7 October.-Harriet came to see me before starting for Oxford-very nice to me. I think she will give Peter all he wants-yes, I really do. If anybody can… Felt depressed, all the same, for nearly half an hour… Later on, while coping with preparations for wedding-breakfast-all made more difficult by need for secrecy-interrupted by Peter on phone, gone suddenly all fractious because it had rained in the night and roads would be slippery, and convinced Harriet would have a skid and be killed on way to Oxford. Begged him not to behave like a half-wit and said, if he wanted healthy occupation he could come and help Emily wash all the ornaments out of drawing-room cabinets. He didn’t come-but Jerry did, in high spirits at idea of being best man, and broke a Dresden shepherdess.
Later.-Peter and Jerry got (thank goodness!) safely out of the way to Oxford. Preparations completed and all wished-for guests summoned and transport arranged for the impecunious… In evening, furious trunk-call from Helen at Denver, having had wire from Peter and demanding what we meant by inconsiderate behaviour. Took great pleasure in telling her (at considerable length and her expense) nothing to thank but her own tactlessness.
8 October.-Peter’s wedding-day. Too exhausted to do more than put down that it all went off very well. H. looked genuinely lovely, like a ship coming into harbour with everything shining and flags flying at wherever modern ships do fly flags-Peter terribly white, poor darling, like the day he had his first watch, and could hardly bear himself for fear it would come to pieces in his hands or turn out not to be real, or something-but he pulled himself together to be specially nice to all the guests (believe if he were in Inquisition he would exert social talents to entertain executioners)… Got back to Town at 5.30 (Peter’s face a study when he realised he had to go 60 miles over crowded roads in a closed car with somebody else driving!-but one really couldn’t let him drive H. back in the open Daimler, all in wedding-garments and a top-hat!)… Got them smuggled out of the house at a quarter to 7-Bunter was waiting for them with the car on the far side of the Park…
11 p.m. Hope all is really well with them-must stop now and try to get some sleep or shall be a rag in the morning. Find The Stars Look Down not quite soothing enough for a bed-book-will fall back on Through the Looking-Glass.
Chapter I. New-Wedded Lord
“I agree with Dryden, that ‘Marriage is a noble daring’-”
– Samuel Johnson: Table Talk.
Mr Mervyn Bunter, patiently seated in the Daimler on the far side of Regent’s Park, reflected that time was getting on. Packed in eiderdowns in the back of the car was a case containing two and a half dozen of vintage port, and he was anxious about it. Great speed would render the wine undrinkable for a fortnight; excessive speed would render it undrinkable for six months. He was anxious about the arrangements-or the lack of them-at Talboys. He hoped everything would be found in good order when they arrive-otherwise, his lady and gentleman might get nothing to eat till goodness knew when. True, he had brought ample supplies from Fortnum’s, but suppose there were no knives or forks or plates available? He wished he could have gone ahead, as originally instructed, to see to things. Not but what his lordship was always ready to put up with what couldn’t be helped; but it was unsuitable that his lordship should be called on to put up with anything-besides, the lady was still, to some extent, an unknown factor. What his lordship had had to put up with from her during the past five or six years, only his lordship knew, but Mr Bunter could guess.
True, the lady seemed now to be in a very satisfactory way of amendment; but it was yet to be ascertained what her conduct would be under the strain of trivial inconvenience. Mr Bunter was professionally accustomed to judge human beings by their behaviour, not in great crises, but in the minor adjustments of daily life. He had seen one lady threatened with dismissal from his lordship’s service (including all emoluments and the enjoyment of an appartement meublé, Ave. Kleber) for having, in his presence, unreasonably lost her temper with a lady’s maid; but wives were not subject to peremptory dismissal. Mr Bunter was anxious also about how things were going at the Dowager’s; he did not really believe that anything could be suitably organised or carried out without his assistance. He was unspeakably relieved to see the taxi arrive and to assure himself that there was no newspaper man perched on the spare wheel, or lurking in a following vehicle.
‘Here we are, Bunter. All serene? Good man. I’ll drive. Sure you won’t be cold, Harriet?’
Mr Bunter tucked a rug about the bride’s knees.
‘Your lordship will bear in mind that we are conveying the port?’
‘I will go as gingerly as if it were a baby in arms. What’s the matter with the rug?’
‘A few grains of cereal, my lord. I have taken the liberty of removing approximately a pound and three-quarter from among the hand-luggage, together with a quantity of assorted footgear.’
“That must have been Lord Saint-George,’ said Harriet.
‘Presumably so, my lady.’
‘My lady’-she had never really thought it possible that Bunter would accept the situation. Everybody else, perhaps but not Bunter. Yet apparently he did. And that being so, the incredible must have happened. She must be actually married to Peter Wimsey. She sat looking at Peter, as the car twisted smoothly in and out of the traffic. The high, beaked profile and the long hands laid on the wheel had been familiar to her for a long time now; but they were suddenly the face and hands of a stranger. (Peter’s hands, holding the keys of hell and heaven… that was the novelist’s habit, of thinking of everything in terms of literary allusions.
‘Peter!’
‘My dear?’
‘I was just wondering whether I should recognise your voice-your face seems to have got rather remote, somehow.’
She saw the corner of his long mouth twitch. ‘Not quite the same person?’