Brien. She watched him move among his parishioners, smiling, touching shoulders, elbows, his deep, reassuring voice anointing the skittery flock. People shuffled in, nodded greetings to each other as they moved from the priest’s informal benediction to their seats. The pews would be suitably full.

She returned to the task at hand and, smiling sweetly, pressed a piece of daintily-wrapped cake into the palm of the woman before her. Mrs. Delaney jerked her hand away rather abruptly, but Selina had no time to worry about her neighbor’s idiosyncrasies. There were too many people to greet and Roland was nowhere to be found. Although she knew it was terribly unladylike, she stood on tiptoe and craned her neck to see above the crowd. Roland was lost in a sea of women.

She glanced over at Isabelle, who, so far, had managed to stick to the play list. Isabelle’s eyes were not on the music, however. She was watching Selina, an uncharacteristically solemn look on her face, her fingers moving over the keys without her attention. Selina looked away. She took another piece of cake from the table beside her and pressed it into the next grasping hand. 

“You don’t have to stand here, Selina,” a voice whispered in her ear.

Selina shook her head slightly. She moved away from the voice and reached for another piece of cake. Of course she had to stand here. This was the receiving line. People expected her to stand in the receiving line.

She placed a piece of cake into an old woman’s creased hand. The woman spoke, but Selina couldn’t make out the words. She smiled anyway -- a smile was always appropriate -- and reached over to smooth a ruffle on her daughter’s dress. Such a beautiful dress. And Marguerita. So beautiful. Such a beautiful bride. 

“Selina.” It was Sarah Ferguson’s voice.

She gently pulled away from Sarah’s unwelcome hand to rearrange the calla lilies cradled in her daughter’s arms.

“Come and sit down, Selina. You don’t need to stand here.”

Selina hesitated. Surely if anyone knew what was appropriate it was Sarah Ferguson. Maybe she should just sit down and wait. She cast a worried glance at her daughter and then turned to scan the crowd again. It wasn’t like Roland to be so late.

She needed to think, needed to get away from all the staring eyes pressing in on her. They were watching her, waiting for her to waver, to falter. To leave. She had to stand her ground. There was no choice to be had. The room was so hot. The swirling whispers congealed into a thick roar in her ears.

Selina gathered herself and smiled brilliantly into Mr. Jamison’s heavy jowls. She slipped a piece of cake into his palsied hand and turned away before any words could slip past his lips to hold her hostage. She had to find Roland. Something had happened to delay him, that was all. He was probably bounding up the church stairs at that very moment, that irresistible half-smile on his lips, overflowing with a thousand apologies, offering a thousand kisses for her forgiveness and another chance to fall into those bewitching Equineaux eyes.

Selina pushed through the crowd, her eyes on the door, leaving her daughter once again to chase the shadowy mirage of a husband who never was. The organist played on, never deviating from her list. And Marguerita waited. 

She had finally found a way to rise above the pain of Selina’s thousand abandonments. Dressed in her mother’s wedding finery, she waited patiently in her casket at the front of the church.