Look Beyond What You See
Wedding Plans

Lady Berkeley’s drawing room, otherwise known as Zinaida’s favourite place in the mansion, is truly a terror to behold. The room is entirely decorated in pale pinks and purples, from the carnation petal ceiling to the lilac-strewn floor. The walls are wisteria and pink roses interlocked in a forever repeating pattern, and the few windows hide behind pink tulip curtains that exactly match the upholstery of all of her overstuffed furniture. Pink lace and wispy pink chiffon ruffles adorn virtually everything as well. I bite my lip to keep from hissing like a cat at this most offensive interior, and Dmitri has to subtly push me into the room. It makes my skin crawl with its overdone femininity. My wedding will not look like this.

“Welcome, my darlings! Thank you for coming so quickly on such short notice,” Zinaida coos, Russian accent thick, as she rises from a chair by the fireplace, where a fire is lit; this chamber is more oppressively stuffy than ever my own were. Now I know the origin of this ridiculous practice of lighting indoor fires in June.

“We could never refuse your invitation, Mother,” Dmitri replies, only slightly sarcastic. She is not listening to him and so this goes unnoticed. Her attention has been stolen by the parade of servants marching into her drawing room laden with fabric samples, flowers, food samples, pictures of cake designs, pictures of designs for our attire, and so on. Half a dozen men of God in their ceremonial robes trail at the end of the procession, all with somewhat dour expressions.

“I intend that this afternoon we shall resolve all the particulars regarding your upcoming wedding,” Zinaida continues brightly. Her chief of personal staff, a stick-like old woman with skin wrinkled as a prune’s and a mouth puckered as though it were full of lemon juice, directs the movements of the procession’s members so as to arrange them throughout the room. This effeminate prison is much larger than I thought. Everyone and everything seems to fit with relative comfort. The temperature in here will soon be stifling, with so many bodies so closely kept and no air circulation whatsoever. I pray this ends quickly.

“All of them, Mother? Surely that will take more time than what we have before supper,” Dmitri remarks.

“Pish-posh. I really already have most of it done. You and Aerys simply must confirm my decisions. Where do you want to start? I think the church decorations would be the best place to start--”

“Have we even a venue yet? And what do you mean, we have only to confirm your decisions? Is this now your wedding? I was under the impression that you and Wesley were quite happily wed with a lovely gallant son,” I interrupt, using the sickly sweet honey and arsenic tone my grandmother used with me immediately prior to my departure from her summer chateau. Zinaida flinches and reddens. Dmitri shoots me a glance that says I’ve already overstepped the line of propriety. Oops.

“Of course we have a venue. There’s simply no question about it. You’ll be married in the family chapel. It’s at the end of the West Wing. Surely you’ve taken her to see it, Dmitri? A lovely place it is, though in the Anglican and not the Russian Orthodox style.... Truly, there is nothing better than the Russian Orthodox style, but Lord Berkeley flatly refused to permit such a cathedral to be built here.”

“And how looks the interior of this chapel? I have not been to see it, myself. Whenever my family deigned to visit a chapel, it was always a Catholic establishment, ours being a French family, and as such I have no idea quite what to expect.” This intelligence causes Zinaida to purse her lips in disapproval.

“Yes, one of the few things to which we objected in your upbringing. No matter. Trina, dear, do bring me those paintings of the inside of the chapel. Aerys wants to see them.” The sour-faced chief of Zinaida’s staff brings forth a few small, framed canvasses that show in images lackluster compared to those I’ve seen of Dmitri’s the interior of the chapel. I am not disappointed except in the quality of the paintings, which is in itself a surprise; indeed, I find the place quite pleasing. “Now, darlings, I was thinking that your wedding theme colours would be light pink and dark blue, and the decorations would be dark blue fabric and pink carnations and roses. Antoine has some renderings of my idea. Bring them here, that’s a good lad. Look here, around the altar we’ll have....” Zinaida babbles on and on, but I’ve stopped listening, growing unbearably angry at the nerve of this woman. Every woman should be able to dictate how her own wedding looks, even if her marriage is arranged. Dmitri’s face is impassive and he appears to at least be listening to his mother. Is no one to save me from this? Must things really work this way? No. Things do not have to be this way. But I shall have to save myself.

