The Bridesmaid's Wedding. Margaret Way
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him with a bitter dark void in exchange. It was an agony to him how beautiful she looked, a smile of utter luminosity on her face, her magnificent curly dark hair—cosmic hair he had once labelled it in fun—hair with a life of its own, tracking down her back, the sun striking all the sparkling little gems woven into the long strands. Her perfect olive skin was pale but high colour burned in her cheeks, a sure sign of her inner excitement.
Oh, Ally, he mourned deep inside of him. Have you any idea what you did to me? But then, they never had used the same measure. Ally’s protestations of undying love were like tears that quickly dried up.
Brod and Rebecca. It should have been Ally and me. He could scarcely credit it now, but this joyous occasion could have been for them. Hadn’t they planned on getting married, even when they were kids? It was almost something they took for granted. The two great pioneering families, Kinross and Cameron, were surely destined one day to be united? Even Stewart Kinross, Brod’s and Ally’s difficult, autocratic, late father had wished it. Except it didn’t happen. Ally had turned her back on him, running off to Sydney to make a name for herself as an actress just like her extraordinary aunt Fee, who now stood smiling brilliantly, looking fantastically nowhere near her age. Ally would look just like that when she was older. Both had the same marvellous bone structure to fight the years. Both had that laughing, vibrant and I-can-do-anything nature. Both knew how to take men’s hearts and break them. It was in the blood.
Determinedly Rafe pushed the thought from his mind. This wasn’t the day for self-pity, God knows. He rejoiced in his great friend’s good fortune but he was beginning to feel his practised smile stretch on his mouth. It was this first sight of Ally that had thrown his hard-won detachment into uproar. He only hoped no one would notice, not realising how very successful he had become at masking his emotions. But hell, he was supposed to be tough. A Cameron which counted for a lot in this part of the world A Cameron respected by his peers. A Cameron brought unstuck by a Kinross woman.
And it wasn’t the first time. But they were old stories. Everyone at the wedding would know them.
Rafe wrestled down the old anguish, rewarded by a moment’s powerful diversion as right on cue the bride, on the arm of her proud father, appeared on the upper terrace moving from the shade of the wide verandah into the sunburst of light. She was wearing a lovely smile, posing for a time as though exquisitely conscious of her impact.
Rafe for all his hurt felt his own mood lifting, hearing Fee exclaim, “Magic!” above the great wave of spontaneous applause.
The bride remained on the terrace a short time longer so everyone could look at her, her great sparkling eyes dominating her face, her hands clasped loosely on her beautiful trailing bouquet of white roses, tulips and orchids. Like her bridesmaids she wore a slim-fitting gown, an overlay of gossamer-thin silver lace, over an ice blue satin sheath that reached to her delicate ankles and showed off her exquisite handmade shoes. She didn’t wear the traditional veil. Her thick glossy hair was drawn back into the very fashionable “Asian” style, a little reminiscent of Madame Butterfly, decorated high on the crown with tiny white orchids and little cascades of seed pearls and crystals. She wore no jewellery except for the dazzling diamond studs in her earlobes, a wedding present from her adoring groom.
For the shortest time, something she couldn’t possibly indulge on such a day, a kind of broken-hearted sadness swept over Fee. Memories she had learned to suppress. Her two failed marriages, all wrong really, right from the start, but she had her child, her beautiful Francesca, more precious to her with every passing day. In retrospect it seemed she had failed though she had been judged highly successful in the eyes of the world as an acclaimed actress; a countess for almost twelve years until the terrible divorce when she had been out of her mind with a short-lived passion for her then lover, an American film star more famous than she. The lunatic years, she thought of them now. Lust never becomes love. And she had had to say goodbye to her lovely little daughter who remained in the custody of her father.
“Fee, darling, you’re looking very sad.” Her companion bent his pewter-coloured head. “Is anything the matter?”
“Memories, Davey, that’s all.” Fee turned slightly to squeeze his arm. “My mind was wandering like a bird in the breeze. I’m an emotional creature at the best of times.”
Lord wasn’t that the truth! David Westbury, first cousin to Fee’s ex-husband, Lord de Lyle, the Earl of Moray, smiled down on her wryly. The bold and bewitchingly beautiful Fee. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t found her captivating, for all the family had never wanted de Lyle to marry her. They feared what his own ultra-conservative mother, sister to de Lyle’s mother, had called her “gaudiness,” her palpable sex appeal, the richness and “loudness” of her voice, which was really her training, the resonance that could reach to the back seat of a theatre, the terribly foreseeable conflict of interests. The family turned out to be right but David knew for a fact Fee had given his cousin his only glimpse of heaven for all it came with a heavy price.
“Here comes the bride,” Fee began to hum, doing her best to forget her own deep regrets. “Be happy, my darlings!” she breathed.
“Amen!” David seconded beneath his breath, feeling enormously proud of his own young relative, Francesca, the titian-haired bridesmaid in the lovely blue gown. He was so glad Fee had kept up the family ties, inviting him out to Australia for the wedding and the promise of a long luxurious holiday in the sun. Four years now since he had lost his dearest Sybilla, the nicest woman he had ever known. Four sad rather empty years.
Even from as far away as Australia Fee had shown her concern. “You want a bit of mothering, Davey,” she had announced over the phone in that still wildly flirtatious voice. Even steeped in depression that had made him laugh. Fee had never known how to “mother” anyone, least of all her own daughter Francesca.
The focus of all eyes, Rebecca and her father began to move down the short flight of stone steps flanked by golden cymbidium orchids in great urns, smiling at the guests in front of her. It was all dreamlike in its perfection, Fee thought, her eyes stealing to the Gothic arch-way specially erected for the wedding ceremony. It was decorated with masses and masses of fresh flowers and beneath the arch stood her adored nephew, Brod, looking wonderfully handsome, his traditional male attendants by his side; the splendid Cameron brothers, Rafe, the best man, then Grant, the sun flaring off their golden heads. Next to Grant, a six-footer-plus like the rest of them, Brod’s long-time friend and fellow polo player, Mark Farrell, all four, lean, rangy bodies resplendent in long-jacketed slate blue suits with white, pleated, front-wing collared shirts.
The bridegroom wore a royal blue Italian-style cravat, his attendants, silver. It was all dreamlike in its perfection, Fee thought. As one’s wedding day should be.
Now the ceremony was due to begin. The celebrant was waiting, moved by the atmosphere of reverence that settled over the assembly like a veil….
Throughout the marriage ritual, Rafe stood fair and square beside his friend, smoothly handing Brod the bridal ring at just the right moment, his heart deeply touched by the obvious happiness of the bride and groom. Rebecca had changed greatly from the ice-cool young woman he had first met. Secure in Brod’s love she had blossomed like a closely furled bud into radiant flower, the warmth that had always been in her, quenched by a disastrous first marriage, bubbling to the surface. Nowadays Rebecca was brimming with life, a wonderful transformation with Brod beside her.
As bride and groom were pronounced man and wife, he couldn’t control the pressing desire to look towards the young woman who had beguiled then betrayed him, though it showed him danger. Those laughing green eyes, witch’s eyes, forever promising and cajoling, were glittering with tears.
Tears?
His jaw was sore from clenching it. Where was his strength? He wasn’t going to share any tears with her though her glance locked with his at precisely the same moment, as though reminding him openly. It perturbed him there was so much anger left inside him, so much misery he had shoved into a dark corner. She had hurt him that badly. But she wasn’t going to know about it. The tenderness towards her that had been so much a part of him at least had vanished. Ally might be a superb actress but he