the time Daphne entered the back of the church.
“Your harp’s downstairs now,” Miss Carrington announced brightly. The church wedding supervisor was a sixtyish woman, dressed in a fluttery, flowered organza ensemble and a straw picture hat with pink and coral roses clustered around its brim. She pointed to the narrow stairway that led from the balcony to the side entrance foyer where they were standing. “I had two of our men bring it down from the balcony. I hope that was all right?” she asked with a kind of wide-eyed innocence inappropriate for a woman of her maturity—and all too familiar to Daphne. “I just thought you’d look so pretty sittin’ up front, near the pulpit.”
Daphne was thrust into a mild panic to discover that her harp was no longer beside the organ where she’d carefully positioned it that morning. “Will I be able to see the organist from down here?” she asked worriedly.
There was no point in telling Miss Carrington that hauling a harp down a set of stairs and then dragging it fifty feet into the church sanctuary meant that it would have to be retuned, top string to bottom. Daphne knew that her preferences didn’t matter a whit to this officious woman. She had dealt with bossy belles a million times before.
“Oh my, yes,” Miss Carrington assured her with a coquettish smile, “you’ll have perfect lines of sight. All the harpists play down front near the pulpit. They just love it there!”
“Well, here’s hoping I do, too. When given a choice,” she added pointedly, “I vastly prefer to be near the organist.”
Miss Carrington appeared startled. Clearly she wasn’t accustomed to having her decisions questioned.
Daphne cocked an ear, and exclaimed, “Goodness! It sounds as if people are being seated. I’d better get settled and retune.”
“Close the door when you enter the sanctuary, won’t you please?” Miss Carrington directed archly, lips pursed in a faintly triumphant smile. No New York harpist with a master’s degree from Juilliard would be allowed to hide up in the balcony.
Daphne’s large, gilded harp had been placed forward and to the left of the pulpit. She slipped onto the stool and surveyed the scene. Nearby, two waist-high plaster columns supported magnificent sprays of spring flowers that Cousin Maddy had gathered from friends with private gardens all over Natchez. Attached to each pew were smaller, professionally made bouquets of dainty Queen Anne’s lace anchored with fragrant gardenias and ivory silk ribbons. Daphne was forced to admit that the bride czarina and the floral designers she’d recommended certainly knew their stuff. She cast a measured glance around the interior of the gleaming white church with an eye to the volume she would be required to produce on her harp in order to be heard over the organ.
She began the process of fine-tuning her harp’s forty-seven strings. Mellow organ music muffled the repetitive twangs she produced as she swiftly worked her way up to middle C. Fortunately, most notes had remained in tune despite the harp’s last minute journey from the balcony.
Meanwhile, a platoon of wedding guests took seats in the forward pews. Daphne’s aunt, Bethany Kingsbury Marchand—a recent bride herself—offered a gentle assist to Grandmother Kingsbury, who reluctantly relinquished her aluminum walker to the care of her gray-haired daughter and sank, with great effort, into her seat on the aisle in the first row. Aunt Bethany had dutifully volunteered to sit next to her aged mother at the ceremony instead of serving as matron of honor when her sister, the mother of the groom, made her dramatic proclamation that she wouldn’t be coming to the wedding.
“Hello, darlin’,” Bethany said to Daphne in a hushed voice. “Mother… there’s Daphne. All the way from New York! Doesn’t she look pretty sittin’ at the harp?”
“Hello, hello,” Daphne whispered back. “See y’all later at the reception.”
She lightly
“Your harp’s downstairs now,” Miss Carrington announced brightly. The church wedding supervisor was a sixtyish woman, dressed in a fluttery, flowered organza ensemble and a straw picture hat with pink and coral roses clustered around its brim. She pointed to the narrow stairway that led from the balcony to the side entrance foyer where they were standing. “I had two of our men bring it down from the balcony. I hope that was all right?” she asked with a kind of wide-eyed innocence inappropriate for a woman of her maturity—and all too familiar to Daphne. “I just thought you’d look so pretty sittin’ up front, near the pulpit.”
Daphne was thrust into a mild panic to discover that her harp was no longer beside the organ where she’d carefully positioned it that morning. “Will I be able to see the organist from down here?” she asked worriedly.
There was no point in telling Miss Carrington that hauling a harp down a set of stairs and then dragging it fifty feet into the church sanctuary meant that it would have to be retuned, top string to bottom. Daphne knew that her preferences didn’t matter a whit to this officious woman. She had dealt with bossy belles a million times before.
“Oh my, yes,” Miss Carrington assured her with a coquettish smile, “you’ll have perfect lines of sight. All the harpists play down front near the pulpit. They just love it there!”
“Well, here’s hoping I do, too. When given a choice,” she added pointedly, “I vastly prefer to be near the organist.”
Miss Carrington appeared startled. Clearly she wasn’t accustomed to having her decisions questioned.
Daphne cocked an ear, and exclaimed, “Goodness! It sounds as if people are being seated. I’d better get settled and retune.”
“Close the door when you enter the sanctuary, won’t you please?” Miss Carrington directed archly, lips pursed in a faintly triumphant smile. No New York harpist with a master’s degree from Juilliard would be allowed to hide up in the balcony.
Daphne’s large, gilded harp had been placed forward and to the left of the pulpit. She slipped onto the stool and surveyed the scene. Nearby, two waist-high plaster columns supported magnificent sprays of spring flowers that Cousin Maddy had gathered from friends with private gardens all over Natchez. Attached to each pew were smaller, professionally made bouquets of dainty Queen Anne’s lace anchored with fragrant gardenias and ivory silk ribbons. Daphne was forced to admit that the bride czarina and the floral designers she’d recommended certainly knew their stuff. She cast a measured glance around the interior of the gleaming white church with an eye to the volume she would be required to produce on her harp in order to be heard over the organ.
She began the process of fine-tuning her harp’s forty-seven strings. Mellow organ music muffled the repetitive twangs she produced as she swiftly worked her way up to middle C. Fortunately, most notes had remained in tune despite the harp’s last minute journey from the balcony.
Meanwhile, a platoon of wedding guests took seats in the forward pews. Daphne’s aunt, Bethany Kingsbury Marchand—a recent bride herself—offered a gentle assist to Grandmother Kingsbury, who reluctantly relinquished her aluminum walker to the care of her gray-haired daughter and sank, with great effort, into her seat on the aisle in the first row. Aunt Bethany had dutifully volunteered to sit next to her aged mother at the ceremony instead of serving as matron of honor when her sister, the mother of the groom, made her dramatic proclamation that she wouldn’t be coming to the wedding.
“Hello, darlin’,” Bethany said to Daphne in a hushed voice. “Mother… there’s Daphne. All the way from New York! Doesn’t she look pretty sittin’ at the harp?”
“Hello, hello,” Daphne whispered back. “See y’all later at the reception.”
She lightly
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