The Silent Bride by Leslie Glass Page B

Fenton.
"But you liked the Angels' wedding, Anthony?"
"The violets were lovely." All two thousand bunches of them, all flown in from Africa. No more need be said.
"Yes, we thought so, too," Mrs. Hay said.
Anthony knew a great deal about weddings, funerals, engagement parties, et cetera, because his services were often requested for events requiring strict attention to detail in the moving around, announcing, and making comfortable of important guests. Claire Angel, now Collins, and all her twelve bridesmaids, who'd been dressed like something out of A Midsummer Night's Dream with crowns of fresh violets and gowns of tulle layered over lace over an array of sorbet-colored satins, had not stopped with the four-letter words and the inelegant cursing from the moment she'd gotten engaged. Her verbiage had been a scandal.
Anthony couldn't imagine how the young gentleman could put up with her prewedding, much less the rest of his blinking life. Bad behavior in a bride was unconscionable, Anthony thought. Still, the flowers had been delightful. Louis had found wild-flowers out of season, and the guests had raved.
He glanced at Pru in the mirror. She'd turned out a beauty, after all, but was now chewing savagely on the side of her thumb. Recently she'd started mangling her cuticles so badly that the skin was ripped to shreds and her fingers bled. He knew she was nervous as a cat about getting hitched forever to boring Thomas. He caught her eye and she looked quickly away.
"I don't know what's the matter with Wendy. I've called her a dozen times this morning and she just isn't picking up/' she said irritably.
"Don't worry. We'll see her at the fitting." Mrs. Hay had a certain tone for talking to her daughter. A combination of soothing and wheedling that always set Pru off.
"I have concerns. I want to talk to her now!"
Pru had to be managed. Lucinda managed her.
"Now, Pru, you know we'll get through this. Right here is fine, Anthony," she told him, as if he didn't know where to stop for Tang Ling's.
Anthony did not park in front of the Tang Ling store to wait for the Hay women to emerge. Instead, he drove the Bentley down Park Avenue and around to the St. Regis Hotel. As soon as he slowed to a stop, the doorman leaned in the car's open passenger window.
"Oh, Anthony, there you are. Ready for the big day?"
"Hello, George. We're working on it." Anthony knew some of the staff at the St. Regis because Mr. Hay and Terence drank at the bar there. Over the years he'd sat in this position chatting with this and other doormen for many happy hours. "You're not going to have any problem with the cars on Saturday now, are you?" he asked.
"None at all." George was an old-timer on the post. He gave the driver a knowing smile. "Are they taking rooms here or dressing at the apartment?"
"The apartment, but we'll leave the car here during the ceremony. They'll need me there, of course. As soon as they exchange vows, I'll run up to get it. Should be about noon, maybe twelve-thirty. You mind if I leave it here now for a few?"
"No problem." George was never unhappy with the maroon Bentley at his curb.
Anthony closed the window, dropped his gloves and chauffeur's hat on the front seat. Then he got out, sniffing disdainfully at the bloomed-out spring flowers in the window boxes. He'd have to have a word with Mrs. Hay about it.
"How long will you be, then?" George asked.
Anthony checked his watch. It was eleven-nineteen. "Ten, maybe twelve minutes."
"Good-oh."
Anthony patted the car as if parting from an old friend. He walked briskly to Fifth Avenue and down the few blocks to St. Patrick's Cathedral. There, he skipped up the steps to the side door on Fifty-first Street. The door was locked, and he wondered if security had been beefed up since the attack on the cardinal during a Mass a few months ago.
"The front entrance is open," a thin priest standing nearby chatting with an old lady called out, and waved him toward Fifth.
"Thank you, Father." Anthony