Читать книгу: «The Pearler’s Wife: A gripping historical novel of forbidden love, family secrets and a lost moment in history», страница 3

Maisie was fascinated by the few glimpses she had been given into Mrs Wallace’s life.

The first night, they had just finished their supper and were still sitting at the table in the dining room. She dropped a sugar lump into her coffee and gave it a swirl with her spoon. The sun was beginning to sink and glinted on the gold wedding band squeezing the flesh on Mrs Wallace’s left ring finger. ‘How did you meet your husband, Mrs Wallace? Were you already in Australia?’

Mrs Wallace leaned back in her chair, ran both hands round the square neckline of her dress and yanked it up over her cleavage. ‘No, dear. We met on the ship when I was coming over to begin my nursing in Perth. We were seated next to each other at the same table.’

Maisie propped her chin on her hand. ‘What happened?’

‘It was a very turbulent night. The ship was ploughing through the Atlantic. Do you remember how rough it was?’

Maisie nodded. She would not easily forget the enamel basin, the weak, sugary tea and the days confined to the cabin feeling wretched.

‘We were listening to the orchestra and talking a great deal. I remember – as clearly as if it were yesterday – that I was wearing a new black dress that was rather tight over the bodice and it was all covered with big shiny sequins and I had feathers in my hair. I loved that dress! Arthur leaned over to me and said I looked like an exotic princess and asked if I would take a chance on a waltz with him. He was so handsome with his hair slicked down, he made me tremble inside.’

‘And did you dance and fall in love?’

‘We danced for a bit, yes. The boat was rocking considerably, and it threw us together. Quite literally! And that was that.’

Maisie imagined the handsome Scotsman dipping down on one knee and begging for her hand in marriage. ‘Did he propose straightaway?’

‘Not precisely, dear.’ Mrs Wallace adjusted her spectacles. ‘We had only just met, but our fates were intertwined from that moment on.’

Maisie wondered idly whether there would be such a moment for her and her captain. Beyond the grubby balcony and peeling shutters of the hotel dining room, she could see the tall masts of the ships at anchor in the bay. She imagined him at the helm, singing a romantic solo of his own as he charted his course to claim her.

The next afternoon, Mrs Wallace put down her coffee cup and blotted her top lip. ‘I’m off for my nap, dear. I think you should have one too.’

‘In England, people never sleep in the afternoon,’ Maisie said.

‘That is irrelevant here. When you are married, your husband will come home for his lunch at midday and will, I am sure, lie down for an hour or so before he returns to his office. It’s a common practice and one you should adopt too. After that, you will be free to socialise.’

Maisie wasn’t certain if Mrs Wallace was implying that she would be joining him or having a private nap of her own.

‘As a young English woman and a newcomer to the town, you will be screened by the ladies, ogled by their husbands and judged by your help. You must have an At Home Day once a month during which you will invite all the resident ladies of your social circle to tea, cards, pianoforte recitals – whatever you choose to host. You must serve afternoon tea off your best china. Tea is a formal occasion, so you must produce the lightest of cakes and instruct your help how to serve them.’

Mrs Wallace delved in her mending bag and from the depths produced a wooden darning egg as well as her scissors and an assortment of threads. A tan lisle stocking lay limp on the round table by her elbow. ‘You must repay their visit on their appropriate At Home Day, leave two cards of your own and one of your husband’s. You will be expected to attend all other At Home Days besides your own; it will be seen as the epitome of impoliteness if you fail to appear. The likelihood is that you will not care for the majority of these women. The old tabbies will want to get a look at you, and all the young unmarried girls will critique your appearance and scrutinise your wardrobe and probably gossip about you too. It is very important that you are sucked into the bosom of your new life from the start, or you will find yourself very lonely indeed.’ She pushed her spectacles up her nose and squinted at the eye of her needle.

Maisie thought this sounded utterly ghastly. ‘I must confess that I am surprised, Mrs Wallace. This sounds much more formal than England.’

‘Of course it is, dear. It is all people have to hold on to. They have created a tiny replica of Home, and you must slot in and run with it.’

‘But what if no-one likes me?’ Maisie said.

