"Rinaldi Wedding"
Danni Rinaldi and Henri Belmont
Rome, always a hub of activity, was bustling just a bit faster today. The center of everyone’s focus, of course, was the grand, towering church in the center of the city, as well as the seemingly endless line of limousines, the small army of personal guards making sure the general public kept their difference. The wedding about to take place in the church, was far from a normal occurrence. For the first time since the wedding of Anastasia Rinaldi and Ian McTarvish –and that had been back in 1993- the Rinaldi’s had returned to Rome.
For those who had been raised to lower their heads in the presence of a Rinaldi, the concept of a wedding meant more than just new material for the local gossip. With this wedding, the next cycle of Rinaldi marriages promised to begin once more. Once every generation, without fail, the Rinaldi’s would come back to Rome for a series of weddings as the children of the last generation came of age. Only a main branch wedding, however, was capable of bringing together so many family members on one day. And on Valentine’s Day, no less.
There were some who watched in wonder, others who stared in envy as the seemingly unending procession of Rinaldi’s continued on and on. All were dressed in their best, tasteful jewelry mixed with fine fabrics and Italian leather. They spoke in a multitude of languages, greeted each other with reactions ranging from delighted to coolly polite. Not everyone would be at the wedding itself, of course. There would never have been enough room in the church that had married every main branch Rinaldi and their spouse since Salvatore Leonardo Rinaldi I had married Isabella Lombardi back in 1865. Rather, representatives from each branch of the family would show up, doing their duty to the family. All in all, there would be perhaps only two hundred Rinaldi’s in attendance during the ceremony.
The reception, however, was a completely different matter. While the wedding ceremony was strictly family, blocked from any media, the reception was a tasteful free-for-all. Located at a sprawling vineyard owned by the family just outside of the city, the reception could go on for hours and was open to family, business associates, select media, and a lucky fifty citizens who would have willing traded their firstborn child for a chance to be seen at a Rinaldi family gathering. And this one…well, this one promised to be perhaps the most interesting of them all.
As all eyes focused on the church, one couldn’t help but think of the stars of today’s wedding. Isadora Rinaldi and Henri Belmont. Cousins, some would say, related through her mother’s blood. But they wouldn’t focus for long on that. The gossip circulating quickest through the throng of curious citizens was the fact that Isadora, who had showed her face in public perhaps a dozen times in just as many years, was the youngest of the main branch children, yet the first to be married. It rather went against custom, and left many wondering at motive. Rarer still was it, after all, for a main branch member to marry within the family. Such a practice was usually reserved for the more minor branches, who would often intermarry to strengthen their connection to the family.
Some would whisper that Isadora had always been the problem child –hadn’t she been seen sporting that wild blue hair, right in the heart of Paris?- and that the family would be eager to have her settle down. More would speculate that perhaps the young miss was in the family way. The thought of a seven-month baby was too intriguing to ignore. A select few mused that perhaps the two had simply fallen in love and the family was honoring their connection. Those voices were few and far between. Final judgment, however, would be reserved until after the reception, until the pictures of the couple were released. Pictures snapped by the photographers who’d be milling about often told much more than any family-approved interviews and scripted announcements. By noon tomorrow, there wouldn’t be a single paper in all of Rome that didn’t have the new couple splashed across the front page. To many, after all, Rome was Rinaldi.
___________________________________________________________________
While outside was a noisy, bustling area of organized chaos, the bridal room within the church was, for the moment, completely silent but for the occasional sounds of deep breathing exercises. Sitting straight and tall in a hard-backed chair, her eyes shut and her hands folded into her lap, Isadora Rinaldi clung to her final few minutes of freedom. Someone would be coming soon, to zip her into her dress, to no doubt fiddle with her hair, to brush more makeup over her face and conceal the bruises of exhaustion beneath her eyes.
At the moment, however, she was completely and blissfully alone, sitting in the silk slip that would be worn beneath her dress. She’d never had need to worry over a single detail of the wedding itself. Such things were planned by her parents, her grandparents, approved by the family head. She need only follow directions. As such, she was having a proper, traditional Catholic wedding in a proper, traditional Catholic church. It was enough to give any Reaper a headache.
