A Rather Charming Invitation (12 page)

So, in my usual earnest-but-dopey way, I’d been trying to “research” the secrets of a happy one, and I was therefore seeking more substantive guidance. But you can’t get that from a wedding planner or a florist. Nor even from the spate of relationship self-help books, which all seemed to begin with the premise that men are Neanderthals having absolutely nothing in common with women, who nonetheless desperately want to hook them, God knows why. As usual, I was finding the modern world somehow bereft of the magic and sweetness that I wanted as a guiding light for my married life.

Sheesh. Sitting there surrounded by carts of tea sandwiches and iced cakes being trundled back and forth, I pulled out some of the close-up photographs I’d taken of the tapestry’s details, which I’d tucked in my purse on my way out today. I’d never even come close to wanting to share these with the wedding planner. But now I considered that I might want to coordinate the wedding decor with the tapestry’s lovely colors of deep burgundy-red, gilt-edged cobalt blue, and velvety green.

When we’d returned from Mougins, I’d tacked up all my tapestry photographs, and they completely covered the bulletin board in my office. So, every morning I found myself gazing at haunting images that were beginning to speak to me. Scrutinizing some of these photos now, I wasn’t entirely sure that I liked or understood the tapestry’s message. And here was yet another decision to make. Did I really want to get married in front of this thing? I couldn’t commit to such a grand gesture unless I understood the tapestry’s take on marriage. I stared and stared at the obscure symbols.

On the one hand, there were those oval insets with lovely, happy, rural images of couples engaged in sowing the spring planting, and gathering fruit in the summer ripening season, and collecting the autumnal harvesting, and making grapes into wine. On the other hand, some of the pictures were a bit disturbing and cryptic, to say the least. There was a man brandishing a scythe, reaping the wheat fields—was that a life or death image? There were soldiers leading a man away in chains, obviously a prisoner. Was this a comment on the burdens of married life? Like those jokes around the dinner table?

Plus, there was an actual bridal procession, with groomsmen carrying the bride’s dowry cask, but with black dogs nipping menacingly at their heels. The groom himself seemed to be walking far ahead of the bride, instead of alongside her. Was he Orpheus, who’d been warned not to look back over his shoulder at the girl he was rescuing from the kingdom of the shades; but he couldn’t help peeking, and he lost her forever? Or was it about the subjugation of women, like the notion of traditional Chinese wives walking ten steps behind their husbands? I knew that tapestries, especially those designed for women, were meant to serve as a guide to married life, but that usually meant exhorting brides to be virtuous, faithful and obedient. Humph. What about the guys? What were they supposed to do?

However, there was one simple image I particularly liked: a circular inset of two medieval figures, woven in red and gold thread—a French knight astride a horse, with his lady seated in front of him, her hair flowing in long romantic waves. This pair looked like young lovers fleeing the world, leaving its noisy strife behind, riding off to a triumphant—and private—destiny. Something about the way these archetypal figures were rendered, so lovingly, was appealingly elegant and vital.

Not far from this, inset in another circle, was a coat of arms with the ornate gold initials of “J.L.” These just happened to be Jeremy’s initials. Behind the letters was a half- moon. These were not the initials of the tapestry-maker, for his mark was clearly in the lower right corner. Idly at first, I began sketching what I saw, copying both circlets as they were; and then, suddenly inspired, I made my own composite, coming up with several variations.

For awhile I sat there, totally absorbed, until I landed on one version I really liked. Excited, I signalled to the waitress for my check; then I rose, packed up my sketches, picked up my handbag, and headed for that little cobbled street where Jeremy and I had found the jewelry store. After weeks of paralyzing uncertainty and inactivity, I felt suddenly energized, and it seemed important to take an action, any action. Jeremy’s gift was a big one.

 

 

The sky had that lowering, threatening attitude of rain, but it didn’t look as if it would erupt into a full-blown storm. When I entered the shop, the jeweler glanced up long enough to smile encouragingly at me while he was wrapping up a package for a customer at the counter. The customer, upon seeing that he was keeping someone waiting, deliberately squared his shoulders as if to block me from getting the jeweler’s attention, and pretended that he was considering making another purchase; acting rather like a driver who sees that you want the parking space he plans to vacate but is now suddenly loathe to give up.