Mrs Wallace began to stab her needle through the stocking. ‘You must work hard to ensure that they do. Your husband will not give up his drinking, his clubs or his gambling for you, nor should you expect him to. It is your job to adapt to him and his lifestyle. If you don’t fit in, he will simply carry on as he did in his bachelor days and leave you at home. Even though you might find yourself in a comfortable position financially, if you are isolated socially, you will be overwhelmingly alienated and unhappy.’

‘But that’s …’

‘The way it is in frontier towns, my dear. You must ensure that you succeed. You are going to need to toughen up and develop a backbone. Think of your mother. That should starch your resolve.’

A few days after their arrival in Port Fremantle, Maisie slept in well beyond breakfast.

When she woke, she saw that Mrs Wallace had made good use of the opportunity to sort through her cabin trunk. She sat up in bed, a poor effort at a smile wobbling at the edges of her mouth. Slack facial muscles were not to her mother’s taste. I do hope you are not about to cry, Maisie.

She pinched the insides of her wrists; the pain was distracting. ‘Good morning, Mrs Wallace. Did you sleep well?’

Mrs Wallace looped the wide leather handles of her handbag over a fleshy forearm and patted the contents.

‘Passably, thank you. A breakfast tray – rather desiccated, given the hour – is beside your bed if you are hungry. I thought we might attack the shops today. An indelicate question, I know, but do you have funds?’

With a quick up and down of her chin, Maisie confirmed that her parents had not cast her adrift without money.

‘Good. We must spend some time at the shops while we are here. I have had a good look through your trunk this morning. I know you will think this a dreadful invasion of your privacy, but it had to be done. You need cotton dresses to keep you dry, loose underwear and silk stockings, a wide-brimmed hat and parasol to keep the sun off your face as well as gloves to protect your hands. And you will need to do something about those dreadful shoes of yours. They are not suitable for this climate. Whatever can your mother have been thinking?’

Maisie picked a corner off a dry bread roll. ‘But Mrs Wallace, if I wear any more garments, I shall die!’

‘You cannot let your lovely white skin become tanned by the sun, dear. You must not turn brown like a coloured. That would be certain social suicide. I suggest you acquire a cotton kimono-style wrap to keep yourself cool when you are at home. You can wear it without any underclothes, provided you are alone and you keep the doors locked.’

Maisie stared.

‘And don’t forget, dear. If you are accepted wholeheartedly into the social fabric of Buccaneer Bay, you will need a range of evening clothes and ball gowns. I expect you have them already in your hold luggage or you will order them from Paris or London if you find that what you have brought is not in tune with what you need. Everyone dresses properly for dinner here, regardless of the heat.’

The day before the coastal steamer was to set sail, Maisie woke to a pain in her abdomen like a sword, skewering her to the bed. A ripple of queasiness rose from her stomach and sour saliva filled her mouth. The shared bathroom was a long way down the landing at the bottom of a splintery wooden staircase, and as she stood her legs felt achy and weak. The bedroom door had warped in the heat and she had to lean hard against it to push it open. She mistimed the manoeuvre and the door swung away from her, crashing her sideways into the wall.

‘Is everything all right, dear?’ Mrs Wallace called across the room.

‘Oh!’ Maisie said, sinking to the floor. ‘I have The Visitor and I feel very unwell.’

Her mother had always discouraged discussion of the monthly event and refused to have any sign of it brought to her attention. If she had to mention it at all, it was to be referred to as The Visitor.

She heard rapid footsteps and in a moment Mrs Wallace appeared in the doorway with her own supply of Southall’s Sanitary Towels for Ladies and hauled Maisie to her feet.

‘Come along, dear. We’ll have you fixed up in two shakes of a dingo’s paw and then you can hop back under the covers while you ride out the worst of the cramps.’ She picked up a rusty handbell from the nightstand by her bed and gave it a spirited rattle. ‘I’ll organise some morning tea with that dozy girl at the front desk. I always find a hot cup of tea does wonders when we are not at our sparkling best.’

Maisie climbed into bed and a short while later, a lumpy, dark girl with hunched shoulders and downy cheeks clattered up the stairs with the tea. She wore a faded blue dress that was too small around her hips and revealed the bulge of her suspender clips.

Mrs Wallace relieved her of the tray and set it down on a scratched wooden table – tutting loudly through her teeth – and pulled up a chair by Maisie’s bed. She administered a spoonful of Mrs Barker’s Soothing Syrup for Children in a cup of tea and swirled it round with a teaspoon.

