“Oh, my God!”
“Exactly. When James figures out what she wants him to do, he goes into a primal mode and pulls the bed cover off the bed.”
“And?”
“Apparently, Angela thought it was a great idea, and they had a terrific time even though everyone was just outside the door.”
Geoff and I were hysterical. It was ten minutes before I could stop laughing enough to start typing, and Lizzy’s diary entry showed that Angela had a lot more fun on her wedding night than Jane did.
17 May — Jane and I have talked about what is expected of a wife. She says the experience can be unpleasant at first, but after that, it seems the body recognizes the sacrifice that is being asked of it and responds appropriately. Her response made me wonder if intimacy can be pleasurable, or is it merely a matter of a wife’s duty to her husband?
19 May — Tomorrow I shall become Mrs. William Lacey. How can all of this have happened? To be so in love with one’s life partner is a rarity, but such has been my fortune. I am so pleased with my beautiful ivory satin wedding gown and lace veil. My lady’s maid, whom I am to call Waite, has been of great help, but I do not know how much I should say to her. Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper, insists that I must always be discreet or I could embarrass the family, as servants will talk.
According to Elizabeth’s brief diary entry on May 20th, Will and his bride had “a merry wedding” with close friends and family in attendance at the church and the wedding breakfast. The food was plentiful, the wine flowed, the musicians played beautifully, and the dancers stepped lively. Everything had gone exactly as Elizabeth had hoped.
26 May — There is so much to write, but I am greatly fatigued, as I have a house full of guests, some of whom have been here near a week. This is the first opportunity I have had to write of the most important event in my life. I hope I can hold forever in my mind the look on Mr. Lacey’s face when he first saw me at the church. The pastor at St Michael’s received his appointment from the Laceys, and as such, performed the ceremony exactly as directed by his patron. Apparently, Mr. Lacey (whom I am now to call Will, as is his choice) leans toward brevity. The wedding breakfast lasted into the evening when the tables were cleared to make way for more food.
It was well past midnight by the time I went to my bed chamber. All my night clothes had been laid out by Waite, who helped me to get into my silk night gown. After she left, Will came to my chamber and asked if my mother had talked to me. I said that she had, and he was visibly relieved. I found it to be a most curious ritual, but Will was very kind and patient. After five days, I do not make any claim to being a proficient, but it certainly has become less awkward and more pleasurable which, as Will explained, is as it should be. He has been excessively attentive, and after he has fallen asleep, I lie in bed and count my blessings.
A week after their wedding, the couple went to London to make the requisite visits to the social elites who were then in town for the season. The couple seemed to have been given a warm welcome by everyone except Lady Jersey, but because she was the de facto leader of the ton, her behavior, no matter how offensive, had to be tolerated. But one person was missing, the Duchess of Devonshire.
2 June — We rode past Devonshire House, and I asked if the Duchess was still visiting abroad. I was astounded to learn that Her Grace has been exiled by her husband to the continent for having a child with Charles Grey. She has been gone for more than a year and a half, and while her children remain in England, the Duchess waits in Naples for word from the Duke that she may return. None of this bothers Will, as he has already written to Her Grace at her residence in Naples and has received a response in which she invites us to call as soon as we arrive.
At this point, Geoff coughed to let me know that he was once again being ignored. “Surely, Elizabeth and Will must be grandparents by now with as long as you’ve been typing.”
I was ready to quit for the night anyway, so I asked him what was on his mind.
“You are leaving us. I know you are. So why don’t you just tell old Geoff what’s going on.”
“Do you know what the fourth Thursday of November is in America?” I asked.
After thinking for a minute, he said, “Yes. It’s Thanksgiving Day. When I was at Yale, Beth’s Aunt Laura was kind enough to invite me to celebrate the holiday at her flat in New York. The table practically bowed from the weight of all that food.”
“That’s right.” I laughed to myself at the thought of skinny Geoff biting into a turkey drumstick.
“Two years ago, I celebrated Thanksgiving in an Army mess hall at an air base. Last year, I had dinner in an office cafeteria, and it looks as if this year may be a repeat of 1947. In our family, Thanksgiving is a big deal. We have tomato juice and fruit cocktail, a turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, biscuits, bread stuffing, corn, green beans, cranberry sauce, apple and pumpkin pies, all chased down with strong black coffee.”
“And you want to spend Thanksgiving with your family,”
Geoff said sympathetically.
“I know that’s not possible, but I’m thinking about how I can get home by Christmas.”
“Is this a permanent relocation?”
“It would have to be. I don’t have the money to go back and forth across the Atlantic. There’s a big part of me that wants to stay in England, but then there’s another part that says I’m an American, and it’s time to go home. I’ve been gone for more than two years.”
“Does this have something to do with your flyer?”
“If you’re asking if I’m going home so I can run Rob to ground in Atlanta, the answer is ‘no,’” I said defensively. “Of course, I’ll let him know where I am, but I’m not expecting anything to happen.”
“And what about Michael?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked too loudly.
“I’ll give you credit for being clever by burying your questions about him in more general questions about India or the war. But when I talk about Michael, your interest level goes way up. I know you’ve had a letter from him recently.”
“We had something of a flirtation for a few days before and after the ball at Montclair,” I admitted. “But, if you’d like, I can show you the letter I received from him in which he apologized for that very same flirtation, saying he doesn’t know what came over him. He assured me there would be no repetition.
“And, yes, I’m interested in him in much the same way I’m interested in you. You don’t have any idea how fascinating your life sounds to a girl who grew up looking at the black hulk of a coal breaker. You talk so casually about Paris and Brussels, skiing in the Alps, climbing the Acropolis. These are places I can only dream about, but I’m a very practical working-class girl, who knows when it’s time to go home.”
“I didn’t tell you,” Geoff said. “Beth called. She’s coming to London next week. She’s planning a party and asked if you could help her out. Michael is coming home on the 18th, and the party’s for him.”
Chapter 38
Although Will and Elizabeth’s honeymoon had nothing to do with Montclair, I did want to spend some time on it. By twentieth century standards, their journey would be exciting, but taking into account the couple had traveled in 1793 in a Europe menaced by French revolutionary armies, their journey was remarkable. After visiting Spa in the Ardennes Forest and touring castles along the Rhine River, they went on to Lausanne on Lake Geneva where they were guests of Edward Gibbon, the historian and author of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, at his lakeside home. It was there the couple learned that the Duke of Devonshire had recently sent for his duchess, and the party had immediately set out for England.