All a Big Mistake

by Santa Crux

Description: A Plateau Wedding, Marguerite's Point of View.

Disclaimer: The characters from “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Lost World” are owned by Telescene, NewLine Television, The Over the Hill Gang, Coote/Hayes, etc. No profit is being made from this story. No infringement upon copyrighted material is intended.

Thanks to rann for selecting and adapting the speech given at the reception.

It didn’t really mean anything. After all a wedding performed by a wild-haired shaman, face emblazoned with gaudy stripes was not going to hold up under scrutiny when and if they descended from this land in the clouds to the far more complicated world below. Some curious tribal rite performed in some lost world had no sway beyond the jungle’s edge.

Besides that she really didn’t expect that things would work out when she and John returned to England. Sure, sometimes she allowed herself to dream of a blissful future as Lady John Roxton – that blasted doodle that John had discovered and folded into his shirt was proof of that - but deeds done could not be undone. People like her didn’t live happily ever after.

It wasn’t as if she could even legally enter a marriage. Despite all her desperate efforts she still didn’t possess a birth certificate. Doubtless Xan had lit a celebratory bonfire on which he would have tossed the scant proof of her existence. How he must have laughed at the way he had come out the winner in their little transaction. Mordren may have been killed and the ouroboros destroyed, but there was no doubt Xan had gotten exactly what he wanted. He always did. And she remained as she always had been – not knowing anything about her past.

Not that that any of these very real problems meant much to Lord John Roxton. Whenever she explained how the circumstances of her birth and upbringing would make their life well nigh impossible when they returned to England, he would just shrug or kiss her to distraction. He didn’t care a fig if she were a duchess or a guttersnipe. He had pursued her ardently for over a year, pressing her to acknowledge the budding connection between them. There had been nights they had argued till dawn and days she had spent avoiding his artful persuasion. The man was a glacier inching steadily forward no matter how the ground in front of him resisted its progress. Not that there was anything about Lord Roxton that could be considered cold. No, that man was a far different kind of natural force.

Marguerite smirked as she considered the many compelling qualities of her suitor. She brushed her hair absent-mindedly as she sat alone in the women’s meeting hut in the Zanga village. The setting lent itself to introspection, dim and still, cool in contrast to the shimmering heat outside. Isolated from the communal huts and the main plaza she could hear only faintly the whoops of children at play and the chanting of the Zanga people preparing for the upcoming ceremony. The round one-room building was cluttered with heaps of old Incan gold – enough to tweak her treasure-hunter’s interest even at a time like this. She had taken a look around, gently caressing the intricate workmanship of the hammered chest-plates and head-pieces. By now though, she was deep in thought, every instinct shrieking at her to creep away from the village and fly down the trail to the treehouse, take to her bedroom and pull the covers over her head. She grinned ruefully at that image.

“- you smiling about? I thought you might be having second thoughts by now.”

Marguerite barely kept herself from starting violently. Veronica was standing in front of her wearing a broad smile. She had obviously come in through the main entry and walked over to where Marguerite was sitting while she was deep in her reverie. It took a moment to process Veronica’s question.

“I had second thoughts days ago. Now I’m considering having myself declared insane.” Marguerite couldn’t quite pull off the light sarcasm. Tension and doubt framed every movement and creased her brow.

“Too late now,” Veronica responded with a wicked smile.

“It’s never too late,” Marguerite quavered, “It was a crazy idea. I’ll just tell Roxton that…” She stumbled to a stop recognizing the enormity of that kind of betrayal. She slumped, holding her face in her palms. “Whatever possessed me to agree to this?”

Veronica stretched out a sympathetic hand, but stopped short. Marguerite and she might now be friends, but she wasn’t sure the self-contained woman would appreciate the touch. Instead she responded with encouraging words.

“It’s not like Roxton would take no for an answer. Besides, it’s obvious you love each other very much.”

“What does that have to do it? Not that I am admitting anything of the sort,” Marguerite muttered as she looked up at the blonde woman. She put the hairbrush down and took in her friend’s outfit.

“Take a look at you. The bridesmaid is going to outshine the bride.”