‘I’m no Florence Nightingale, dear, but I think we need to ensure you are stocked with medical essentials before we board the coastal steamer. If you are afflicted this badly every month, you must arm yourself accordingly. I have no idea what you might be able to purchase up in your backwater of a town, but we must assume that there will be very little in the way of ladies’ supplies or medicines. You need to be prepared. Consider it a battle plan for a lifelong siege!’

Maisie reddened and sank down between the sheets.

‘Have you not organised sanitary protection for yourself before?’ Mrs Wallace leaned forward to the morning-tea tray and poured herself a cup.

Maisie shook her head, ashamed. ‘I never visit shops by myself. I rarely go out alone. Sanitary napkins appear in a drawer in my bedroom, and I’m sure the maid must keep a note of how many I use each month because the supply remains constant. I can’t think my mother would ask for such a private thing in a shop. I’m certain everything comes in the post.’

‘How does your mother think you will cope by yourself?’

Maisie shook her head and pictured the brown paper packages on the hall table in London with their plain address labels. ‘We never had that conversation.’

She found herself thinking back to a Christmas Eve when she was little. There was a large fir tree in the hallway, the topmost branches reaching almost to the third floor. Its boughs glittered with glass balls, lighted candles and small gifts wrapped in coloured paper. Underneath the spreading lower limbs were larger brown parcels with handwritten labels, tied up with curly string. On one of the lower branches she discovered a tiny teddy bear, a woolly blue scarf wrapped round its furry neck. Delighted, she reached up and tried to grab it.

‘Don’t touch!’ Her mother had swatted her hand away, pulled the bear from the branch with a tenderness Maisie had rarely seen from her and cradled it in her arms, like a baby.

Mrs Wallace rattled her teaspoon against the inside of the cup. ‘Do you know anything about your husband-to-be?’

Maisie felt the heat in her face. The shock of the memory had caught her out. ‘I know nothing about him other than that he is a sea captain. I have no idea what he looks like or even how old he is. He wrote to my parents before Christmas saying he was in a position to offer me marriage and so here I am two months later in Australia.’

Mrs Wallace looked stunned. ‘Did you not have any say in the matter?’

Maisie shook her head. ‘I think it was all arranged before they told me. It seems as if Cousin Maitland sent over a shopping list and I was one of the items on it.’

Mrs Wallace laughed. ‘I’m sure that was not the case.’

‘No, really,’ Maisie continued. ‘In my hold luggage I have a twenty-four-place china dinner service, glassware, linens and silverware and all sorts of other things too. Mama and Father said nothing about the expense. I suspect they were glad that someone would remove me as far away from them as is geographically possible on this planet. I’m not exaggerating – I looked it up on the atlas.’

Mrs Wallace patted the back of her hand. ‘Don’t be so introspective, dear. You overthink everything. No parent would throw their child to the lions without being reasonably certain she would survive, and they would most certainly have sent you on your way with a substantial dowry. Every parent wants a good marriage for their daughter – a husband and place in society. But enough of that. On a practical level, for the monthly trial, you will find it impossible in the heat to wear the rubber protective apron you have brought with you under your dress. It will stick to you and give you prickly heat. You’ve probably had a bit of that already on the ship with all those garments you’ve been wearing.’

Maisie thought her own face must have stained as red as the counterpane on her bed, but Mrs Wallace said all this without a hint of embarrassment.

‘You are going to have to manage with those sanitary knickers you have in your trunk. They are a boon in a hot country, provided you don’t overexert yourself. We might try to find you a night tidy, though. We should be able to pick one up from the chemist here. It’s made of muslin and has a waterproof lining. It will prevent accidents on the sheets and unnecessary extra laundry for your help. I’m glad also that you have brought the metal stock box to keep the towels dry. Otherwise they will go mouldy in the wet season and I am sure you don’t want them infested with silverfish or moths. The best plan is to have a baby straightaway and have one every year for a while. That way, you won’t need supplies for years. It’s what I did.’ Mrs Wallace poured Maisie another cup of tea.

‘Does it hurt like this, having a baby?’ Maisie ventured, knowing that she would never have asked this of her mother.

‘Were you not given any indication of what to expect?’

