Priscilla’s white silk dress clung to her gaunt figure, making her look even more frail than usual. Her face was pale beneath the veil, and the bouquet of pink carnations and yellow freesia shook in her hand, but her smile blazed at Wally in glorious excitement and seemed to bathe the ancient walls in its glow.
She clung to the arm of a stocky, bald-headed man with a bumpy nose, who seemed uncomfortable with his appointed task. His black suit was too large for him—the sleeves of the jacket swallowed up his free hand. His bow tie hung at a dismal angle as if wishing it were anywhere but at his throat.
“Charlie Gibbons,” Elizabeth murmured, in answer to Earl’s raised eyebrows. “He’s an old friend of Wally’s. I believe they were at sea together years ago. Priscilla’s parents are dead, so she asked him to give her away. He’s staying with Neville in the empty cottage next door to Wally.”
Earl’s expression would have been comical if it hadn’t been prompted by the fact that Number One, Sandhill Lane, bore a sinister reputation for being the site of two murders, as well as a very close call for Elizabeth herself. She’d been unable to rent it out for that very reason.
“It was Wally’s idea,” she said, with a defensive shrug. “It was either there or the Tudor Arms, and Wally didn’t like the idea of them staying at the pub.”
The discordant thundering of the organ mercifully ceased as the bride reached Wally’s side. The service was brief and quite charming, causing Elizabeth to blink back tears as the happy couple joined hands as man and wife. They appeared to float down the aisle together, and Priscilla managed to look quite radiant, while Wally beamed brighter than a lighthouse.
His smile persisted throughout the arduous process of posing for the photographs. Indeed, there were smirks on many of the faces as the fussy photographer minced around on his toes and constantly waved a languid hand at the restless group of people lined up in his lens. He wore a rather outlandish outfit of black-and-white checkered trousers, a pale blue velvet jacket, and a long, black silk scarf, drawing some irreverent comments from the male guests.
He took so long posing everyone that Elizabeth felt quite chilly standing about in her flimsy frock, in spite of the balmy May afternoon. At long last the tiresome man seemed satisfied, and with Earl at her side, Elizabeth followed the crowd wandering down to the village hall.
Wally’s grin continued to stretch from ear to ear during the rather rowdy reception that followed. The organist played the piano with even more gusto than she had attacked the church organ. Accompanied by the members of Priscilla’s musical group, which included Wilf White on the mouth organ and a trumpeter who had earned the well-deserved stage name of Awful Ernie, the music was lively if somewhat less than harmonious.
The guests didn’t seem to mind, even when Wally’s brother, Neville, leapt to the stage and bellowed out a bawdy version of ‘Run, Rabbit, Run.’ In fact, everyone took to the dance floor and cavorted around like spring lambs. Everyone except Rita Crumm, who stood in the corner with her nose pointed at the ceiling and a look on her face that suggested she’d just swallowed a mouthful of sour milk.
The rest of her faithful followers, the devoted and often misled members of the Housewives League, having dispensed with their duties of laying out the delightfully diverse banquet, kicked up their heels with reckless abandon.
Marge Gunther, who had obviously consumed more than her share of scrumpy, got so carried away she displayed a scandalous expanse of chubby leg, giving everyone a glimpse of her corset suspenders. The sight was apparently too enticing to ignore for Neville, who leapt from the stage to join her.
Earl quietly chuckled at Elizabeth’s side as he watched the antics of the revelers. “That scrumpy sure packs a punch. I can’t believe plain old apple cider could have twice the alcohol of American beer. No wonder our boys get plastered when they drink it.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Alfie tells me that some of them don’t realize it’s intoxicating until too late. He warns them all now. Apparently our cider is quite different from the cider you serve in America.”
“Just as well, or we’d have kids reeling all over the school yard.”
“In the fourteenth century, English children were baptized with cider. It was considered cleaner than water.”
Earl looked surprised. “It’s been around that long?”
“Much longer. Since before the Norman Conquest I believe. The English climate isn’t suitable for grapes, so cider became more popular than wine. Captain Cook carried it on his ship to prevent scurvy, and I understand that in the last century it was widely proclaimed as a cure for gout.”
Earl lifted his beer. “Maybe I’m drinking the wrong poison.”