Veronica awkwardly smoothed the front of her blue satin dress. It was a style fashionable at the turn of the century but it fit her like it was designed for her lithe body. Indeed it should. Her recovered memories showed her that she was the spitting image of her mother, her pedigree showing in face and figure. The dress was Veronica’s mother’s, an heirloom, apparently left behind when her parents left on a brief scientific outing when she was eleven.

Well, that was how Veronica had remembered things. All her life she had been bolstered by warm recollections of a pair of loving parents. Recently however, the trion had brought a flood of sorrowful new memories. But any deeply buried fear that she had been abandoned was put to rest by the revelation that her father had died to save his wife and daughter. That was the meaning of love as far as Veronica was concerned – protectiveness and sacrifice. Qualities Roxton had in spades. As for Marguerite… time would tell.

“I knew you liked this dress when I wore it – before,” Veronica hesitated a little remembering the way she had proudly preened in front of the man she mistakenly thought was her father. Marguerite had been the one to compliment her on her finery. Veronica had felt the formal gown would add a traditional touch to this occasion –something old, something blue.

“I love it,” Marguerite smiled, “You look beautiful.”

“No fear of me eclipsing the beauty of the bride,” Veronica said mischievously, “Wait till you see what you’ll be wearing.”

Marguerite raised an eyebrow in alarm.

Whose idea was it to follow Zanga tradition in this ceremony anyway? Assai and the other women had tried to explain the symbolism of the ritual – the dip in the sacred pool at sunrise (Marguerite still begrudged the early rising), the rubbing with herbs that left her smelling faintly of lavender and summer sage – not a scent Marguerite considered particularly alluring.  When a shrivelled old crone approached her with paintbrush in hand Marguerite had put her foot down.

“No face painting. I’m not going trick-or-treating; I’m marrying a member of the British House of Lords.” The Zanga women had left at that point; Marguerite’s emphatic denial had won her a reprieve that had lasted until Veronica’s arrival moments ago.

“What I’ll be wearing?” She paused for a moment as in the realization of what was about to happen finally sunk in. “This is a mistake. Veronica, tell Roxton I’m sorry. I’ll be back at the –“

She was interrupted by Veronica’s frowning headshake and the entrance of six young Zanga women, carrying a bundle of red fabric as if it were the train of a king.

“What’s this?” Marguerite asked. Veronica leaned in to whisper in her ear.

“The bride will not be wearing white – at least not in a Zanga traditional ceremony.”

“The wedding dress is scarlet?” Marguerite stammered, a hot flush pinking her cheeks. “Roxton will never let me live this down.”

“Wait till you see the design.” Veronica chuckled.

The young women shyly approached and explained to Marguerite that they wished to attend her, help her dress and braid her hair in the traditional way. Marguerite sent a pleading look above the heads of the shorter native women to Veronica standing behind them. Her friend shrugged and stepped back as the Zangas clustered closer.

The women scurried around lighting scented tapers and bringing baskets of flowers and trays of fruit into the building. Soon the young women were giggling as they told increasingly bawdy stories of wedding nights and the desirable qualities of the ideal mate. Marguerite coughed and wiped her eyes as smoke hazed the room. The nimble hands of one woman wove her hair into a plait that she pinned high on her head with shards of bone.

Two women smoothed out the vivid cloth. Marguerite became morbidly curious about how they intended to have her wrap herself in the bright fabric. She soon found out.

When they were finished she had a narrow swath of material across her breasts, a wide expanse of bare midriff and a long skirt that they had folded in pleats around her hips.

“Who designed this outfit – Prince Apep?” she snarled, looking fiercely at Veronica as if she were somehow to blame.

“Oh, Marguerite, quit complaining. You look magnificent,” her friend answered, “You will certainly have Roxton’s undivided attention.”

“Well, make sure no-one steps on the hem of this skirt or I’ll have everyone’s attention,” she said as she looked dubiously at the lightly-tied length of cloth.

The women finished by tucking flowers in the top of her bodice and throughout her hair, crimson tropical blooms matching the hue of the cloth. Their heavy odour combined with the incense to make the bride-to-be a little light-headed. The final touch was a leather thong tethered around her waist, a garnet hanging like a red teardrop just below her navel.

