The likeness of the finished portrait was good. Lilian’s dark eyes were as warm on the paper as in life, though her brow shadowed them more in the drawing, her hair had its fuzzy, loose halo. But she was disturbed to see how her hands had been rendered — only a few strokes, but they suggested something disturbing — one pressed to her rib in a defensive way, the other clutching her skirt.

I call this, said Monsieur Troyat in his monotone, the Bride-to-Be.

32 • The drumming of rain

32 • The drumming of rain

THEY’D COME to Scotland for their honeymoon. Being early in October the days were growing shorter and the evening air had an extra chill to it which Lilian found delicious. In the mornings the glass between the lead panes was dewed over and the countryside behind a green and brown blur. From where they sat in the breakfast room of the hotel, they could see the trees and bushes in the morning sunlight. Rain left large drops on the branches and they sparkled pink and yellow. Lilian remarked how the whole world had turned charming on their account.

The wedding had happened in a trance, the bridesmaids in blue with darker blue velvet hats, Lilian in the simplicity of satin. Gilbert stood soft-shouldered at the end of the altar — the moment she’d entered King’s Chapel was frozen in her mind — and when she saw him she thought, He will always be in my life. The girls were all arrayed — Jane’s stick-thin arms poking out of the blue velvet sleeves, Dolly turned back to look at the guests, her dark head in two shiny parts, her eyes vivid. Irene smiled wanly, her lost face floating above the long neck. Marian rearranged the chrysanthemums in her bouquet to her satisfaction, and Sis stood at the end, in wobbly shoes. Down next to Gilbert was his brother Winn who, having been through this already, felt himself an old hand. She could see the back of her mother’s head, the twisted coil of hair beneath her hat, the dangling pearls, then when she turned her face, her mother’s expression of having stumbled in upon this scene and finding it lovely. In the pew behind was Hildy in a simple hat, her head bowed as if the grand spectacle were too much to bear. Across the aisle was the solitary round figure of Dr. Finch, hands clasped to the small of his back, chin lifted, waiting for the ceremony to commence and be over. He had little tolerance for social events.