I didn’t care. It gave me a chance to prowl among the jewel cases without the pressure of the shopkeeper watching me. I looked everything over, to be certain I hadn’t missed anything new, but I knew what I wanted to see, from the moment I’d spied it on my first visit here.

It was a case of men’s signet rings. These were bands of gold or silver or pewter, each with a flat round disc on the top, some of which looked like authentic antique coins, while others seemed to be newly minted medallions engraved with family crests. Upon closer inspection, I saw that a few were actually engraved backwards, so that they could be used to imprint one’s mark on the sealing wax of letters, envelopes and documents. Others bore images of titans of history: Julius Caesar, Napoleon, Beethoven, Mozart, Shakespeare. And some were simply replicas of old money, specially designed to look like worn, beaten metal.

I was so absorbed that I didn’t notice when the previous customer had left, until the jeweler moved over to my counter. “You must be prescient,” he said now. “Your wedding bands just arrived from the engraver. Do you want to take them with you? You can try them on at home, and if they need any adjusting at all, just let me know.”

He went to the back room and returned with one blue velvet box. He opened it to show me where our two rings, gleaming gold, were nestled, side by side. The sight of them had a sudden, unexpected effect on me. They looked so sweetly companionable—with mine smaller but matching Jeremy’s—reminding me of the two of us, and all our little hopes and plans for the future. I felt a sudden kinship to all hopeful couples; for nobody really knows how much time we’ll actually have together with the ones we love. Life seemed suddenly brief and fragile, and I felt a little catch in my throat.

This unpredictable wave of emotion was so unlike me that I hardly knew what to do or say, so I just stood there for a moment, not daring to even try to speak. Then I recovered, somewhat, and blinked, and looked up to thank the jeweler. He was smiling as if he understood.

“I’ll get you a nice bag to carry it in,” he said. He gestured down at the counter. “Something else you’d like to see?”

“That’s not a real Roman coin, is it?” I asked, pointing at the men’s ring.

“No, it’s a copy. The engraver has a brother who’s a coin dealer. They work together on these; their shop is just around the corner. Sometimes they use real antique coins when they can get them, but the old ones are costly, so the brothers often make their own designs. These rings are wedding gifts, like the men’s version of an engagement ring.”

“They’re very good,” I said. They were reasonably priced, too. “Could your dealer make one on commission?” I asked tentatively. “If I had my own design that I wanted done?”

“Sure,” the jeweler said. “That’s what he did here. This is a family crest someone gave him.”

Thrilled, I pulled out my sketches. “Could he do this? I’d like to copy the initials from here,” I said, showing him the “J.L.” with the half-moon behind it. “But see, I want to take out the moon, and put these figures behind it instead,” I said, pointing to the knight-and-lady on horseback, “and have the letters be sort of entwined, like vines,” and I showed him a third sketch, the best composite I’d drawn.

“Ah! Lovely,” the jeweler said approvingly. He made a few practical alterations, sketching, and said he believed it would be possible to engrave my design into one of the flat discs, to make a special “crest” for Jeremy.

“This style would work very nicely,” said the jeweler, showing me some sample blank gold discs. “Your design is French medieval?”

“Yes,” I agreed, “although I believe it was actually made around the mid-1600s.”

“Where did it come from? Do you have the original art for me to look at it?” he asked curiously.

I shook my head. “It’s not mine. It’s from a family heirloom.”

“Your sketch is pretty good,” he mused. “I’ll ask the boys to have a look. Then I’ll get an estimate for you.”

 

 

I went back home feeling triumphant. Within days, the jeweler gave me a very agreeable estimate, which I approved. I smiled to myself, feeling I’d finally accomplished something. Jeremy would love this gift, and it was unique and heartfelt. So, maybe now my wedding could start to feel like my own, and not something that someone else had dreamed up. Perhaps I’d soon tackle all the other things on the list, too. One little victory, I told myself, begets another.

O
ne thing I’d completely forgotten about, in my new freaked-out-bride mode, was that Jeremy and I had been summoned by his Grandmother Margery, for a cocktail party to introduce her friends to Jeremy’s “new” bride . . . as opposed, I supposed, to his “old” bride. I already didn’t like the sound of it, guessing that Margery had thrown a similar bash for Jeremy’s first wife prior to their brief marriage.

