The Honeymoon (42 page)

On Tuesday they took the train down to Weybridge, and Willie, Mary, and Eleanor were there at the station to
greet them. They looked puzzled at this unexpected visit in the middle of the week.

“I have wonderful news,” Johnnie said. “Marian and I are going to be married!”

He stood there beaming, but the three siblings were silent. She saw a frown on Mary’s face, as if somehow she didn’t understand what he was saying. Willie was unsmiling. At last, Eleanor, round little Eleanor, flung herself on Marian and hugged her. “Sister! We can call you ‘sister’ now!”

Then Mary stepped forward, smiling gravely. “I’ve always wished you could be my sister,” she said, uncertainly, and embraced Marian.

Willie said nothing, as if he were calculating something.

“Willie?” Johnnie asked. “Aren’t you going to congratulate us?”

Willie hesitated. Then he said quietly, “It’s a bit of a surprise.”

“But aren’t you happy for us?” Johnnie asked exultantly. “You never thought it would happen, did you?”

“No,” said Willie. She wondered for a moment why Willie had never thought it would happen. Then he too came forward and kissed Marian on the cheek. “Marian,” he said stiffly. “I wish you every joy.”

They gave them lunch. Eleanor and Mary now seemed delighted by the news. Willie smiled, but was still muted and withdrawn. On the way back to London on the train, she said to Johnnie, “Willie didn’t seem very happy about us.”

“He’s just a solemn fellow. He’s got no sense of humor. He looks down on me as his younger brother. And I’m getting married before him. Hah!”

When they got back to the Priory, Charley was waiting, stalwart and kind. “
Mutter
, I’m so happy for you,” he said, and gave her a vigorous hug. “But I’m not letting Albert Druce give you away. That’s
my
honor.”

They set the wedding date for May 6, three weeks hence. There was a rush of things to do, new wills to be drawn up. Johnnie had no need for her money, he was very rich in his own right. She left five thousand pounds to her niece, Emily Clarke, Chrissey’s daughter, and a hundred-pound annuity to Cara Bray. She provided for Bertie’s widow, Eliza, and for the servants. The rest of her estate and her royalties would go to “my son, Charley Lewes,” the only one of George’s sons remaining. Johnnie’s estate would go to Albert’s children, Eliot and Elsie, since there’d be no children from this marriage.

Johnnie was consumed with the arrangements. They’d honeymoon in Europe and return to England in late summer to the Heights. There was the renovation of the house on Cheyne Walk to attend to. It all had to be completed and ready by December, when they’d move back to London from the country for good.

Johnnie decreed that the entire place had to be gutted and new plumbing installed. He hired the decorator George Faulkner Armitage from Manchester to redo it. “I’m happy to leave it to you,” she told Johnnie. “I’m afraid that sort of thing bores me. I just like to enjoy the results.” All she cared about was that it be finished and orderly so that when they returned from the honeymoon she could settle in and get to work. She could feel the new novel growing in her
now, needing to be written. It made her happy and tense, as if there was a new being in her demanding to be born.

“I’m worried that the books be properly arranged,” she said, “so I can get to them quickly.” She’d begun to put them in the chronological order of her possible story, books on weaponry, domestic spying, military tribunals. If they were disarranged now, her new, fragile structure might collapse.

Mr. Armitage, a small, serious Scotsman, suggested bookcases with molded cornices. “I’ll draw up some sketches,” he said. “And designs for wallpaper, perhaps a flower motif, pink and pale cream.”

“I want everything light and cheerful,” Johnnie said. “With a Gothic theme, perhaps, but not dark and heavy.”

Then there was the matter of her trousseau. Mary and Eleanor suggested Madame La France’s on Battle Square, where their sister, Anna Druce, had gone for her trousseau. It was an elegant little shop with damask walls and gilded mirrors. They were served tea while Madame La France, who was actually Polish, a wizened little woman with a humpback and a tape measure around her neck, showed them sketches and had her girls model dresses for them.

First, the wedding dress. “Something quiet, I think,” Marian said tentatively.

“But not black,” Eleanor said. “You absolutely cannot wear your usual dreary old black, Marian.” Eleanor was the most enthusiastic of the sisters about all these details. She wanted desperately to marry herself, but had no suitors yet. For now, these arrangements for Marian’s wedding would have to suffice.

“Perhaps lavender?” Marian said. “After all, I’m a widow. It’s a second marriage. It shouldn’t be too celebratory.”

“But it’s a happy occasion,” Mary reminded her quietly.

“Something with black lace, at least?” Marian said. “As a sign that I’m a widow.”

Madame La France barked at her assistant, “Bring out that lavender satin, dear.”

A young girl twirled around in front of them in a lavender satin gown trimmed with dark blue lace. The dress was dignified, the color muted, but not too solemn.

“I suppose it will do,” Marian said.

Next, there must be a dress for special events. She chose the pale green silk with tiny flowers embroidered on it, trimmed with orange braid. The pale green was kind to her sallow skin and brought out whatever color there was in her cheeks. The little embroidered flowers fascinated her with their perfection and intricacy. She felt a surge of enjoyment at this women’s stuff that had never engaged her before. She gave herself permission to indulge, to enjoy it.

