Ellie,” whispered Ben.
The girl didn’t say thank you. She stood under the quivering branches, my roses pressed against her face like a painted fan, their scent drifting between us. The wind bit through my gown and grazed my veil against my cheek. I drew closer to Ben. What more could I want from life than to be warm and dry and alone with him?
“What’s your name?” I asked the girl.
“Jenny Spender.”
“We’re pleased to have met you,” Ben said.
“Me, too.” She looked at me.
“Well …” Ben squeezed my arm. “Darling, our carriage awaits, unless it has turned into a pumpkin.”
He laughed and I joined in, but only to gain time. Unwelcome memory slid into place. There was no white-ribboned taxi to pick us up in state and deliver us at the portals of Merlin’s Court. I had been so angry with the taxi driver who had failed to get me to the church at all, let alone on time, I had not only told him to get lost, I had informed him I would puncture his tyres the next time I saw his vehicle. I had planned to thumb a ride from one of our guests. And, I brightened, it might still be possible to leap onto a running board if we hurried.
“Ben, I don’t know how to tell you this …” Evading Ben’s frown, I smiled at the solemn girl with plaits, who was now sitting on the bottom church step, fingering the roses.
“Ellie darling”—Ben rubbed the rain from his brow and worked up a smile—“wouldn’t a smallish tip have sufficiently made your point?”
He was right, and with a quiver of repentance, I realised that a certain heedlessness which may be thought appealing in a fiancée is unacceptable in a wife.
“Let’s go, Mrs. Haskell,” he said. At least it had stopped raining. And he’d called me Mrs. Haskell.
We were halfway down the path when Rowland stepped out from between trees into our path. The last of the cars vanished through the gateway.
“A charmingly eventful wedding.” He smiled as we joined him.
“Thank you.” Was that …? Yes it was!
A vehicle approached. Rubbing my chilled arms, I saw Ben’s face relax. A samaritan was coming back for us. A long dark car broke through the gloom, and immediately my optimism evaporated. No hope of this conveyance offering us a lift home. It was a hearse.
“I’m sorry about this unfortunate er … scheduling overlap,” Rowland touched my arm, then moved to walk alongside the hearse with measured steps, silvered head bent, cassock fluttering in the wind. Poor Rowland, this wasn’t his fault.
A procession of vehicles grimly slid through the gates.
“We’d better duck out of the way,” said Ben. “We strike a disharmonious note.”
“Won’t we be more conspicuous fleeing between the graves?”
He looked unconvinced. The cars drew to a standstill.Doors opened and closed. Were we to move a foot, we would be trapped in the surge of mourners and swept back into the church. Out from the lead car stepped a tall woman with silver blue hair, clad in a military-style mulberry coat. A handkerchief was clutched to her eyes. Soldiering up beside her were two tweedy, middle-aged women. The other mourners kept a respectful distance. As the woman in the mulberry coat and her companions neared the church steps, they suddenly halted. I realised why when a white scrap of cloth streamed toward me. The wind had grabbed her hanky. A few mourners futilely snatched at the air. The hanky blew right into my hand.
“I thought you couldn’t catch,” said Ben.
“Sorry.” I hitched up my skirts and hastened across the gravel to the woman.
“Frightfully kind of you. I do hope …” Her voice broke. Pressing the hanky to her eyes, she turned away. “I do hope that this”—she blindly waved a hand toward the coffin being lifted up the steps—“has not cast a blight on your day.”
“Oh, not at all!” I hastened to assure her, then realised I must sound callous. “Please do accept my condolences on the loss of … of …”
“My
The girl didn’t say thank you. She stood under the quivering branches, my roses pressed against her face like a painted fan, their scent drifting between us. The wind bit through my gown and grazed my veil against my cheek. I drew closer to Ben. What more could I want from life than to be warm and dry and alone with him?
“What’s your name?” I asked the girl.
“Jenny Spender.”
“We’re pleased to have met you,” Ben said.
“Me, too.” She looked at me.
“Well …” Ben squeezed my arm. “Darling, our carriage awaits, unless it has turned into a pumpkin.”
He laughed and I joined in, but only to gain time. Unwelcome memory slid into place. There was no white-ribboned taxi to pick us up in state and deliver us at the portals of Merlin’s Court. I had been so angry with the taxi driver who had failed to get me to the church at all, let alone on time, I had not only told him to get lost, I had informed him I would puncture his tyres the next time I saw his vehicle. I had planned to thumb a ride from one of our guests. And, I brightened, it might still be possible to leap onto a running board if we hurried.
“Ben, I don’t know how to tell you this …” Evading Ben’s frown, I smiled at the solemn girl with plaits, who was now sitting on the bottom church step, fingering the roses.
“Ellie darling”—Ben rubbed the rain from his brow and worked up a smile—“wouldn’t a smallish tip have sufficiently made your point?”
He was right, and with a quiver of repentance, I realised that a certain heedlessness which may be thought appealing in a fiancée is unacceptable in a wife.
“Let’s go, Mrs. Haskell,” he said. At least it had stopped raining. And he’d called me Mrs. Haskell.
We were halfway down the path when Rowland stepped out from between trees into our path. The last of the cars vanished through the gateway.
“A charmingly eventful wedding.” He smiled as we joined him.
“Thank you.” Was that …? Yes it was!
A vehicle approached. Rubbing my chilled arms, I saw Ben’s face relax. A samaritan was coming back for us. A long dark car broke through the gloom, and immediately my optimism evaporated. No hope of this conveyance offering us a lift home. It was a hearse.
“I’m sorry about this unfortunate er … scheduling overlap,” Rowland touched my arm, then moved to walk alongside the hearse with measured steps, silvered head bent, cassock fluttering in the wind. Poor Rowland, this wasn’t his fault.
A procession of vehicles grimly slid through the gates.
“We’d better duck out of the way,” said Ben. “We strike a disharmonious note.”
“Won’t we be more conspicuous fleeing between the graves?”
He looked unconvinced. The cars drew to a standstill.Doors opened and closed. Were we to move a foot, we would be trapped in the surge of mourners and swept back into the church. Out from the lead car stepped a tall woman with silver blue hair, clad in a military-style mulberry coat. A handkerchief was clutched to her eyes. Soldiering up beside her were two tweedy, middle-aged women. The other mourners kept a respectful distance. As the woman in the mulberry coat and her companions neared the church steps, they suddenly halted. I realised why when a white scrap of cloth streamed toward me. The wind had grabbed her hanky. A few mourners futilely snatched at the air. The hanky blew right into my hand.
“I thought you couldn’t catch,” said Ben.
“Sorry.” I hitched up my skirts and hastened across the gravel to the woman.
“Frightfully kind of you. I do hope …” Her voice broke. Pressing the hanky to her eyes, she turned away. “I do hope that this”—she blindly waved a hand toward the coffin being lifted up the steps—“has not cast a blight on your day.”
“Oh, not at all!” I hastened to assure her, then realised I must sound callous. “Please do accept my condolences on the loss of … of …”
“My
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