Marrying Up - Part III
“Marrying Up” is a fictional story set in 1950s Manhattan revolving around Frances Riley, a difficult and ruthlessly ambitious young woman who moved from one social class to another—Irish immigrant off the boat to high WASP— when she married into the aristocratic Woolsey family.
THIS IS PART 3 of a FOURTEEN-PART STORY
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14
Image: Duo Chen
The morning of the wedding Frances was so sick with anxiety she couldn't get her fingers to hold a cup of coffee without spilling it. She still hadn't met Jack's parents, didn't know, in fact, if they'd be at the wedding or not. It was a hot day in August. Her dress, yards and yards of white satin with a tight bodice and an endless train, twisted around her clammy body like netting around a clump of seaweed. She wanted to push all her chirping, busy-fingered bridesmaids away. Her father was in the liquor business and knew many people, so the church was full to the brim. At the door leading into the sanctuary, one of the ushers, a classmate of Jack's from Andover, whispered, "They're here, third pew on the left."
Frances gripped Kip's arm and forged down the aisle, fighting waves of hysteria. Hats, necks, heads, shoulders swam kaleidoscopically before her, but still she was able to spot Jack's parents: a horsey-looking couple so aloof and icy in their bearing that at least three glacial feet of space separated them from the people on either side.
"You're doing fine," Kip murmured when they reached the altar and he lifted the veil. Perspiration trickled beneath the tight skin of her dress and she wished with all her heart that Kip would stand close beside her like a tree to lean on throughout the ceremony. Instead, her own two feet in thin white satin heels had to hold her up. The priest droned on forever, but she didn't hear a word. Next to her, Jack's face wore a dim smile and when the time came to put the ring on her finger, he slid it down with a force that hurt.
And then it was over. She wobbled back down the aisle on Jack's arm, exhausted, already missing her father. They were to gather in front of the church for photographs and then a horse-drawn carriage would bear the bridal couple through the late afternoon streets to the St. Regis for the reception. If Frances heard whispers about her mother, Noreen, she closed her ears to them. She needed all her emotional strength to smile and stand up straight and make a good impression on Jack's parents.
Cover Image: Sigit Rizalhidayat