So, Leonie discovered, had she when she met Father Basil as arranged in the church. He taught her the history and rituals of his religion week by week, giving her many books to read and awakening in her a desire to learn more about the history of Greece itself.
The wedding ceremony itself was long and complicated, but Leonie was enchanted to have the various observances explained to her. The date of the wedding was now settled upon, and she had accepted Argon's offer of a loaned wedding dress. He had kept his own wife's dress wrapped in tissue paper in a large chest, and Clyte gently brought it out to show it to Leonie. The ivory colour had faded to a soft creamy shade, but the lace was deliciously frothy and the style had a traditional element which pleased Leonie very much, Paul was astonished by Argon's suggestion, and protested that Leonie had the right to a wedding dress of her own, but Leonie insisted that she loved the dress.
'Wedding dresses haven't changed much in fifty years. The only difference is that this one has got real French lace on it, and is exquisitely cut and sewn. I've never seen such tiny stitches. I shall be very proud to wear it. I couldn't find anything better anywhere in the world.'
'My wife made it with her own hands,' Argon told her.
'I only hope I don't burst her beautiful hand-sewn seams,' Leonie smiled. 'She must have had an incredibly tiny waist.'
'A hand's Span,' Argon agreed proudly. 'But she looked like Paul, you know, a blonde and beautiful Greek with blue eyes.'
'So that's how he got his colouring!'
Argon smiled. 'That is how!'
On her wedding morning Leonie woke early with a sinking sensation in her stomach, too tense to eat the coffee and rolls Clyte brought up to her room.
Clyte helped her to dress, her old fingers shaking slightly. Leonie looked at herself in the mirror with dazed, incredulous eyes. The ivory silk had been washed and dried in the sun and was almost restored to its original colour. The bodice was demurely buttoned up to the tight little collar of lace and ribbon. The waistline was so tight-fitting that she could hardly breathe, but the full swell of the skirts gave her a much better outline. Lace and ribbon were showered upon the skirt and flounced it at the hem. Clyte lent her a blue niched garter as a last thought, before flicking down the filmy lace veil over her face.
'I'm frightened,' Leonie whispered, clinging to the old woman's hand.
'Be brave, my darling,' Clyte whispered back, squeezing her fingers. 'You look like a goddess.'
The idea made Leonie smile and lightened her sudden qualm. She followed Clyte downstairs with legs which trembled slightly.
Argon was waiting for her in the long saloon. Paul, he informed her, had already left for the church. Argon took her hand and said softly, 'You are beautiful, my dear. I envy Paul.' Then he opened a flat leather box and took out a triple string of pearls and diamonds, clasping it round her throat with hands which shook a little.
'Oh! How lovely!' She touched the stones with trembling fingers. 'But I can't...'
'They are yours, my dear. They were my wife's, and I have kept them for Paul's wife. Wear them today.'
She kissed him. 'Thank you. They're lovely.' She
went over to an ornate french mirror hanging on the wall and looked at herself, seeing a fine-boned dark girl with passionate eyes and mouth, her slender body sheathed in the ivory silk, her throat ablaze with diamonds and milky little pearls. 'I don't recognise myself. I feel so Strange.'
They drove to the church, not in the silver limousine, but in a traditional open carnage, brought out of retirement for the occasion, its leather work dusted, its wheels picked out in gay yellow. Ribbons fluttered from the horses' brasses and white feathers nodded on their sleek heads. Leonie was delighted. She felt as though she had moved back in time to an earlier century.
The church was crowded to the doors with people. The scent of incense filled the air and row upon row of candles burnt along the wall before the silver icons.
The barbaric, dark faces of the saints watched over the wedding ceremony. The people intoned the responses deeply, so that Leonie felt they were all taking part in a serious way. Stealing a glance at Paul, kneeling beside her on a velvet hassock, she found him equally serious. His blond head was brushed to a smooth sheen, and he wore morning dress, which looked oddly formal on him. She was dazzled by his amazing good looks.
Commanded by the priest, they turned to kiss each other, their mouths lightly brushing.
Then they were returning down the aisle hand in hand, Leonie's veil thrown back and a crown of flowers resting lightly on her head, to the joyful triumph of the organ and the high sweet singing of the choir. The scent of the incense still floated around her from the moment when the priest had wafted it over them, and the blessings the priest had conferred seemed to hover over their heads. Although she had only learnt a little Greek so far, she had been able to follow the ceremony after her weeks of preparation, and she was glad that she had agreed to go through with it when she saw the bright, smiling faces of the people outside the church. They were so happy in her happiness that
tears pricked at her eyes.
Children flung rose petals and rice, there were teasing shouts from the men and laughter from the women, then she and Paul were alone in the beribboned carriage, driving back to Comus Villa.
She had almost forgotten that this marriage was to be no real marriage. The rites and traditions had taken over, compelling emotions she had not expected.
Paul leaned back with a sigh. 'My God! That was an exhausting experience.'
She laughed, flushed and excited. 'Oh, but it was beautiful, too.'
'You were beautiful,' he said lightly. 'You looked superb in that dress. It could have been made for you.'
'Thank you,' she said, blushing even more pink.