her mother in the middle of the sitting room floor surrounded by satin, lace and ribbons. “Mother, what on earth?”
Cynthia triumphantly held up a small basket covered in white satin and dripping with lace, ribbons and rosettes. “For your flower girl, darling. Isn’t it absolutely perfect!”
Felicity couldn’t decide which was more staggering, the concept of the mother whom she had almost never in her growing-up years seen without her nose in a law tome, suddenly turning her hand to frilly crafts, or the image of incorporating such ornamentation into their wedding. “Um, are we having a flower girl?” She said weakly.
Cynthia ignored her daughter’s response. “And I thought we could gather the petals ourselves. I noticed there are spent blooms still on the bushes in the monk’s rose garden. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind and it would be so much more romantic than just having the florist supply them.” She rootled around in her piles of furbelows and produced a satin pillow covered with lace, ribbons streaming from each corner. “For the ring-bearer. What do you call them here? Pageboy, is it? Won’t he be darling?”
“I’ll put the kettle on.” Felicity turned from the room.
Chapter 5
T he afternoon did not turn out to be the cozy twosome Antony and Felicity had envisioned. It took much of the afternoon and far more pastoral skills than Antony knew he possessed to calm Felicity down and to convince Cynthia that since there were no available small children in their near connections it might be a bit impractical to add to the wedding party at this late date, but that her creations could be used as decorations for the reception.
With mother and daughter reconciled—for the moment—Antony turned to his still-rough narration notes. “Um, I wonder, would it be too much of a bore if I went over these with you? I’d really appreciate some feedback before I face the camera.”
“Oh,” Cynthia jumped to her feet and pulled a piece of paper off the notepad by the telephone. “A woman named Sylvia called.” She held the note out for Antony to peruse.
“Oh, good. We’re filming tomorrow. That means I do need to get this script in shape.”
Felicity squirmed beside him. “I’m sorry, Felicity. I forgot—you need to work, too. I’ll be quiet.”
“No, no,” Cynthia insisted. “Felicity can work best at her desk.” She waved her daughter away. “You stay right there and read to me. I’d love to hear it. This is really very exciting. I do hope the series will make it to American television. I get BBC America, you know.”
Antony’s skepticism about Cynthia as a sounding board faded when he reminded himself that she was probably exactly Studio Six’s market target—intelligent, vaguely interested, with no more than a casual church background. “Thank you. I’m afraid you’re rather coming in on the middle of the story, but I thought I’d begin with just a line or two to remind viewers what the first episode had been about.” He picked up his paper. “Having abandoned his university career and ensconced himself in an uncomfortable hermitage under his patron John Dalton, Richard Rolle gave himself with youthful passion to the process of mystical contemplation. After four years and three months Richard reached the pinnacle of the mystical experience which he described as
Canor
or song.
“With a burning soul Richard experienced what he termed ‘songful love’. He heard, he said, ‘spiritual music—the invisible melody of heaven.’ With all-pervading holy joy Richard was caught up into the music of the spheres and joined the choral dance of the soul around God.”
Cynthia blinked. “I’m afraid you lost me there. What does that mean?”
Antony looked back over his notes. He’d been right to accept Cynthia’s offer. Her woman-on-the-street reactions were exactly what he needed. He marked through the last sentence. “How would it be if I just say: Rolle is the most musical of
Cynthia triumphantly held up a small basket covered in white satin and dripping with lace, ribbons and rosettes. “For your flower girl, darling. Isn’t it absolutely perfect!”
Felicity couldn’t decide which was more staggering, the concept of the mother whom she had almost never in her growing-up years seen without her nose in a law tome, suddenly turning her hand to frilly crafts, or the image of incorporating such ornamentation into their wedding. “Um, are we having a flower girl?” She said weakly.
Cynthia ignored her daughter’s response. “And I thought we could gather the petals ourselves. I noticed there are spent blooms still on the bushes in the monk’s rose garden. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind and it would be so much more romantic than just having the florist supply them.” She rootled around in her piles of furbelows and produced a satin pillow covered with lace, ribbons streaming from each corner. “For the ring-bearer. What do you call them here? Pageboy, is it? Won’t he be darling?”
“I’ll put the kettle on.” Felicity turned from the room.
Chapter 5
T he afternoon did not turn out to be the cozy twosome Antony and Felicity had envisioned. It took much of the afternoon and far more pastoral skills than Antony knew he possessed to calm Felicity down and to convince Cynthia that since there were no available small children in their near connections it might be a bit impractical to add to the wedding party at this late date, but that her creations could be used as decorations for the reception.
With mother and daughter reconciled—for the moment—Antony turned to his still-rough narration notes. “Um, I wonder, would it be too much of a bore if I went over these with you? I’d really appreciate some feedback before I face the camera.”
“Oh,” Cynthia jumped to her feet and pulled a piece of paper off the notepad by the telephone. “A woman named Sylvia called.” She held the note out for Antony to peruse.
“Oh, good. We’re filming tomorrow. That means I do need to get this script in shape.”
Felicity squirmed beside him. “I’m sorry, Felicity. I forgot—you need to work, too. I’ll be quiet.”
“No, no,” Cynthia insisted. “Felicity can work best at her desk.” She waved her daughter away. “You stay right there and read to me. I’d love to hear it. This is really very exciting. I do hope the series will make it to American television. I get BBC America, you know.”
Antony’s skepticism about Cynthia as a sounding board faded when he reminded himself that she was probably exactly Studio Six’s market target—intelligent, vaguely interested, with no more than a casual church background. “Thank you. I’m afraid you’re rather coming in on the middle of the story, but I thought I’d begin with just a line or two to remind viewers what the first episode had been about.” He picked up his paper. “Having abandoned his university career and ensconced himself in an uncomfortable hermitage under his patron John Dalton, Richard Rolle gave himself with youthful passion to the process of mystical contemplation. After four years and three months Richard reached the pinnacle of the mystical experience which he described as
Canor
or song.
“With a burning soul Richard experienced what he termed ‘songful love’. He heard, he said, ‘spiritual music—the invisible melody of heaven.’ With all-pervading holy joy Richard was caught up into the music of the spheres and joined the choral dance of the soul around God.”
Cynthia blinked. “I’m afraid you lost me there. What does that mean?”
Antony looked back over his notes. He’d been right to accept Cynthia’s offer. Her woman-on-the-street reactions were exactly what he needed. He marked through the last sentence. “How would it be if I just say: Rolle is the most musical of
Similar Books
