TIES THAT BIND

Summer

With the bride and groom too nervous, and her parents unsuited to conversation with strangers, Ellen found herself the unofficial greeter of all the guests who had come to witness the long-awaited wedding of William Whitfield to Harriet Kirk. There were more than initially expected, and the little church in Richmond would be filled almost to capacity with friends, family and William’s colleagues at the bank. Ellen thought it fitting that so many were there for a wedding that might never have happened if not for William’s constancy and Harriet’s dedication to proving herself worthy of it. The trials the couple had faced had only made their commitment stronger; when their vows were spoken, they would be but a confirmation of promises already made.

Ellen had just finished greeting several of Harriet’s schoolfriends when a more familiar woman swept in through the church door. Her lavender dress was an abundance of lace and tiny pearl buttons, gathered at the back into one of the largest bustles that Ellen had ever seen. Her fair hair was curled to perfection and topped with a bonnet that looked to be made from the same silk as her dress, adorned with two enormous ostrich feathers dyed a startling shade of pink.

‘Adelaide!’ Ellen cried, stepping forward to meet her.

Adelaide pulled her into a tight embrace. ‘You look well,’ she said, and Ellen took it for the great compliment that it was. Her own dress was much plainer: a light silk in deference to the scorching heat outside and boasting little in the way of ornamentation, but cut well enough to earn Adelaide’s approval, even if she’d never dream of wearing such a thing herself.

‘It’s so good to see you, Adelaide.’

‘And you, my friend.’ She stepped aside to allow the cluster of people behind her into the church. ‘You know my father? And this is my mother, my brother…and Mr Moorehouse.’

Ellen had met Albert Forsyth in his role as the manager of William’s bank, but his square face seemed softer, somehow, with his wife upon his arm. As for Mr Moorehouse…Ellen thought she and Adelaide would have much to talk about when they saw each other again.

No sooner had the Forsyths gone in search of a pew than Annie and Frances arrived. Ellen embraced them in turn before taking the hand of an unfamiliar woman she assumed was Frances’ aunt. When Ellen had finally found out where Annie and Frances were staying and called on them, she learned that Frances had replied to her aunt’s letter not long after leaving the house. Lydia Mulligan was extremely remorseful for the way she had wronged her sister, Frances said, and was keen to prove herself changed. The fact that Frances had brought her today spoke of the progress that aunt and niece had made.

Annie, too, seemed stronger—still wearing mourning for her husband but no longer bowed by her grief. Her smile when she greeted Ellen was brighter than any other Ellen had seen her wear.

Seeing that the flood of guests had slowed to a trickle, Grace slid from her seat beside Caroline and joined Ellen at the door. ‘It’s finally happening,’ she said.

‘It is.’ Ellen let their hands brush together, nourished by even the slightest touch of skin upon skin. ‘I’ll see them off at the station this afternoon, then bring the last few things to the house.’

She thought of Margaret, as she always did when contemplating the future. Ellen had been visiting Grace at the Victoria Coffee Palace on the day Caroline took delivery of a thick envelope; she had watched as Caroline opened it, pulled out a wad of folded pages and skimmed the words written on the first page. She saw the moment Caroline’s face crumpled and her eyes began to brim with tears.

‘Mam?’ Grace went to her, crouching beside her mother’s chair so that she could place a calming hand on her arm. ‘What is it, Mam?’

Caroline shook her head, letting the paper fall from her hand into her lap. ‘It’s Margaret,’ she said, her voice strange and very small. ‘She’s dead. In the asylum. Dead…and she left everything she owned to me.’

Grace’s voice dispelled the memory. ‘They finished work on the windows yesterday,’ she said, ‘so our bedroom will be ready whenever you come.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want your attic room back?’ Ellen teased.

‘In this heat?’ Grace grinned but her eyes held deeper meaning. ‘I’d rather share with you.’

When William and Harriet returned from their honeymoon in Bendigo, they would live in the cottage in Richmond. Ellen’s piano and her most prized possessions had been sent ahead to Margaret Plumstead’s crumbling home—now considerably less dangerous after a number of structural repairs. Margaret’s death had been ruled a heart attack, but Ellen knew her heart had been broken much earlier, when the things she had done to keep her new family together resulted only in the church being torn apart. Margaret would have been pleased, Ellen knew, to see everyone reunited for the wedding—a wedding that would not have been possible without that same devastating turn of events.

‘No second thoughts?’ Grace asked.

Ellen would miss her little cottage, but it would always be a second home to her while William and Harriet lived there. She pictured the life that lay before her: days spent in the parlour with Prince at her feet and Grace by her side; caring for Grace, while Grace cared for her mother; retiring at night to Margaret’s old bedroom and waking to the sight of Grace’s sleep-smoothed face…

‘Not one,’ she said, looping her arm through Grace’s.

The first chord rang from the church organ. It was time for the wedding to begin.