“I’d stay with the beer if I were you. It’s more predictable.” Elizabeth frowned. “I wonder who that gentleman is over there.” She pointed to a tall, blond man who looked to be in his late thirties. “I don’t recognize him.”
“Beats me.” Earl took a gulp of his beer. “Probably a friend of the happy couple.”
“I don’t think so.” She watched the man thread his way through the crowd and pause in front of Tess. “As far as I know, other than the villagers, Wally invited only two men—his brother Neville and Charlie Gibbons. Priscilla invited her sister Daphne and family, and Fiona, who brought along a gentleman friend. Priscilla did tell me his name.” She wrinkled her brow. “Malcolm Ludwick, that was it.”
“So maybe that guy is Ludwick.”
“No,
he’s
over there, dancing with Fiona.” Elizabeth nodded at the vibrant redhead, whose athletic ability was quite impressive as she writhed, spun, and leapt on her long, spindly legs in a wild jitterbug. Her partner, a tall, burly man with graying hair, seemed awkward and uncomfortable as he tried to keep up with her excessive energy.
“Wow,” Earl murmured. “Not bad for an old broad.”
Elizabeth decided to ignore the impertinent remark. “I saw the wedding list. Priscilla asked me if I thought she’d left anyone off it who should have been invited. I’m quite sure there was no one else on it with whom I’m not familiar.”
“Could have been a last-minute decision.”
“I suppose so.” She watched the man lay a hand on Tess’s shoulder. The young girl smiled up at him and went into his arms. Elizabeth watched them dance out of sight, then forgot about them when Earl nudged her with his elbow.
“Isn’t that Violet dancing with Wally’s friend?”
Elizabeth stared in amazement at her sprightly housekeeper, who seemed to have shed several of her sixty-odd years as she pranced around the floor in the arms of Charlie Gibbons. “Great heavens! So it is!”
Earl grinned. “There’s life in the old girl yet. I’d never have believed it.”
“I wonder what Martin thinks about that.” Elizabeth scanned the room to look for her butler. She’d assumed that Violet was keeping an eye on the old gentleman. Martin was well into his eighties and was not always accountable for his actions.
Having been a faithful servant to the Earl of Wellsborough’s household since before the turn of the century, his failing capabilities made him more of a handicap than help at times.
Elizabeth, however, considered him part of the family, as she did Violet, the only two servants to remain with her after the misfortunes of her ex-husband had eliminated her inheritance, leaving her with a decaying old mansion and a pile of insurmountable debts.
It was thanks to the loyalty of Martin and Violet, as well as her assistant Polly and housemaid Sadie, that her lamentable situation was not common knowledge in the village. Even Earl was not aware of the extent of her predicament, though she suspected he’d guessed as much and understood that pride prevented her from discussing such mundane and depressing matters with him.
Indeed, had it not been for Earl Monroe these past months, the dreary existence of wartime England, magnified by the lack of revenue, would have been far harder to bear.
“I don’t think you need worry about Martin,” Earl said, breaking into her thoughts. “He’s filling a large plate for himself at the table.”
“Oh, heavens.” Elizabeth rose to her feet. “If I don’t stop him he’s likely to cut himself a generous slice of the wedding cake.”
“Hurry back.” Earl’s smile dazzled her for a moment. “I’m waiting for a slow number so I can ask you to dance.”
The thought of being held in his arms made her feel quite faint. Certain that her cheeks were burning, she said hurriedly, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“You danced with me here once before,” he reminded her.
“Ah, yes, indeed I did.” She lifted her hand to make sure her hat was straight. “And if I remember, it ended in an ugly brawl from which I had to be rescued.”
His grin widened. “That’s what you get for trying to mix Yanks and Limeys together on the same dance floor.”
She sighed. “I have to admit, it wasn’t one of my better ideas.”
“Well, since I’m the only ‘bloody Yank’ here, as the villagers are fond of calling us, you don’t have to worry about anything upsetting this little shindig.”
“Not unless Martin decides to sample the cake. I’d better get over there.”
She left his side with reluctance. Her moments with Earl were all too brief lately. His duties at the base kept him busy, and what little time he could spare with her gave them scant opportunities for meaningful conversation. Which perhaps was just as well.