“Enough,” I interject with a voice like a knife blade. Zinaida cuts herself short mid-word and stares at me, unable to believe that I’ve been so bold. “I truly appreciate your hard work in doing so much planning for us, but I cannot accept the majority of these ideas. A wedding is a very special event, ideally a once-in-a-lifetime occasion, and as such the bride and groom of each wedding should be able to make all of the decisions regarding it. You have already chosen for us each other, a wedding date, and a venue. I beg you, please leave the remaining details to our own devices.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Mother,” Dmitri agrees, his eyes glowing with unmistakeable pride as he looks at me. “Aerys and I should be able to choose our own decorations and the man of God to marry us, and the menu for the reception, and the service to be used, and all the other little details of the wedding. You should rest. I’m sure pulling all of this together has been quite a strain for you.”

“I take it that you’ve taken offence at my selections for the wedding?” Zinaida huffs.

“Mother, I will not be caught dead wearing a light pink bow tie and vest, especially on my wedding day.”

Zinaida does not find this remark as humorous as I do. I hide my snickers behind a ladylike hand.

“I propose that our wedding theme be centred around the joining of our ruling elements, the mixing of fire and water,” I suggest with a crafty gleam in my eye. Dmitri’s eyes light up at the thought. Flames seem to dance in them.

“Perfect! You are brilliant, my dear.”

“And how do you propose to arrange such themes in your attire and decorations?” Zinaida sneers. “One cannot wear fire and water, nor adorn a chapel with them.”

“Lady Berkeley, I am not certain that you are aware of your son’s extraordinary artistic talent, but having seen some of his work, I can assure you that such things are indeed possible. We must simply mix colours and be creative with light.”

“All the flowers, for example, will be in varying shades of red, orange, and yellow, and they should have gilt ribbons woven amongst them to catch the light,” Dmitri elaborates in a decisive tone, motioning for a nearby manservant to start taking down notes. The manservant steals a quill from Zinaida’s writing desk and hurriedly begins scribbling notes down on the backs of the renderings of Zinaida’s ideas for chapel decorations. “And the fabric decorations should be woven together from every possible shade of blue, grey, and silver.”

“Your gentlemen will wear fire-themed suits, and my ladies will wear water-themed dresses, perhaps water goddess costumes,” I add, sharing a wink with Dmitri, who seems to greatly appreciate the joke.

“Of course. I trust you’ll pick something sufficiently flattering for each of them. You have impeccable taste.” This compliment is meant, I am certain, to spite his mother by indicating, contrary to her own very strong (and not unreasonable) belief that I am a failure as a lady, that my taste is superior to her own.

“Why, thank you, Charming. I’m so glad someone thinks so. Now, what were you thinking for the floor covering in the chapel?”

“A river, of course. There’ll be fire enough from all of the candles and torches and the like for light.”

“Will you paint one, or shall we make it somehow?”

“Why not have a real one?”

“There I must draw the line!” Zinaida protests. “Your creativity is admirable, I’m sure, but it cannot be boundless! I’ll not have you flooding the chapel on your wedding day! Of all the unreasonable ideas--”

“Mother, please, it was only a joke. I certainly had no desire to upset you so. Perhaps we had best call it quits for today. I’m afraid you’re most terribly overwrought. Trina, please put Lady Berkeley to bed, and fetch her something soothing to drink. All of her hard work deserves a vacation.” Trina quickly moves to honour Dmitri’s diplomatic request, which Zinaida cannot rightly refuse, given its extreme propriety and show of concern. Dmitri waits until his mother has been successfully removed to her bedchamber before turning to the rest of the staff. “Right, enough nonsense. Decorators and couturiers, take Antoine’s notes on our ideas for the wedding and begin a new set of renderings, full colour. I want them in my chambers for review tomorrow directly after luncheon. Chefs, please send a copy of my mother’s menu for the reception to my suite immediately. Aerys and I will send you our changes in the morning. Holy Fathers, would you all be able to schedule interviews with me sometime in the next week?” I cannot help admiring him more than ever as I watch him take charge of the fiasco that was our wedding plans. I’m quite amazed that we’ve managed to turn it around so well. And I am awed by his skill in diplomacy. He is indeed my equal in this game, which I see as nothing less than a challenge.

Somehow, I do not think I could tolerate a husband with a wit and acting skill less than equal to my own. I have indeed been blessed. Still the question of love lingers in my mind. No matter how much I admire him at this particular instant, he is still the only man I’ve ever known beyond the acquaintanceship between myself and male servants or the kinship between myself and my brothers, brother-in-law, and father.

How do I know that this is the right thing?

Does it even matter? I don’t have a choice, do I?

Do I want one?

***~O~***

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