It was more than just the concept of the wedding itself that had left her mentally drained. She had spent several hours over the past three days meditating, working heavy magic she had never attempted before. As a result of the long, strenuous spells, her magic today would radiate only pure white. Every bit of black, every bit of gray, had been suppressed, locked down, chained up inside her. For just this one day, she would be a pure white magic user. For just this one day, she would be a proper Rinaldi. A proper bride.
Even as she sighed at the thought, there was a brief knock at the door, a moment of pause before it swung quietly open. Glancing over her shoulder, she blinked, momentarily taken aback when she saw her grandmother framed in the doorway. After a moment, she allowed her lips to curve, reminded herself she was expected to be a joyous bride. But then, it wasn’t hard to summon a smile when faced with the stunning woman she’d been named after.
Isadora Marie Rinaldi, formerly Isadora Blackstone, of the London Blackstones, stood tall and regal, her dark eyes direct even as they warmed fractionally at the sight of her granddaughter. She was a strong woman, would’ve had to be to be the wife of Vincent Rinaldi, to raise the future heirs of the Rinaldi empire. And she’d always held a soft spot for her oldest son’s youngest daughter.
“There’s my granddaughter. Are you ready to be transformed into a proper bride?” For a moment, Danni only blinked. This was usually the job of the bride’s mother, according to tradition. But then, she mused, perhaps it was a blessing that Eleanor had apparently decided to forgo tradition. At least now she’d have some peaceful moments with a woman who’d never held her magic against her.
“It’s good to see you, grandmother.” Danni rose from the chair, watched her grandmother study her, nodding in apparent approval.
“It’s not every day my namesake gets married. Though I admit I’d rather looked forward to the thought of seeing your blue tresses beneath the veil.” Danni paused, always taken aback at the casual kindness in her grandmother’s voice. After a moment she smiled, absently tugged at a strand of auburn hair that cascaded down her back.
“I would have enjoyed it as well. But it is not proper.” Grandmother and grandchild shared a moment of quiet understand, before the elder Isadora raised her hands, clapped them once. With a chuckle, she watched as attendants filed into the room, ready to transform her into a proper bride.
“And of course, propriety must come before personal preference at a Rinaldi wedding. Let us begin, shall we?”
For the next hour, Danni more or less retreated into her happy place, keeping her eyes closed as attendants rubbed creams into her skin, brushed makeup over her face, plucked at her eyebrows. She didn’t bother to look as they fussed with her hair, kept her hands folded serenely as the attendants chattered excitedly, let her hands be taken so they could fuss with her nails. From time to time she would hear her grandmother murmuring instructions, heard the occasional knock on the door only to have whoever it was be shooed away. Finally, when she swore she’d been sitting for hours, her grandmother addressed her once more.
“It’s time we got you into your gown.” Opening her eyes, Danni looked over to where her grandmother stood beside the bag that protected her wedding dress. She had vague memories of being fitted for it, didn’t know exactly what it looked like. She didn’t think they’d ever bothered to show her. Getting obediently to her feet, Danni rolled her shoulders, waited as the garment bag was unzipped, the dress carefully removed. It was white, she thought, but that was the only thing that warranted her attention. With the help of her attendants, Danni stepped into the dress, felt the silk fall over skin with a soft whisper of shifting fabric.
As she was tied into the dress –the top was more like a corset-, she felt soft hands lift her hair off her shoulders, smooth it down over her back.
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell your gran what you’ve been up to that would give you such muscles?” Danni gave what may have passed for a smile, flexed the bicep her grandmother’s hand was running over.
“Physical fitness is encouraged at the school I attend.” At her grandmother’s chuckle, Danni’s own lips curved just a bit more. What would she say, she mused, if she knew her namesake had acquired the muscle tone from years of battle?
“Well, just look at you. Open your eyes now, dear heart, and see the bride you’ve become.” Letting her eyes open, Danni stared at her reflection in the mirror she’d been dressed in front of. Only her grandmother would’ve seen the way her eyes darkened for a moment, the way they went bleak. But only for a moment. In the next heartbeat, her face was neutral once more, a blank mask as she studied her reflection.
