Nervous Nellie

Knuckles rapping on the carved redwood door prompted a muffled conversation of queries from within the bedroom followed by a single click of a lock allowing the slow turn of a brass knob. 

Wrought iron hinges, requesting an oil can to quiet their purpose, revealed half of a female countenance presenting one cornflower blue eye that sported an arched eyebrow reflecting suspicion. 

“Yes?”

“I wish to see the bride.”

The desire was relayed to the room’s second occupant. “This gentleman wishes to see the bride.”

The decision came swiftly and to the point. “No. It’s bad luck.” 

Creak. Click. Access denied. End of discussion. 

Scott stared at the abruptly shut door momentarily before knuckles repeated their knocking, resonating slightly more authority.

Click. Creak. The sentry’s cornflower blue eye with the dubious brow reappeared. 

“Yes?”

“It’s bad luck for the groom to see his bride before the wedding.” The eye simply blinked. Evidently, additional information was required. “Whereas, I believe I’m the best man.”

Clarification was conveyed. “This gentleman believes he’s the best man.” 

“Correct. He is indeed the best man.” Pause. “Who can’t see the bride.”

Creak. Click. Admittance blocked. Dialogue terminated. Muted giggles.

Scott’s chin dipped. Obviously, the game was afoot. Resilient knuckles of determination rapped the wooden barrier for the third time.

Click. Creak. The attendant’s cornflower blue eye donning a skeptical brow returned.

“Yes?”

“Please tell the young lady this gentleman who wishes to see her is, in fact, the bride’s cousin.”

The family tree’s branch was reported. “This gentleman is stating he’s, in fact, your cousin.”

“Yes. It is a fact. He’s my cousin.” Pause. “Who can’t see the bride.”

Creak. Click. Passage vetoed. Conversation concluded. Faint laughter.

Scott’s heavy sigh ended in a grin and shake of the head. Selecting a different approach, polite rapping knuckles gave way to a thumping fist imploring admittance.

Click. Creak. The maid of honor’s cornflower blue eye now possessed a hint of mischief.

“Yes?”

“Tell Freckles her Over-Zealous Protector of the Universe wishes to have a talk one last time before relinquishing his title of grandeur.”

“I see.” Announcement of the present royalty was given. “This gentleman proclaims he’s -” 

“Yes. I heard what the gentleman claims.” The faceless voice with a slight accent continued. “But, let’s be honest. You, sir, will never give up that title.” 

“True. But saying so might get me an audience with a very beautiful bride.”

Whispering, Teresa slipped past the ajar door and into the hallway. “Go talk. You’re a good distraction. She’s getting the Nervous Nellies.”

“Ah.” The best man’s voice lowered to report further matrimonial affliction. “Well, the groom has a bad case of the Handwringing Hanks.” A strategy needed to be implemented. “Perhaps you and I could strike up a horse trade for a few minutes.” 

“Horse trade. Why, what a poetic reference on this day of romance.”

Scott offered his own hand to solidify the transaction. “Shake?”

“I’m surprised you’re not suggesting we spit on our palms to seal the agreement.”

“All right.” Shrug. “If you insist.” 

Seeing the dealmaker’s cupped hand journeying to his mouth, Teresa’s fingers lassoed its wrist. “Scott Lancer, you are… ” Smile. “Just wonderful.”

“I’ll admit, a few ladies have mentioned that attribute.” A wink from the universe’s protector sent a lovely maid of honor off on her mission to calm groom jitters.

Scott’s early memories of brides and attending their weddings as a wee lad were fuzzy at best. They often involved some older distant relative who thought having a sweet, blond-haired little boy in attendance at her nuptials would be quite charming. However, by the time young Lancer had reached the age of nine, moppet waggery had slowly replaced little boy allure and invites lessened until Scott’s presence at blessed events was ultimately deemed no longer necessary. What camel’s straw finally cooked Scott’s goose? When Master Lancer catapulted a silver spoon into a crystal water pitcher during the ceremonious toast wishing eternal happiness for Sir Igor Applegate and his new wife, Alderose - Harlan’s third cousin twice removed on the Garrett side.

Before enlisting, Scott attended a few weddings via Harvard gents ensuring at their sisters’ stuffy reception pub mates were invited to raise a glass and pass the time. Like Boston debutantes and their parties, Boston brides and their espousals followed suit. The affairs were always elaborate with proper etiquette, silk suits, expensive gowns and opulent entrees. Spoiled daughters. Doting parents. Satisfied gluttons. Tipsy classmates. 

And then not that long ago when wedding bells clanked for a Lancer ranch hand who Scott had befriended, a deceitful bride and her kidnapping lover from the past provided a complete opposite experience of New England matrimony. Through the course of ill fated, eye-rolling circumstances that would match an absurd plot in one of those Regency romances Winnie secretly read, Cupid’s arrow finally targeted the right female for clueless-hired-hand Josh and a well-earned slice of wedding cake for Scott. 