“Roxton’s going to love that,” Veronica giggled.

“I have no doubt he will. I saw him with Hippolyta. The man is fond of leather.”

“Marguerite!” Veronica said blushing, “I meant the garnet- it’s the Zanga way of asking the gods to give you many babies.”

Marguerite looked at the jewel more closely. “Many babies, huh” she repeated uneasily.

The women turned from her and began to primp and adorn their own hair with the remaining flowers. The sound of drums could be heard outside.

“I think it’s time. Are you ready?”

Marguerite raised her chin. She had turned ghostly white. She squared her shoulders as she rose and took a deep breath.

“No, I am not ready. I’ll never be ready.” She gave her friend an uneasy smile. “Let’s go.”

The ceremony sped past like the moving pictures in the cinema, a little too fast, the scenes rushing by as if she were an onlooker not one of the main participants. Her first sight of Roxton took her breath away, leaving her shaking. He looked handsome, of course, he always did, and rather savage with his painted face and bare chest. But it was more than that.

There had always been something between them. The heat of his animal magnetism had drawn her to him at first meeting, but it was the warm glow fanned by his gallant pursuit of her trust and her heart that had melted her defences and changed her outlook on life. You have taught me a great deal, Lord Roxton. He had slowly gentled away her instinctive urge to flee his attentions. One time when he had asked about her childhood she had told him bluntly that she had never let him in. It wasn’t true and he knew it. By overcoming her constant evasions he had forced her to honour the fragile closeness that was growing between them. He had saved her from unspeakable horrors and from herself. He was her knight in shining armour.

Marguerite shook her head. What romantic nonsense, she scolded herself. It must be that damned incense that was making her so giddy. He was just a man, a handsome, impetuous, stubborn, adorable man who would likely get them both killed … the one who had made her life worth living.

She sat back as the celebration carried on around her. Villagers danced to the wild music and drank the juice of fermented fruit. Challenger was in a place of honour seated between the chief and the shaman. He appeared on the brink of nodding off to sleep. Marguerite smiled broadly as she recalled the speech he had made earlier at the wedding feast. Naturally he had stolen shamelessly from the Bard.

Conversation had grown louder as the meal had gone on. Challenger had risen to his feet, wooden mug in hand. When none of the Zangas had paid him any mind, he leaped onto the bench and cleared his throat. Having finally attracted everyone's attention, he hoisted his cup and spoke

"Let us celebrate this marriage.

A contract of eternal bond of love,
Confirm'd by mutual joinder of your hands,
Attested by the holy close of lips,
Strengthen'd by interchangement of your rings;
And all the ceremony of this compact
Seal'd by this Shaman and by my testimony:
Since when, my watch hath told me
we have travell'd but two hours."

With an exaggerated flourish he drained his drink. Everyone followed suit. Roxton caught the eye of his new bride. He leaned toward her and said in an undertone,

"Of course, he'd employ Shakespeare."

"The advantages of a classical education," she had replied with a chuckle.

Marguerite smiled now as she recalled how the sight of John’s quirked eyebrow and laughing eyes had reduced Challenger’s star turn to an afterthought in her mind.

Ned and Veronica were deep in an intense conversation; it was hard to tell by looking what they were discussing. Marguerite looked across at Lord Roxton, her silver locket ludicrously tiny above his muscled chest.

Unconsciously she twisted her new ring around her finger, fingering the large stone in its setting. She glanced down at it once again. Roxton had taken a cheap piece of costume jewellery and turned it into something of beauty and value. An emerald – a gorgeous stone – symbol of faith and wisdom and hope. A golden ring - symbol of never-ending love. That was a heavy burden of responsibility for a delicate band slipped around her finger.

She looked up to see those deep-set eyes smiling at her reflecting the forest-green depths of the gemstone in her ring. A wash of passion and emotion shook her to her roots. No matter what difficulties lie ahead, no matter how complicated their lives back home might prove to be, this had not been a mistake.

Her hand snaked toward Roxton’s and they rose as one. While the party raged on they stole away into the jungle night.

Make Haste to the Wedding (Roxton's POV)     All a Big Mistake (Marguerite's POV)

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