She certainly did look like a bride. A proper bride. The dress was pure white, a creation of silk and lace that drew in sharply at her waist before widening out into the sleek skirt. There was a train, she saw, carefully spread out on the floor behind her. Beside her, waiting for her to step into them, was a pair of high-heeled shoes the same pure white as her gown. She would hold off on wearing them until the last possible moment. There were diamonds at her ears, pearls around her throat, her engagement ring snug on her finger.
Her hair had been curled, fiddled with so that it shone in the light, sleek and glossy. There was gloss on her lips, a shimmery powder on her skin. It was on her arms as well, turning her into a glowing bride. Perfectly proper, of course.
“We’re not done just yet, of course. The old marriage tradition, of course.” At her granddaughter’s blank look, Dora chuckled, resisted the urge to reach out and fold her young namesake in her arms. She’d thought –hoped- that perhaps her granddaughter’s marriage was one of love. But it appeared this was a marriage of duty. Just as hers had been. “On her wedding day, a bride must wear something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. A fine bit of tradition. You’ve already got the new, of course, with the wedding dress. And you’ll be borrowing the family jewels. As for something old…”
Dora walked over to a box, lovingly pulled a lace veil. “This was my own veil, when I was wed in this very church. I see it only fit to pass it on to my namesake on her own wedding day.” She walked over to place the veil on Danni herself, her smile softening when she saw her granddaughter’s shocked face. It was undoubtedly the first time she’d been gifted a family heirloom.
“I hope I will still be here the day you pass this on to your own daughter, should you be blessed with one. I know you’ll take care of it.” As Dora fixed the veil in Danni’s hair, lifted it up and over her hair, Danni could only nod, unable to find the words.
At the brisk knock on the door, Dora paused from brushing a lock of hair out of Danni’s face, lifting her voice a bit.
“Yes, we’re all but set in here. You may enter.” In the mirror, Danni watched the door open, saw a man in a tuxedo and bow tie slip into the room. She’d always found her father quite handsome in formal attire. As always, there was a pain in her heart at the sight of him, as she watched him tug at the cuffs of his shirt, straightening his jacket as he shut the door behind him. Looking up, he met his daughter’s gaze in the mirror, held it for a long moment before his lips curved.
“Izzy…You look beautiful. You as well, mother.” Dora chuckled, walking forward to kiss her son on both his cheeks. She’d always been proud, so incredibly proud, of her oldest son. Perhaps his only mistake in her mind was marrying Eleanor Durant. But that conversation had long since passed.
“So you always tell me. I’ll get out of your way now. You’ve five minutes before you need to line up for the procession.” Slipping out of the room, Dora left her son and granddaughter staring at each other, both unsure of what exactly to say, what could be said.
Finally, Sylvester stepped forward, reached out to brush a fingertip down his daughter’s cheek, tapping the side of her nose in an old gesture of affection that she’d almost forgotten.
“Are you ready to be a wife, princess?” He watched her nod, tried not to see the sadness in her eyes. Necessary, he reminded himself. He would have lost her otherwise. And that he couldn’t do. Not his Izzy. Not his baby. If that made him a selfish man…Of course it did. But it was for the best. It was all for the best.
He watched as she stepped into her shoes, smiled as he saw that in heels she towered over him by an inch or two. Reaching up, he dropped the veil over her face, watched her eyes follow him behind the lace. Looking over, he spotted the bouquet she was to carry, walked over to grab it. Raising his brow only a bit at the design, he held it out to her, watched her blink even as her hands wrapped around it. Amidst the pristine white roses, right in the center, a rose’s petals had been died a bright, brilliant blue. And so, Danni mused, tradition was complete. She had something old, something new, something borrowed…And something blue.
When her father held out his arm, she laid a hand on it, savored the contact even as he led her to the door, one of the attendants scurrying to pick up her train to keep it from dragging. She was, Danni thought, a proper bride. A proper Rinaldi. At the moment, she thought that perhaps it wouldn’t have been such a bad thing to run. Pride be damned. But then, her father was leading her down the hall, and she could hear the guests, the wedding party, the chattering attendants. All of them perfectly willing to tackle a reluctant bride. And at the moment, her pride was all she had left. Because it was, she lifted her chin, stared straight ahead.
On February 14, 2013, at precisely noon, Danni Rinaldi walked into a crowded church. When she walked out, she would be a married woman. She would be a Belmont. She would never again be free.
