Kate Kingsbury
Wedding Rows
The eighth book in the Manor House series, 2006
CHAPTER 1
Seated in the second row of the centuries-old church, Lady Elizabeth Hartleigh Compton folded her hands in her lap and gazed with satisfaction at the guests slowly filing into the narrow pews. There was something about a wedding that brought out the best in people.
Getting married in wartime presented a unique set of problems. On top of the usual flurry of preparations, there was the huge problem of securing gowns for the bride and her attendants. With clothes being on ration, finding enough coupons was daunting.
Once news of Priscilla Pierce’s upcoming springtime nuptials to Captain Wally Carbunkle had spread throughout the village, however, some of the most surprising people came forward.
Rita Crumm, for instance, who coveted her belongings as zealously as a squirrel hoarding nuts, was the first to present Priscilla with five precious coupons. Lilly, her daughter, followed soon after, though Elizabeth suspected that the young girl had responded to a certain amount of wrathful pressure from her mother.
One by one the offers had drifted in. Priscilla had given Elizabeth a full and tearful accounting during a visit to Wally’s cottage shortly before the much-anticipated invitations were sent out.
According to the prospective and exceedingly nervous bride, Bessie from the Bake Shop had offered to make the wedding cake, with donations of egg rations from her staff.
Following Rita Crumm’s example, or more likely her orders, the members of the Housewives League each pledged to bring food for the reception, to be held in the village hall. Florrie Evans, who turned out to be an adept seamstress, worked day and night to sew gowns not only for the bride, but also for the maid of honor and two bridesmaids.
Elizabeth herself had donated flowers from her gardens, while Earl Monroe, the American AAF major billeted in her mansion, offered to scrounge a silk parachute from the base for the wedding gown.
Priscilla and Wally issued an invitation to everyone who had contributed, and right now the tiny church seemed to be bursting at the seams. The vicar, Elizabeth reflected, would be most pleased to have such a bountiful attendance for a change.
Having given up most of her own coupons, she had elected to wear an elegant peach silk gown for the occasion. It had been in her possession for several years but was seldom worn. Her peaches-and-cream hat and gloves were new, but she’d made do with a pair of cream shoes that Desmond, her gardener and jack-of-all-trades, had made presentable by repairing the heels.
Seated next to her on the slim bench, Major Earl Monroe looked resplendent in his uniform. Elizabeth was hard put not to keep staring at him. She’d been afraid he might not be able to attend the wedding. For the last few weeks his absences had grown more frequent. Although he hadn’t admitted as much, Elizabeth knew he was flying missions over France and Germany. Dangerous missions that, according to reports in the newspaper, were taking a toll on the airplanes and the courageous men who flew in them.
The sight of him these days brought a small measure of relief, only to be replaced by terror every time he said good-bye again. She had learned to put her fear on hold while she was with him and concentrate instead in making the most of every second in his company.
Each time they met, the moment she set eyes on him she wanted to melt into his arms. Definitely unbecoming for the lady of the manor and quite out of the question. Then again, a lot of what went on in her mind was most unfitting for her position. Fortunately, few people were aware of her great passion for the handsome major, and she intended to keep it that way. It was enough to know he shared her affection, even if protocol demanded that they hide it under a guise of mutual friendship.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a thunderous and discordant blast of chords from the organ. Since Priscilla was the church organist, a replacement had to be found for the occasion. An elderly woman had been brought in from North Horsham to oblige, and it was obvious that her competence on the organ was only slighter better than Priscilla’s often agonizing performances.
Heads had turned toward the rear of the church in eager expectation. Wally, looking like a nervous, aging penguin in his black coattails, peeked over his shoulder for the first sight of his bride. His brother, whom Elizabeth had yet to meet, stood at his side. Neville Carbunkle was a fatter, shorter version of Wally, and he lacked the abundance of winter-white hair and beard sported by the retired sea captain.
Elizabeth was intrigued to notice that Neville seemed to be paying more attention than was appropriate to the gray-haired woman at the organ. Wally was fast approaching sixty and had mentioned that his brother was older by two years. Obviously the elder of the Carbunkle brothers was not going to be outdone by the romantic achievements of his younger sibling.
Turning her head, Elizabeth watched the procession move slowly down the long aisle, headed by an elegant middle-aged woman dressed in dark blue satin.
Earl leaned closer and whispered in her ear. “Is that Priscilla’s sister?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth whispered back. “That’s Daphne Winterhalter.”
“Doesn’t look at all like Priscilla.”
“Daphne’s quite a bit younger. Not yet forty, I believe.”
“And a heck of a lot more glamorous.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “That’s her husband, Rodney. The tall, gray-haired man in the first row. He’s a well-known surgeon in Cambridge. Her daughter, Tess, is one of the bridesmaids. Priscilla’s friend, Fiona Farnsworth, is the other one.”
Watching the bridesmaids follow sedately behind the maid of honor, Elizabeth had to admire Florrie’s handiwork. The satin gowns were the same color as that worn by the maid of honor, but with shorter skirts and more daring necklines.
Priscilla’s niece, Tess, looked magnificent. Shorter than her mother by several inches, she had nevertheless inherited Daphne’s high cheekbones and dark, expressive eyes. Unlike Daphne’s tinted auburn hair, however, the young bridesmaid’s soft curls gleamed as black as a moonless sky. The slender woman at her side was closer to Priscilla’s age, mid forties, but striving to look younger judging by the heavily painted lips and eyes. Her shining mane of red hair was far too startling to be natural.
“You’ll meet them all later,” Elizabeth whispered to Earl, as the procession halted in front of the vicar. “The Winterhalters are staying at the manor. Priscilla has only one bedroom in her flat, and she’s sharing that with Fiona. They haven’t seen each other for about thirty years, but-” She broke off as the organist crashed out the chords to the “Wedding March,” and all heads turned again to the rear of the church.
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.