On to Harrod’s, to Heilbronner’s, Bon Marché, and Harvey Nichols to buy hats, nightclothes, underthings. As she and the two sisters examined the nightgowns and the chemises and the muslin drawers with their little silk ribbons in the waist to tie them, she felt constrained. They were his sisters, and when she realized what they must be thinking, picturing their brother seeing her in these undergarments, she wilted. Still, the buying of new undergarments was part of the marriage rite, wasn’t it?

The wedding night? She shouldn’t wear a white nightgown — she was hardly a virgin. White would make it seem as if she were pretending to be one. There was a long nightgown of ecru satin, with a low neck and little sleeves trimmed with lace, and she chose that, with the negligee
to match. Ecru was appropriate for a woman who’d already had a lover, but was coming to a man with a fresh, new love for him.

She must choose the most alluring things she could find, for there was always the possibility that he would catch sight of her by accident — or perhaps on purpose — and she should be prepared. And then perhaps the delicate ecrus and pinks clinging to her, with their promise of what was hidden beneath, would make him overlook her aging body.

Such moments of excitement crowded out her fears, but the excitement itself frightened her. She spent as much money as she wanted, giving herself for the first time, at the age of sixty, the gift of the rites and rituals of a bride, nightgowns and chemises trimmed with lace, new dresses. She did it blindly.

In those rare instances of quiet when there wasn’t business to attend to, it all overwhelmed her — what was she doing, marrying a man twenty years younger than she? There had been no physical connection, no long kiss even. Why did he want this? Whom could she ever discuss it with? No one. To question it now would be embarrassing. And if she told someone, perhaps Barbara, one of the few people she could trust, simply articulating her worries out loud would make them more real to her, more powerful. Though Barbara had championed Johnnie at the beginning, now that the wedding was actually coming to pass, she might try to talk Marian out of it. Barbara was a force to be reckoned with, hard to disobey. She realized now she didn’t want to be talked out of it.

As doubts played in her mind, she felt lonely. How could a virile young man accept the possibility of marriage without “the physical side”? And how could she go for the rest of her life without the comfort of someone’s arms around her in the night?

There was always something to interrupt these thoughts, a detail about the ceremony, the honeymoon, their hotel accommodations, arranging the boat and trains, Johnnie asking her approval. Perhaps this was why weddings were such a deliberate frenzy, they provided distraction for the bride and groom who’d taken a momentous decision, a public one that couldn’t be revoked without heartbreak and shame.

Sometimes during those three weeks before the wedding, she’d find Johnnie brooding, sitting back in his chair, and looking into the distance as if he hardly knew anyone else was in the room, and anxiety would seize her. Had he changed his mind? Did he regret the whole thing?

“Are you all right?” she’d ask him, and he’d come to, startled. “Yes, yes. Just a lot to do, that’s all. Making sure everything’s absolutely perfect.”

A few days before the wedding, she wrote notes to her closest friends, to Barbara, and to Mr. Holbeche, the solicitor who administered her father’s estate, telling them the news, but instructing Charley to post them only after she and Johnnie had left the country. She asked Mr. Holbeche to inform Isaac about the marriage. Isaac didn’t deserve to be told by Marian herself that she was now doing the proper thing, but she wanted him to know that at last she was “an honest woman.” She drew up a wedding announcement for the
Times
and instructed Charley to deliver it to the newspaper after they’d embarked on their honeymoon. It was not to be published until two days following their departure, when they were safely away from all the gossip.

On Thursday, May 6, at 9:30 in the morning, they arrived at St. George’s, Hanover Square. They made up a tiny party, Charley, Gertrude, Albert and Anna Druce, Willie, and the other sisters, gathered close to the altar, lost in the great church with its spacious nave and empty galleries and stone floors. All though the ceremony, she felt weightless, barely conscious of the proceedings. In the distance somewhere, the Reverend Capel Cure was saying, “I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know of any impediment, why you may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it …” Such angry words, as if this were the beginning of something final and painful, of death itself. There was no joy in them.

Holding her breath, closing her eyes, and plunging into the deep water was the only way she could do it. On either side of her, Johnnie and Charley held her arms, held her up. Johnnie, tall and elegant in his claret frock coat and cream silk cravat and waistcoat, looked firmly ahead at Capel Cure. She saw that his lips were trembling.

“Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband?” the Reverend asked.

“I will,” she uttered, in a bare whisper, her throat so dry she could hardly speak.

Finally, the blessing. “God the Father, God the son … that ye may so live together in this life …” She was in a trance, shutting it out, everyone embracing her now, Charley, and Eleanor, who longed so much to get married herself and who’d been excited by the whole process of the wedding more even than she had, austere Mary, and Anna Druce, and a vague hug from Willie. Albert, Johnnie’s other and perhaps more important “brother,” bent over her and kissed her. “Welcome to the family, Mrs. Cross,” he said with a smile, his voice as always soft and musical. She was completely passive. The Crosses, Charley and Johnnie, were bearing her along.

It had taken place, her first legal marriage, and a church wedding at that. Marian Evans Lewes was now legally Mrs. John Walter Cross. All those years with George, she’d stubbornly called herself Mrs. Lewes, intransigent in her deviance from convention, insisting that their union was all the more sacred because it was based only on love. Still, when the first opportunity at a legal union presented itself to her, she’d seized it and reversed her principles. This young man had wanted her. And now, at sixty years old, George Eliot was, at last, like other women.