Yes, a good number of bride encounters had been tallied over time with another very special one about to be added to that list. Palming the unlatched bedroom door and easing it open, Scott stepped into the room.

Along with her romance novels, Winifred McLoughlin loved to orate the newspaper articles covering the latest Boston socialite’s wedding, notably the description of the bride’s gown, to her young captive audience of one who tried not to look bored while he enjoyed a warm slice of apple bread in hopes of a second serving. Truth be told, it was a small price to pay for sitting through a wordy dress narration when it awarded the listener Winnie’s sweet bread.

Ah, ScottyGarrett would ye listen t’ this. The bride wore a dotted white muslin cotton skirt with lovely lace edging also gracing the bustle overlay. The muslin cotton camisole and bodice featured embroidery scalloped edges with exquisite smock work near the waist and hand-stitched piping at the shoulders reflecting the fashion choices of Queen Victoria.  

Scott stared at his little cousin as his dear friend’s voice described Kinsey’s wedding dress down to the pearl buttons.

Tell me, isn’t the wee lass a picture of beauty?

Yes, Winnie. She certainly is.

Ho-ho Lancer! Is she still that spoiled brat who ruined your 13th birthday party with her tea party tantrums?

No, George. She certainly is not.

“What?!”

Kinsey’s questioning one-worded alarm bell brought Scott’s focus back to the present with his own stated - “What.”

“You have a look on your puss. Bloody hell. Seth’s changed his mind.” 

“Whoa.” 

Go talk. You’re a good distraction. She’s getting the Nervous Nellies. 

Nervous Nellies, indeed. A raised palm halted the bride’s unbridled collywobbles. “Stand down, private. There’s been no signs of desertion. However… ”

“What?!”

“Your uniform is not passing inspection.”

An abrupt about-face brought the bride a view of her reflection in the room’s full-length mirror. Brown-eyed scrutiny started at lace heming and traveled upwards until settling on the grinning best man, arms crossed, standing from behind. “Oh, I see. Would the gentleman be so kind to point out what’s amiss?”

“My hat. The one you pilfered soon after setting foot on Lancer land. I’m rather disappointed it wasn’t included in your ensemble.”

The smirk blossoming on Kinsey’s face traveled with her to a hat box placed on the room’s small table. With hints of a magician’s rabbit trick, Kinsey reached into the round satin-covered carrier and gently pulled out a fashionable work of art. If it weren’t for the subtle splotches of pink acquired during the chicken coop paint slaughter, Scott’s hat that had become Kinsey’s symbol of her independence would be unrecognizable.

Completing Miss Furlong’s bridal attire was a goddamn miracle of transformation.

Cleaned, reshaped and tailored for a better fit, the hat boasted white netting styled around its brim, ending in a flowing waist-length train. Small intertwined satin roses, reminiscent of the wildflower crown Winnie had taught Kinsey to weave, served as the hat band. Holding it out for Lieutenant Lancer’s review, the headpiece awaited approval.

“Teresa?” The Good Guesser remained confident of the accuracy of his hunches.

“She’s a master with a needle and thread. Teresa knew…. ” The awe in Kinsey’s voice reflected the love she had for her sister and maid of honor. Setting the veiled hat on her head, the bride turned back to the mirror. “Well, she just knew.”

“It’s perfect, Freckles.”

“Roberta Westcott will hate it.” Sad Sadie kicked Nervous Nell out the door. “Roberta Westcott hates me.”

Scott stepped up to place his hands on the bride’s shoulders, his reflection joining hers. “Roberta Westcott hates anyone and anything whose presence threatens her outward superiority stifling her inner misery. I’m afraid, little one, you are currently topping the intimidation list. It won’t last.” Silence requested further guidance. “All right. How’s this - even though she’s Seth’s mother… ” Ongoing quietude now demanded a verbal prompt. “This would be the moment in our conversation, young lady, when you call the woman a nincompoop.”

Scott’s out-of-character descriptive for Boston’s Smiling Cobra produced the result he hoped: an unladylike snorted laugh from the bride. “Roberta Westcott is a nincompoop.”

“Better?”

“Better.”

“Have I ever lied to you, Kinsey Rose?”

“Never.”

“Your life will be blessed with love from a very lucky man… who, no doubt, is presently in need of a wrangler for arriving guests.” The best man applied a comforting squeeze to the bride’s shoulders and turned to leave. 

“Go mbeadh do thrioblóidí níos lú agus do bheannacht níos mó.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Scott hesitated, nodded and shut the bedroom door behind him. 

Kinsey’s pronunciation had stumbled but he understood what she’d said. Growing up, he’d heard Winnie say it hundreds of times.

May your troubles be less and your blessings be more.

“Well, old gal.” Smile. “It appears I’m not the only one you’ve been conversing with.”