With a divorce pending, Earl had promised to keep his distance until the matter was settled. Even then, so many problems regarding their relationship would still exist. His home in America and her duty to the villagers of Sitting Marsh being the most prominent.
Elizabeth heaved a heavy sigh as she approached the rounded, frail shoulders of her butler. There were times when she heartily wished her kitchen maid mother had chosen to marry someone of her own station, instead of an earl and lord of the manor.
Martin’s hand wavered under the weight of the food he’d piled on his plate. Fat, savory sausage rolls sat on top of delicate, crustless shrimp paste and cress sandwiches. Pickled onions neatly lined the plate’s rim, while a slice of cold pork pie balanced on top of a wedge of Gorgonzola cheese.
“Oh, there you are, madam.” Martin looked guiltily at the loaded plate. “I thought I’d have a little refreshment while Violet makes a ghastly spectacle of herself associating with that charlatan. I was told to help myself.”
Elizabeth eyed the mound of food. “So I see.”
Martin wavered, then said bravely, “May I offer you a morsel or two?”
“Thank you, Martin, but I think I’ll wait a while.” She glanced at the wedding cake, magnificent on its silver stand, and let out her breath in relief to find it untouched.
As if reading her mind, Martin murmured, “I suppose we will have to wait for the bride and groom to cut the cake.”
“That is customary, Martin.”
“Yes, madam. I hope the ladies remembered to bring a knife. I can’t see one on the table.”
“I would imagine they are waiting until they are ready to cut the cake.”
As if in answer to her comment, a slight commotion turned her head. Wally was leading his bride toward the table, while behind him an urgent discussion appeared to be going on in the open doorway that led to the kitchen.
Marge Gunther, an overly plump woman with frizzy hair, stood waving her hands in agitation, while Rita Crumm, hands on hips, towered over her with a ferocious glare. Florrie Evans, the most nervous member of the group, seemed to be trying to soothe ruffled feathers without much success.
Martin mumbled something about getting a drink, but Elizabeth paid no attention to him. Obviously all was not well in the kitchen. Fortunately, the newly wedded couple seemed unaware of the commotion. Too wrapped up in each other to pay attention, no doubt.
Determined to prevent anything from spoiling this big day, Elizabeth headed purposefully toward the militant group of women. They had now been joined by Joan Plumstone, a sour-faced woman whose seemingly sole purpose in life was to cast gloom and despair everywhere she went, and Nellie Smith, the youngest and sole unmarried member of the Housewives League, who’s amorous adventures were outwardly scorned and secretly envied by her peers.
As Elizabeth approached, she heard Rita Crumm’s strident tones above the clamor of music from the inept band.
“How can it be bloody missing, you twit? I saw it myself not half an hour ago.”
“I don’t know.” Marge’s whine was no less audible and Elizabeth put on a spurt.
“What on earth is going on here?” she demanded, in the most commanding voice she could muster.
Florrie uttered a little shriek and slapped a hand over her mouth.
Rita gave the startled woman a scathing glance, then turned to Elizabeth. “There is no need to concern yourself, your ladyship,” she announced haughtily. “I have everything quite under control.”
Nellie’s laugh was blatantly derisive.
Rita quelled her with one of her vicious scowls.
“I would like to know what is causing this dispute,” Elizabeth persisted. She glanced back at the table, where the bridal couple was now poised in front of the cake, looking somewhat confused. “As you can see, Wally and Priscilla are about to cut the cake.”
Joan moaned, while Florrie muttered nervously, “Oh, dear me.”
“That’s the point, your ladyship,” Nellie said, with a defiant look at Rita’s enraged face. “The knife is missing, isn’t it.”
Elizabeth stared at her in confusion. “You mean the knife to cut the cake?”
Nellie nodded, while Joan moaned again.
“Well, then, get another knife. There must be others in the kitchen.”
“Lady Elizabeth, you don’t understand.” Rita stepped forward, her face a stony mask of annoyance. “This is a very special knife. Solid silver, mother-of-pearl handle, embedded with three diamonds. It was handed down by generations of my family, for the sole purpose of slicing a wedding cake. I agreed to lend it to Priscilla for the occasion. Apart from its value, it’s the only knife we have with a blade long enough to do the job properly.”