For female support, Juliana had only Little Prue, who saw no reason to cease gurning at the bride as if she thought Juliana was a witch.
No witch would be attired in a gown of deep peacock-blue satin over a silver petticoat, with cuffs and collar of antique Paris lace. These materials had been stored up among sheaves of dry lavender in a chest of her grandmother's for twenty years. Juliana only timidly believed herself worthy of the satin, yet she feared that in a time of war it would be lost altogether if it was not put into use. The chest, now hers, was her only dowry and trousseau. It contained finely embroidered household linen, much of it her grandmother's handiwork, in sufficient quantity to convince Lovell that the Carlills once possessed wealth and must still have it. When Juliana opened the chest and showed its contents, she could tell he had hoped to see money instead.
Lovell had looked absolutely ready to bolt when he noticed the chest contained exquisite baby-clothes. He had forgotten that marriage meant children. Still, any fine goods would have commercial value. A tactful bridegroom, he refrained from saying so.
They spent their wedding night at Wallingford, where the judge's house provided comfort, space and privacy. A supper was arranged, at which the officiating parson presented himself. After Juliana withdrew to the bridal chamber, Mr Gadd, Parson Pauling and Edmund Treves encouraged Lovell with the traditional bridegroom's toasts to put him in good heart for his duties, overdoing it by a good deal, as was also traditional.
Upstairs, Juliana was attended by Little Prue. The sombre maid helped her undress and brought her the finely embroidered nightdress that was her grandmother's last good piece of work. Nobody had supplied any lessons on what now awaited her; Juliana was reliant upon what she could remember of her grandmother's blunt descriptions of sexual exchanges. It was her good fortune that Roxanne had spoken out openly. No traumatic surprises would horrify Juliana. In fact, so detailed were her grandmother's stories that when she had lain waiting for some time in the exquisite bridal nightdress, and the bed had warmed, Juliana slipped from between the sheets, took off the nightdress, which she folded neatly on a country chair, and climbed back in bed to await her husband naked. This was not to seduce Lovell. She saw no point in having a beautiful garment damaged by passion.
Her wait was lengthy. Many brides fell asleep at this point. Instead, Juliana lay quietly, in the judge's best bedroom with its dark panelled walls and a small fire flickering in the fireplace. She could still hear the faint voices of her wedding guests enjoying themselves in the parlour downstairs. A window seat looked over the garden; she could have knelt there and seen Edmund Treves revelling in his misery as her disappointed suitor, until he grew too cold in the November night air and went indoors, red-nosed, to get stupidly drunk. Even with the judge absent, it had been possible to find and hang the bed's robustly decorated woollen curtains. A narrow turkey rug lay beside the four-poster on the worn old floorboards. The room had been supplied with basic necessities: candlestick, chamberpot, warming pan and coals. There was a prayer book, though Juliana did not imagine her new husband would like to discover her at prayer.
For once, she was enjoying her sense of security in this spacious English room with its desirable, comfortable fittings. Already, she had forebodings about the future. Marriage might not be a haven. She knew, from what Lovell had told her about their rented room in the glover's house, that the first weeks would probably contain all the usual difficulties. At least now there would be two of them. She would not have to face the future alone.
Eventually voices came nearer, as the guests escorted the groom upstairs, all their feet stumbling tipsily on the staircase. Lovell was pushed into the room, but managed to slam shut the bedroom door behind him before anyone else entered. He waited, leaning against the door, until the others were heard retreating.
The fire had dimmed, but by its last faint light Juliana watched Lovell undress. Each masculine garment fell to the floor with a strangely heavy thud. When he turned towards the bed her heart was pounding. When he came to the bedside, she was pleasingly surprised that he paused, tilted his head a little to one side and looked down at her fondly. She was his. He had chosen her (she had chosen him).
'Here we are,' he said. 'Lovell and Lovell's wife…' Juliana gazed up at him with a dry throat. He smiled; he had a good smile, and he knew it. 'They have made me too tipsy to acquit myself resoundingly, but I shall do my best for you.'
His best on that occasion was brief. The experience left Juliana neither hurt nor shocked. Nor was she much moved, but she felt grateful for his attentions and for his polite thanks afterwards. When it was over, for one extravagantly emotional moment, she wanted to admit the truth: that her inherited 'fair orchards' in Kent on which he was laying such great store were nothing more than a modest house with, she had been told, a few undistinguished old apple trees. The house did not even yet belong to her.
Lovell had fallen asleep. By the next time they were speaking, her moment of would-be confession had passed.
When Juliana awoke in the morning, she heard Lovell relieving himself heartily by the pot-cupboard. Ruefully she recalled one of her grandmother's sarcastic comments on marriage: 'It is all pretending not to hear when they fart, and listening to them pissing in the pot!' She felt stiff, exhilarated that she was a wife, and badly in need of similar relief. As soon as Lovell returned to his side of the bed and fell back in, groaning, she slipped out on the opposite side and availed herself. Hot steam rising from the chamberpot after her husband's contribution gave her a start, but she brazened it out. They were together now. Every intimacy could be, would be, must be shared.
She had intended to rise and dress, but the air was so chilly, she scampered back to the warmth of the bed. As she shot under the coverlet, she landed with Lovell's arm around her. He had turned to her, shadowed eyes thoughtful.
'Well, madam!'
'Well, sir.'
Sweet nothings. Nothing indeed. 'Must I still call him Captain Lovell or may I say Orlando?' They had exchanged vows and spent a night of love together, yet remained strangers.
Perhaps Lovell noticed the gust of loneliness that swept over his bride. Certainly he was gazing down at her from a close enough position to witness every flicker that passed across her normally candid grey eyes. 'We shall be comfortable soon enough,' he told Juliana in a low voice. I must discover her pet name… no; find a name for her myself. His free hand was caressing her throat, as if unaware he was doing it.
Sober now, he knew just what he was doing. Juliana would never ask him, but she thought it probable that the young girl he tried to elope with had been returned to her parents more experienced than she should have been. It was best not to speculate how many other women Lovell had bedded since, nor what quality they were. 'It will be better for you if he has done it!' she heard her grandmother cackle. But it left Juliana feeling her inequality.
'I have been wondering' — she forced herself to converse — 'whether those who have been sweethearts from childhood find their wedding night easier…' It was ridiculous to be so shy with a man who had entered so closely into places she had never really believed others were intended to go.
Juliana closed her eyes. She was enjoying the pleasure Lovell's hands insidiously brought her. In small circling movements the light fingers of his right hand had come to her left breast, where the nipple reacted eagerly. Lovell bent his head to it. Juliana murmured with pleasure. Her back arched -
'Juliana, you are a man-lover!' She blushed hotly, horrified by the thought, ashamed that she had revealed too much of herself, frightening herself that her nature was improper. This was an impossible predicament; a respectable wife must not be prim, yet she could not be too forward either -