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,
“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.
