ELIZABETH SPENT MOST of dinner dreading the inevitable after-dinner wedding conference, which she was sure Amanda would inflict on her captive audience, but to her surprise Amanda was the first to leave the dining room. She bade everyone a brisk good night, with a few reminders of tomorrow’s tasks, and hurried upstairs.
“Isn’t she feeling well?” Elizabeth asked Charles.
“Oh, she always does that. We never see her after dinner. The rest of us go into the family room and drink coffee until we can think of something better to do, which for me will be at ten o’clock. They’re showing a special on television: Enrico Fermi and the Chicago Pile.”
“A horror movie about hemorrhoids, no doubt,” snapped Geoffrey. “Come along, Elizabeth. How do you take your coffee?”
Michael and Eileen announced that they were going outside for a walk and strolled off down the hallway, holding hands.
“Well, Elizabeth, it’s nice to see you again,” said Dr. Chandler, seeming to notice her for the first time. “How are Doug and Margaret?”
“Just fine, Uncle Robert. Mother wanted me to ask if the package they sent arrived.”
“Lord,
Elizabeth nodded.
“I just try to stay out of the way. How’s that wrist of yours doing?”
“My wrist, Uncle Robert?”
“Yes, wasn’t it you? I seem to recall one of you kids taking a tumble off that pony…”
“Oh, my wrist! It’s fine, Uncle Robert. Just fine.” And has been since I was twelve, Elizabeth thought. She barely remembered falling off the gray pony one summer and spraining her wrist. She had run to the house crying, and Dr. Chandler had wrapped it for her. Odd that he would remember. Either his memory ran strictly to medical incidents or her tumble had been the most memorable thing she had done at Chandler Grove. The doctor had bandaged her wrist skillfully, she recalled, showing considerable patience. He had been calm and in command of the situation, very much the figure of authority. Elizabeth had not seen him that way before or since.
Robert Chandler poured his coffee from Amanda’s silver coffee urn. “I hope you’ll excuse me,” he said pleasantly. “I have some paperwork waiting for me in the study.” He hurried out.
“Elizabeth, would you like the leather chair?” asked Geoffrey. “I’ll bring you your coffee. Oh, Mother’s plaid blanket is draped across the back of it. Shall I move it out of your way?”
Elizabeth smiled at the red and green cloth. “Plaid blanket! That’s the royal Stuart tartan. Leave it right where it is!”
“What ho, Cousin Elizabeth! Do I hear the bagpipes of the Clan MacPherson?”
Elizabeth blushed. “Well, there is a Clan MacPherson, you know. They were a branch of the Clan Chattan confederation.”
“What’s this?” laughed Alban. “Another history buff in the family?”
“Something far more sinister, I suspect,” said Geoffrey lightly. “I’d say that our cousin is a victim of that hereditary Southern disease, ancestor worship.”
“I am not!” Elizabeth retorted. “Dad is interested in it. And I wanted to get him a scarf for Christmas one year in the clan tartan, so I read up on the subject. It was very interesting.”
“Elizabeth! You mean you actually researched your family origins? Why didn’t you just claim to be descended from Bonnie Prince Charlie like all the other MacSnobs?”
“Because he never married!” snapped Elizabeth. “The MacPhersons fought with him, though, in the Rising of 1745, and helped him to escape after Culloden.”
“I congratulate you on your originality,” purred Geoffrey. “It seems you have been unable to escape the Southern weakness for lost causes, but at least you managed to avoid the conventional one. I would rather hear you go on about the Scottish Alamo than to hear about the Confederacy. I’ll scream if I hear one more person tell me that if we had just marched on to Washington after the first Battle of Manassas, we could have won the war in 1861.”
“Well, we could have,” said Elizabeth. “Everybody knows that!”
Alban started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” demanded Elizabeth.
“I’m sorry, Elizabeth,” Alban managed to say. “I’m not laughing at you. You just don’t know how refreshing it is to hear somebody else get raked over the coals for being a history buff!”
“What made you interested in Ludwig? You’re not related to him, are you?” asked Elizabeth.
“Oh, no. English on both sides,” Alban replied. “I think it was the style of the man that attracted me. He was such an idealist, yearning for medieval beauty in a world that was quickly plunging into the plastic twentieth century.”
“I’ll scream if I hear that speech again, too,” Geoffrey remarked.
“We hear rather a lot of one another’s hobbies around here,” said Louisa, smiling at Elizabeth. “Why, Charles, is that the
Geoffrey snickered. “Tell her about covalent bonding!”
Captain Grandfather looked up from
“Probably not,” said Charles cheerfully. “I’m turning on the television in five minutes. They’re having a special on physics.”
“Nuclear subs?” asked the old man hopefully.
“No. Sorry. Atomic reactors.”
Captain Grandfather sighed. “I think I’ll say good night, then. Getting on for ten o’clock, anyway. Louisa, shall I have one of these young scoundrels walk you across the street?”
“No, Dad. Just come and turn the porch light on for me. I’ll be fine.” She stood up to leave. “Elizabeth, so good to see you again! You must come over and see us while you’re here, and tell us how Doug and Margaret are doing.”
“They’re fine, Aunt Louisa. They would have come, only Dad had a sales convention-”
“Yes, dear. We quite understand. Good night.”
Elizabeth sighed. She supposed that she would have to go on explaining why her parents hadn’t come until the day she left, although no one seemed convinced by the explanation. There really was a sales convention, although its importance had been greatly exaggerated in the excuses to the Chandlers. The fact was that neither of her parents cared to spend any length of time in Chandler Grove. Margaret Chandler MacPherson, the youngest of Captain Grandfather’s three daughters, was not very much like her sisters. She had passed up her debutante season to marry Douglas MacPherson, and had been content in a suburban existence that did not include the country club or the Junior League. Most of her spare time was taken up with courses at the community college, where she had learned calligraphy, macrame, and conversational Spanish. Because of her parents’ lack of interest in social matters, Elizabeth had had no chance of becoming a debutante, and even though she was sure she would have hated it, she wished she had been given the option anyway. Part of the reason Elizabeth had agreed to come to the wedding was because she felt a flicker of gratitude that Eileen had chosen not to be a debutante by marrying Michael Satisky instead.
Charles, Geoffrey and Alban were crowded around the television set, fiddling with the dials. Listening to Geoffrey’s sardonic commentary on the program might have been fun, but she decided that she was too tired to stay up. If nobody was going to talk to her, she might as well go to bed.
“Well, I’m going upstairs!” she said loudly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
The only response was an absent wave from Geoffrey.
She went upstairs, thinking what a perfect house this was for a wedding. The red-carpeted stairway was a proper setting for the wedding pictures: Eileen on the landing with her train draped in a circular pattern beside her, with the other members of the wedding party on descending stairsteps.
I’m getting as bad as Aunt Amanda! she thought wryly.
She made a face at the yellow bridesmaid dress hanging in the closet. How corny can you get-yellow chiffon! She would want a winter wedding, and maybe-yes, maybe the bridesmaids could all wear black velvet bodices and long skirts of the MacPherson clan tartan! Now that would be stylish!
