A Pierce-Arrow Carriage to the Wedding
February 16, 1924. Saturday morning. Eleven o’clock.
A Pierce-Arrow town car pulled up in front of the Darlington residence.
The guests of the Darlington family, all prepared to head to the church for the noon wedding, gathered outside and surrounded the carriage. The town car, with its cream body and brown fenders in harmonious tones, resembled a carriage in structure, with the driver’s seat and passenger seat perfectly separated.
“This is the marriage gift Lord Rocheret has sent to Lady Mabel.”
The massive Irish bodyguard, Fergus Walsh, announced it in his thick Irish brogue to Walter and Mildred.
A man with reddish-brown hair and green eyes, his frame enormous, stood in a perfectly tailored knight’s uniform that still carried the rough, pre-tanned buffalo-leather quality.
Mildred nodded with satisfied satisfaction.
“Oh, là là! How generous you are.”
During the engagement period, a lady’s permissible gifts to her fiancé were strictly limited. Jewels or scarves were acceptable as ornaments, paintings or books as hobbies, but clothes or motor cars as everyday items were strictly forbidden. Receiving economic support or requests before marriage was something only governments did. But less than an hour later, Lord Rocheret would become her nephew-in-law. Therefore, Mildred had arbitrarily interpreted that from today, Mabel could accept every convenience her husband provided.
Carlyle was very generous with money as a nephew-in-law. Thanks to his silent support that did not tarnish the Darlington family’s dignity, Mildred’s expression had brightened as the wedding approached.
These days, even if Mabel’s real parents had chosen directly, there would have been no better groom than this, and she would boast about her self-praise whenever she had a chance.
“Mabel, get in the car. Yvette, take care of the young lady.”
“Yes, Aunt Mildred.”
“Bien sûr, Madame Darlington.”
Mabel and Yvette answered in unison.
Yvette Renard was the lady’s maid Mildred had carefully selected for Mabel. Since the salary would be paid by Carlyle anyway, she had employed the very best French lady’s maid without budget constraints.
In her early thirties, Yvette had a brilliant career. During her girlhood at the House of Poiret in Paris, she had trained as an apprentice and mastered sewing techniques. She had worked as a lady’s maid for a countess but had moved to America after the countess’s family collapsed due to the war. Being a skilled, high-spirited French woman who had returned to serving a noble lady instead of an American nouveau riche with money and tasteless taste made her extremely pleased.
Mabel, wearing a white sable cape over her wedding dress, approached the town car. Fergus Walsh, standing rigidly, bowed deeply as she opened the rear door.
“From now on, it will be Fergus Walsh who will serve Lady Mabel.”
“Nice to meet you, Fergus. Please take good care of me.”
Mabel smiled faintly and reached out her hand for a handshake.
Fergus offered his bear-paw-like hand in a panic, then quickly grabbed and released her hand as if it might break. Yvette, holding the trailing hem of the dress so it would not drag on the ground, urged them.
“Mademoiselle, catch a cold. We’ll be late. Get in the car, vite!”
Her English words, dense with French accent, were just a string of nagging, but enough to pour out.
Every time Yvette called her Mademoiselle, Mabel’s shoulders would tremble because Carlyle came to mind. When Mabel got into the rear seat, Yvette handed the luggage to Fergus and followed, unfolding the small auxiliary chair attached to the partition between the driver’s seat and rear seat, and sat down.
Before Fergus could even sit in the driver’s seat like a coachman, Yvette instructed through the brass horn pipe attached to the window.
“Drive, please, Mr. Fergus.”
“It’s not Fergus, miss.”
Fergus grumbled as he started the engine.
“Yes, Mr. Fergus.”
Yvette muttered playfully and gave a sly smile. Mabel forced the corner of her mouth up. She had noticed the night before that she had been crying in her sleep and was grateful for the careful thoughtfulness.
Yvette had woken Mabel early for the wedding preparations. Seeing her swollen eyes, she immediately poured out all sorts of complaints in a mix of French and English. She had dabbed rose water on a gauze and pressed a silver spoon dipped in ice water onto the eyes to reduce swelling, then applied elegant, colorful eye makeup with her skillful hands to erase every trace of tears.
Mabel liked Yvette.
After the honeymoon, she would have to adapt immediately to the unfamiliar Rocheret residence. Having someone to rely on, she felt a little comforted.
The town car began to move.
Mabel pressed close to the window and watched the Darlington residence gradually grow smaller.
“Hah…”
A short sniffle escaped. Mabel bit her trembling lips painfully.
“Oh, là là! Mademoiselle, you mustn’t cry. The bridegroom has lifted the veil, but if the bride looks like a banshee… oh, quel catastrophe!”
Yvette raised both hands in a flurry of alarm.
Imagining the horror of seeing the veiled bride like a banshee after the marriage declaration, laughter burst out and the tears stopped.
The town car arrived at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-third Street in five minutes.
Saint Thomas Church was a magnificent stone building built in the French Gothic style, the place where New York society’s most prominent marriages often took place.
The crowd around the church, usual for the wedding, had gathered even more densely because word had spread that the “debutante of the year” was getting married.
Mabel stepped down from the town car with her veil drooping. Cheers erupted from all around.
The wedding dress she wore had been altered from the one she had worn to the British royal debutante ball. Mildred had carefully preserved the Venetian lace and pearl beads, turning the hemline and neckline into a new dress with fresh vitality.
The wedding passed in a hazy, distant memory.
At the moment when Walter took her arm and they entered to the solemn playing of the pipe organ, Mabel noticed that he was trembling. Although she had been trying to maintain her composure, her legs began to shake.
At the altar stood Carlyle in a morning coat. Noon sunlight streaming through the deep blue stained glass poured over his golden hair, creating a dazzling halo.
Walter handed Mabel’s hand to him with a trembling hand. Carlyle took it without hesitation. From the firm, unwavering hand came an odd sense of stability. Mabel’s trembling gradually subsided.
Before declaring the marriage, the priest asked Carlyle.
“Do you swear to take this woman as your wife and to keep the sacred bond of marriage? To love, comfort, and respect her in sickness or in health? And to forsake all other women and to keep faith with her only as long as you both shall live?”
“Yes, I do.”
Carlyle’s low voice echoed throughout the church.
Mabel wanted him to remember the vow he had just spoken before her. Above all, she hoped he would keep the vow to forsake all other women and keep faith with her alone.
When he slipped the ring onto her finger, the priest declared them husband and wife. After kneeling to receive the priest’s blessing, they stood and faced each other.
Carlyle gently lifted the veil that had covered Mabel’s face.
As the veil lifted, the hazy world before her eyes became clear.
The first thing that entered Mabel’s vision was the face of Carlyle, now bound to her as husband.
Their eyes met.
In the cold blue eyes looking down at her, a complex emotion flashed for an instant.
The fact that she had become his wife without even knowing him well was only now truly sinking in. Her heart was pounding violently, and despair and hope swirled chaotically.
Carlyle extended his arm toward Mabel. She placed her hand on his arm, turned with a stiff face to face the guests.
The two walked slowly down the long aisle behind the solemn playing of the pipe organ.
What lay ahead after this journey was still unknown.