Maisie cringed, pulled the sheet up under her chin and sank down further towards the foot of the bed. She knew the rudimentary facts of life, but her knowledge of the sexual act and its consequences was vague. As far as she knew, her parents did not undress in front of each other, and they slept in separate beds in different rooms. She hadn’t really thought about the mechanics of procreation. She supposed that her mother must have lifted her skirts at least twice and invited her father in, but specific details hadn’t seemed important. Ignorance had enabled her not to incorporate the physical reality into her romantic dream.

Mrs Wallace pushed her generously padded posterior towards the back of the chair and set about a lengthy narrative on the subject of the needs and desires of the gentleman and his insatiable ‘boneless finger’.

‘But I am sure your husband will be sensitive to your needs and will treat you with the greatest of respect. And you can always say you have a headache – it’s an acceptable excuse that no decent man would contest. I have a copy somewhere at home of the Physiology of Marriage. I’ll search it out and send it to you.’

Maisie slid down another inch beneath the sheets. ‘What is that?’

‘The last word in marital relations. Perfect for you, I would have thought, with a mother who …’ Mrs Wallace bit her lip.

‘Who what?’

Mrs Wallace refilled her teacup and took a noisy gulp.

‘Who …’ She balanced the saucer on the chair arm. ‘I believe she was rather keen on someone else for a while.’

‘Before she married my father, you mean?’

Mrs Wallace lifted the teacup and Maisie watched the blush wash over her face. ‘Exactly, dear. Now you’ll have to remind me what I was saying just now as I have lost my train of thought.’

‘Physiology of Marriage and why it will be perfect for me, given my mother.’

‘Oh yes! The newspapers here have been running advertisements for it, but you wouldn’t have found it in England, as it is an Australian publication. It is only available here via mail order. As I said, I’ll send it on to you straightaway so you will have it before your wedding night. It might make you less anxious.’ She dispensed another spoonful of syrup into Maisie’s tea. ‘Now, drink this down and have a little nap. I’m going to sit on the balcony and make a list of what you will need. When you wake, we’ll have luncheon and then we will see about stocking you up with supplies.’

Maisie reached for the syrup bottle and squinted at the label, feeling faint as she studied the lengthy list of opiates, moving the black bottle backwards and forwards in front of her face trying to bring the tiny print into focus.

She gave up and sank back against the soft pillows, eyelids heavy, and in that brief moment she could not have cared less about Maitland Sinclair and his insatiable urges.

Chapter 4

ALMOST A WEEK LATER, just before sunrise, Maisie put on a new cream dress, revelling in its floaty freshness. She lifted her arms, testing the weight of the unfamiliar, soft, feminine fabric. She’d passed over a pick of her mother’s from Peter Jones and shoved it to the bottom of her trunk. Thanks to Mrs Wallace, she now owned a wardrobe of loose-fitting clothes appropriate for the Australian climate. She went out on deck, her new shoes noisy on the planking, and settled herself into a deckchair, the familiarity of the hard wood beneath her skirts reassuring. The purpose of her dawn expedition was to see a glorious sunrise – her last at sea for a while. But the sun remained persistently hidden somewhere within an angry purple sky.

She had been aboard the coastal hopper for six days, the pace of which would have made a snail weep, and was set to arrive in Buccaneer Bay that evening. The ship inched along the flat, grey coast, which provided little of interest beyond rocks and endless scrubland. She shivered as she picked out a light winking beacon-like on the shoreline, hoping it was not a warning of danger ahead.

Mrs Wallace was no longer on board. Two days earlier, she had disembarked at Gantry Creek, in a hurry to get back to her husband, her boys and their sheep in the Pilbara.

Maisie had become uncharacteristically weepy in her arms as they said their goodbyes. ‘What will I do without you, Mrs Wallace?’

The older woman pulled Maisie to her squashy bosom and said, with benevolent tartness, ‘What on earth’s got into you today? I am two days away. There are steamers every two weeks, and we will write. Don’t whine, Maisie. It makes you look feeble.’

Maisie had clamped her jaw shut. She knew better than to make a scene.

The steamer ploughed on, making deep furrows in the turquoise sea. Lulled by the regular rolling of the boat, Maisie was rocked into dreams. Her father was wearing his judge’s wig. She was in the dock pleading for mercy. Her mother was prosecuting and demanding that she be hanged from the neck until dead. Her father placed a black cloth on his head, shook his head and removed it. The punishment was too severe, he said, and commuted the sentence to life imprisonment in a penal colony. Australia, he declared, would be the perfect place for her to live out her days. She begged them to explain what she had done, but the judge banged his gavel on the bench. It is the wish of this court.

