The Spanish Marriage by Madeleine Robins Page B

was something in the quality of those tears that
frightened Thea, as there was in the way that Silvy’s thin, tired hands clutched
at the skirt of the wedding dress and stroked Thea’s face. For ten
minutes Thea sat, arms about Silvy’s shoulders, neither saying a word,
the older woman weeping while the younger sat, helpless.
    Finally Silvy pulled away and made a pretense at daubing at
her tears. “It is time for you to go down to the Chapel and say a prayer
before Mass, hija.” She pushed Thea’s arm away and made her
stand up. “Go on. And Dorotea?” Her eyes filmed over again but she
did not cry. “You know you have my blessing in this. This life....”
She made a small, inclusive gesture with one hand. “This is a good life
for a woman, if it is the right life for her, niña. God put woman on
Earth—you must take the chance—if you are lucky, someday you will
be a mother, as I never was, except to you!” The tears began again. Thea
only half attended: the bells had begun to ring, summoning the community to Mass
and herself to be married. Silvy was saying something important, but Thea had
not the attention to understand it now.
    “I’ll be good, Silvy, I promise I will,”
she mumbled finally, the old promise of her schoolroom days. Silvy looked at
her charge and smiled now, a little grimly.
    “Of course you will, niña. Are you not
Ibañez-de Silva? And Cannowen,” she added before Thea could do so. “Go
on. Sister Scholastica will help me down to the Chapel.”
    Of the wedding itself Thea remembered little later: bits of the
Mass; the color of the sun on brass candlesticks that glowed on the altar; the
soft rustle of the nuns’ habits as they knelt and stood and knelt again;
Mother Beatriz’s smile when she brought her to the altar; Matlin’s
long, pale face and the cool touch of his hand when he took hers. Father
Anselmo prompted their responses; she heard her own voice and Matlin’s.
Then, as simply as that, they were married.
    Under the appreciative eyes of the Sisters, Silvy, the townspeople,
Matlin bent and kissed Thea, a quick, fleeting touch, then tucked her hand into
his arm and led her from the church. She realized then that she had been
trembling. Married. I am truly married, she thought. Under her lashes
she looked sideways at Matlin, but before she could savor the idea Silvy was
there, and the nuns, each demanding an embrace before they went to the
breakfast that had been laid in the courtyard.
    An hour later, when they had eaten as much as they could,
Matlin murmured something to the Mother Superior.
    “Yes, you are right,” she replied. “Dorotea,
it is time that you changed into your travelling clothes.”
    Thea was bundled away for the last time to the small, cool cell
in the guest house, to dress in a full, dark skirt and jacket, the shawl about
her shoulders ready to be placed over her pale, curling hair. The rest of her
peasant clothes and her own small pile of belongings had been wrapped securely
in another shawl and her English gowns distributed to the girls in the village.
She carried her bundles down the stairs and stepped into the white midday light
of the courtyard. Matlin was securing parcels and a basket filled with cheese,
sausage, beans, and bread to one of the two mules they had been given.
    “You’ll want to make your farewells.” He
sauntered off to chat with Manuel. Turning to face Silvy, Mother Beatriz, the
other women with whom she had lived for almost four months, Thea was
speechless. There was a flurry of embraces, a few words from Mother Beatriz,
and a final embrace from Silvy, who seemed able only to murmur distractedly.
Thea thought how thin Silvy had grown, so insubstantial it seemed as if she
were hardly there at all. “Make sure they take care of you, Silvy,”
she said fiercely.
    “Me? You be careful, Dorotea, and make sure
that man does nothing dangerous while you are travelling. I want you safe. Be
happy.”
    “I will...” Thea