Jeremy admitted as much. “But don’t worry,” he said. “Nobody in that crowd remembers anything from last season, much less a wedding from a million years ago.”

“Are you kidding?” I asked incredulously. “This kind of gossip has a shelf life of forever.”

I wasn’t fooled, and I knew there would be inevitable comparisons, but I’d already dealt with the ex-wife, and I wasn’t about to backtrack now.

Jeremy gamely switched tactics. “They will adore you,” he promised.

And so, on the appointed evening, we dutifully climbed into his green Dragonetta and drove out. It was one of those foggy, soggy evenings that London is famous for, where it isn’t actually raining, but “misting”. This means that the rain just hangs in the air, not bothering to land, yet constantly giving you the sensation that it’s falling . . . mostly on your hair and skin.

We’d had weeks of constant “misting”, as if we were all a bunch of potted plants; but the poor English weathermen kept trying to make it sound different each morning, employing nearly seventy-two synonyms for “wet”, and reporting every lull, no matter how brief (“evening showers, followed by morning dry spell, with afternoon rain, and light drizzle in the evening, with storms developing at daybreak”) all in the Herculean attempt to vary the forecast, so that the good citizens of Great Britain wouldn’t shoot themselves in despair, but instead feel that we were all slogging our way toward a sunnier tomorrow.

“You look nice,” Jeremy commented appreciatively as we drove off. “Like a self-assured woman of the world, except for that expression you’re wearing, which is of someone being carted off to the Tower of London.”

“Actually, I feel like I’m about to meet the Queen in
Alice in Wonderland
, the one who kept saying ‘Off with her head!’” I admitted.

Jeremy said reflectively, “Yeah, that’s about right.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “That’s mightily reassuring.” I had good reason to feel apprehensive. After all, this was the woman who’d kicked her own daughter—Jeremy’s mother—out of the house when she got pregnant without the benefit of marriage. Margery’s husband had been alive then, but the pair of them wouldn’t give Aunt Sheila any financial support, despite all the money they had to burn. So she was left to fend for herself and her baby Jeremy, all alone.

Eventually, however, Aunt Sheila did get married, to a relative of mine, no less. My Uncle Peter, mom’s brother. He adopted Jeremy and raised him to be such a good, posh Englishman that, one day, round about Jeremy’s tenth birthday, Margery finally woke up to the fact that she had an intelligent grandson on track to go to Oxford. She began taking an interest then, which was a mixed blessing for Jeremy. Suddenly, the grandmother who’d wished he’d never been born, and who was still quite chilly toward his mother, was now summoning him to visit her on birthdays (hers), graduations (his), and Christmases (very tense, with his mother being treated as a black sheep).

“I always felt it was my job to please Margery. I thought if only I could, then she’d love Mum more,” Jeremy once confessed to me. “It never worked, so I thought I must do better on the next visit.”

 

 

Remembering this, I gazed at him tenderly, thinking of what a stoic kid he’d been. Plus, he’d acted so gallantly with my French relatives, gamely going out and shooting and doing whatever it took to ensure that a friendly bond was created with them. So, I was determined not to make this any more difficult for him with Grandmother Margery.

He caught my glance, smiled and said, “Just be yourself, darling. I know that you will triumph over all my sorry relations. The trick I’ve learned with my grandmother is, just don’t tell her anything you really care about, and you’ll be fine.”

“Marvellous,” I replied. “Be yourself, but then again, don’t.”

By now Jeremy was busy negotiating with London traffic. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, glancing into the rearview mirror. “That wanker’s been tailgating me the whole way. Look round for a parking space, will you? That’s the house, on the corner, and I don’t want this idiot to beat me to a spot if it becomes available. Which it never will, at this hour.”

“Just hover until somebody goes out of one,” I advised. Jeremy pulled aside, forcing the tailgater to go on without him. Miraculously, within minutes, a man came down the steps of a nearby building, flashed his keys, climbed into a car and drove off. “That was lucky,” I said. “But then again, maybe not. Now we really do have to go in, and face-the-music-and-dance.”