She woke in the grip of panic and for a moment couldn’t think where she was. Voices floated up from the third-class deck. She recognised one: William Cooper, the English diver who had made the speech at Port Fremantle. The brass band had been loud but it hadn’t completely drowned him out. She was glad she hadn’t seen him since; he made her feel flustered. A huge fish leaped out of the water next to the steamer and fell back with a splash. It jumped again, dived deep and disappeared. She envied its freedom.

The arrival of a coastal steamer was apparently a big event at Buccaneer Bay. As the light began to fade and the steamer dropped anchor amid a dense woodland of naked masts, the handful of remaining passengers crowded the decks and peered out into the gloom. As the steamer lurched against its moorings, Maisie watched the commotion and scanned the waiting throng. On the wooden jetty below, a crowd had gathered – waving handkerchiefs and hats – all jostling to come on board. The men were spotlessly white, splendid in their immaculate tropical suits and solar topis. A European woman wearing an ankle-length dress was negotiating her way round a stack of boxes. Maisie couldn’t tell her age, but Mrs Wallace had been right: a hat, veil, gloves and high-ankle shoes assured that the sun would never glimpse her skin.

The boarding party surged up the gangplank like a tidal wave. Men with waxed moustaches, some with burned complexions, elbowed their way on deck. The noise jangled Maisie’s nerves and she looked around, unsure what to do. Was Maitland Sinclair in their midst pushing his way up the ramp, eager to claim his future bride? She started to panic. How would he know her? She followed the crowds into the first-class lounge, where the captain was dispensing complimentary drinks. She accepted a glass of lemonade from a steward and settled on a velvet banquette, her eyes trained on the doorway. Her heart was battering her ribcage like a parade-ground drum, her palms damp and clammy. Surely he would come soon? Or maybe he’d changed his mind and she’d travelled thousands of miles for nothing? She felt faint with misgiving.

Time passed and still he didn’t come.

In the lounge, Mr Farmount started to make a speech. She looked up and tuned in to what he was saying. She couldn’t avoid it; his voice was so loud it reverberated around the room. He was introducing the English divers to the four master pearlers who had agreed to employ them, his speech a poorly disguised sales pitch for the diving company he represented. He talked at length about a new, engine-driven air compressor, which had not previously been used on the pearling grounds of the north-west. It would transform safety on board, he said. Hands were shaken, contracts exchanged and start dates discussed. The master pearlers quizzed the Englishmen about their training, and their experience of diving at great depths. Toasts were made, backs were slapped and the drinks kept on coming. Maisie wondered how they could concentrate with so much alcohol coursing through their veins.

William Cooper was sitting by the bar, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. She saw that there were dark damp patches under his arms and around his collar. His eyes lit up for a moment at something the barman said and she heard him laugh. It sounded joyous, and her heart dropped then. When was the last time you were really happy? She searched for the answer but it was nowhere to be found.

From feet away a voice said, ‘Cousin Maisie?’

She started and turned her face towards the voice.

He was dressed in a cream linen suit, with a spiky-leafed flower she didn’t recognise in his lapel. It was a stark contrast to the flabby outline of his jaw and the puffy pouches under his eyes. Short, bald and fair-skinned, he had a misshapen nose, ruddy flesh pitted with blackened pores, and clamped between his nicotine-stained teeth was a short-stemmed pipe.

She shot up, clutching her glass like a lifebelt, and spilt yellowish liquid down the front of her dress. ‘Cousin Maitland?’

Pipe still in his mouth, he took her hand between both of his and pumped it up and down, then dropped it just as rapidly. He rubbed his palms together and peered at her with assessing eyes. She looked for a sign of approval but there was none. Disappointment settled heavily on them both.

He didn’t introduce himself. He didn’t ask, with the touching solicitude she’d imagined, if her journey had been bearable. If she was managing in the heat or was missing her parents. She turned her thoughts to her appearance, to lighter complications and concerns.

‘I must look a mess.’ She ran a shaky hand over her hair.

He was standing so close to her she could smell his sour breath. He took hold of her arm, pinching her flesh hard through the sheer fabric.

