The Brigadier's Daughter. Catherine March

replied the Brigadier through the door panel, in relieved tones. ‘But, Georgia, make sure you are downstairs in the hall at ten forty-five sharp, the carriage will be here then to take us to the church.’

      He moved on down the corridor to check on his other daughter, and when Sasha called out in a feeble whimper for him to enter, the Brigadier poked his head around the door with an alarmed exclamation.

      ‘Come along, Sasha, what on earth are you doing still in bed?’

      ‘Papa, I feel very unwell. I think I may have a fever, and look, a horrible rash.’ She pushed back the long sleeves of her nightgown and showed him her arms and neck.

      ‘Good Lord!’ He edged nervously away, half-closing the door. ‘Really, Sasha, how very inconvenient! As if we don’t have enough to worry about today, of all days.’ He sighed heavily, preoccupied with his father-of-the-bride duties. ‘We will send for Dr Symons later, but there’s just no time now. Stay in bed, and for goodness’ sake do stay away from your mother, you know how delicate she is.’

      ‘Yes, Papa,’ Sasha replied in a meek voice, as he began to close the door. ‘I’m so sorry, Papa.’

      The Brigadier grunted and went off, deciding to keep to himself Sasha’s condition, a frown creasing his brow as he went to his dressing room to sit with a brandy and the newspaper before his valet helped him don his best dress military jacket, striped breeches, leather belt and sword, and attached his medals. All he was most concerned with was getting Georgia to the church and married to that Bowen fellow—why did he have this nagging feeling that the girl was going to be contrary?

      As soon as the door had closed, Sasha threw back the bed covers and Polly came hurrying in from Georgia’s bedchamber. The maid began to help her into the bridal gown and when she was fully dressed, the veil secure, Sasha paused and looked at herself in the mirror. But she cringed, horrified at what she was about to do. She thanked the maid and then sent her to check the luggage was ready for removal to the ship, seeking a quiet moment in which to gather her thoughts, and to sit down at her writing desk and pen a note. For long moments, anxiously aware of the ticking clock, she stared at the blank sheet of cream paper, and then with a tremulous sigh set the pen’s nib to write, ‘Dearest Mama and Papa, please do not worry or be too angry, but…’ When she had finished, she folded the page and slipped it into an envelope, rising from the desk and looking about the room for a place to leave the note, where it would be found, but not too soon. Eventually she propped it on the mantelpiece, behind the gently ticking ornate gilt clock. It was twenty minutes before eleven o’clock and with a last glance about her bedroom she settled the veil over her face, leaving the room quickly before she changed her mind.

      The carriage conveyed them to the Church of St Ann at precisely five minutes before the bells of eleven o’clock began to peal. When they rumbled to a halt, Sasha stepped down from the carriage, assisted by her father and her two young sisters acting as bridesmaids. The heavy Spanish lace veil was indeed so thick that no one could see her face, but she could hardly see anything either. Her father was extremely smart in his dark green-and-gold Light Dragoons uniform, yet he was indistinct. She could not see more than a green shadow and she reached out blindly to take his arm as they mounted the steps of the church. She could hear the genteel tones of the organ music; when they came to a halt in the vast arched door way, her heart suddenly lurched and pounded very hard in rapid beats.

      This was it. She stood on the threshold of a moment—her life, and the life of everyone else involved in this marriage, was about to change in ways unimaginable.

      The organ paused for a moment, and then launched into Handel’s ‘Hornpipe in D Water Music’. Her father took a step forwards, and she followed, placing her feet slowly and carefully on the dark blue carpet, the congregation on either side a mere blur. That walk seemed the longest of her life and she wondered if it would ever end, but then at last her father halted, and she became aware of another taller, broader shape in a scarlet jacket, moving to stand at her side.

      Remembering the rehearsal a few days ago, Sasha turned to Philippa and handed her the bridal bouquet, a heavy and ornate arrangement of lilies, roses, ivy and forget-me-nots that made her arms ache and her nose tingle. She could feel a sneeze tickling in her nose and throat, the scent of all the flowers arranged in the church upsetting her already lavenderannoyed senses. As Captain Bowen reached out to take her left hand in his, she could not stem the succession of sneezes that erupted from her.

      The congregation were amused and sympathetic, murmuring gently with soft chuckles, yet Sasha was mortified. She felt the prickling heat of a red-hot blush sear her cheeks and she glanced up nervously to Captain Bowen. But she could not see his face, whether he was amused or annoyed at this lack of decorum, but fortunately the vicar had a pressing timetable and he launched at once into the ceremony.

      Sasha whispered the vows, flinching inwardly and praying that she would not be struck down by lightning as she professed to be Georgia Louisa Roberta, who promised that she would love, cherish, honour and obey Reid Peter Michael for all the days of her life until death parted them. At one point, as she sniffed and was tempted to wipe her nose with the back of her sleeve, her mama leaned forwards and pressed a lawn handkerchief into her hand. The vicar had to pause for a moment as the bride blew her nose, but then at last, to his relief and the Brigadier’s, he pronounced them man and wife. The final hymn was sung, the bride avoided being kissed by blowing her nose and reaching for her bouquet, and then they departed to the registry to sign the marriage document. Sasha scrawled Georgia’s name, albeit illegibly, and now considered it the right moment to swoon and make her escape.

      The Brigadier muttered darkly that his eldest girl was at home unwell and feared that it might be catching. Captain Bowen lifted his bride up from where she had collapsed on the stone floor, in a froth of shimmering white organza, silk and tulle, holding her in his arms and somewhat surprised at how small and light she felt as he carried her prostrate form from a side door of the church and out to a waiting carriage. He climbed in beside her and ordered the driver to take them at once to the docks at Tilbury. He feared that his wife’s family would insist that she was not well enough to travel, and he could not possibly afford to miss the sailing of the naval warship HMS Dorset