‘Won’t matter what you look like. No-one’s going to care. Come. Everyone’s waiting.’

She would have envied his lack of concern had she not been its collateral. She could see that there was nothing about her that raised his interest; that her presence seemed to annoy him. She tried to think where she had gone wrong.

‘Waiting?’ She pulled out her handkerchief and dabbed self-consciously at the stain on her dress.

‘Yes. Waiting for you. Come on. No time like the present.’ He bedded his free hand in the middle of her back and propelled her along the passageway into the stateroom. ‘We need to get it over with. There’s nowhere for you to stay if we don’t. It’s the lay-up.’

She had not the first idea what he was talking about.

The ship’s stateroom was a bear pit, crammed with people she didn’t know and smelling foreign: of alcohol, tobacco and stale sweat. She pressed a finger across the underside of her nose and tried to force down the fear. She could sense that all eyes were upon her, triggering a hot blush on her face. She couldn’t be the centre of attention. Her mother would have whipped her for such presumption. She had been conditioned throughout her life to shun the limelight yet now all eyes were on her. Her knees began to wobble. She wanted to run, to leave as quickly as she was able. It had been the safest course at home. Frightened she would be scolded, she tucked her chin to her chest and began to apologise for her lack of manners.

The ship’s captain held up a finger, snapping off her words, and twisted the strap of his watch. He stretched his mouth in a smile and pointed at a chair.

‘If you would care to take a seat, we can make a start.’

Maisie turned to Maitland. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Dear little Maisie. You’ve travelled miles to be my wife. All my friends are here on this ship right now. It makes perfect sense to marry with everybody present, and make a party of it.’

‘Are we not to marry in church?’

‘No need. The captain can marry us. It’s often done at sea.’ He nodded at the captain, who squeezed out another smile.

‘But we aren’t at sea.’

‘As good as.’

‘Is it legal in the eyes of God?’

Maisie started as Maitland punched the back of the chair. ‘Lord above, Maisie. Of course it’s legal. Do you think I would do anything illegal?’ He jabbed her in the ribs with his elbow. ‘Now shut up. You’re embarrassing me.’

Maisie watched him, trying to gauge what had triggered his reaction.

The captain shuffled his feet and said nothing.

Although her legs were trembling, Maisie felt she had to say, ‘I should like to put on my wedding dress.’

‘What for?’

‘I’ve brought it thousands of miles for this occasion. I’d like to wear it on my wedding day. The dress I’m wearing is crumpled and stained and I should like to change out if it.’

A shadow of irritation crossed his face and Maisie saw him clench his fist. Instinctively she stepped back, and ducked her face once more into her chest.

The captain tapped the glass face of his watch. ‘Are we able to proceed, or does the lady need a moment?’

‘She’s fine. She doesn’t need to dress up.’

The captain checked his paperwork. ‘Who are the bridesmaids?’

‘Miss Locke said she’d stand in.’ He indicated the woman Maisie had seen on the gangplank.

Maisie smiled across at the elegantly clad stranger. ‘Are there no other ladies here?’

Maitland’s lips tightened. ‘Mostly in Perth. They go south for the Wet. It’s too bloody uncomfortable for most females at this time of year. They’ll flitter back in March, give or take.’

She tried to unravel her disquiet as, wearing a stained dress and with tears not far from surfacing, Maisie promised to love and obey Maitland for the rest of her life, her spirits as low as the hemline of her dress.

The party was in full swing by the time it was dark.

Maisie slipped away to her cabin. Lit only by the overhead lamp, the shadows dimmed the horror of her situation. No-one noticed she had left the wedding party. The event had not been about celebrating a marriage. Maitland had barked his responses during the ceremony, as if he were commanding a fleet of warships; she had responded in a wavering treble that Mrs Wallace would have despised.

Her husband – she shivered at the title – was now enveloped in a wave of backslapping and ribald well-wishing. She sank down onto the bunk, wondering where her great hope for happiness had gone. She lifted the lid on her trunk and fingered the princess gown of white duchesse satin that she would never wear. Her trousseau had been handmade in London and had cost a great deal of money. She ran her hand over the dress’s silky fabric, which had been embroidered with pearls – a most appropriate and clever touch, the dressmaker said, being associated with brides and weddings and the profession of her future husband and all. For Maisie, though, they represented far more than that; they were her freedom.