The Windsor Knot

help!”

“No, not at all. You’re entitled to know.” Tommy could hear the self-justification in his own voice, as if he were denying responsibility for the outcome of this discussion.

Tommy Simmons wheeled his cart toward the checkout counters with the inexorable feeling that while he may have been helpful to Charles Chandler, he had also just been a great nuisance to somebody else. He wondered who would suffer from Charles’s newfound discovery.

Although the wedding of Elizabeth MacPherson was still more than ten days away, the atmosphere on the Chandler premises had begun to take on that charged quality indicative of approaching thunderstorms. Both Amanda and Mildred, the housekeeper, had taken to following the other occupants about with hand-held vacuum cleaners; the carpeting was clammy from frenzied applications of rug shampoo; and the smell of Murphy’s Oil Soap lingered in the air.

Moreover, despite all attempts to convey to Amanda their sincere and complete indifference to the impending occasion, the male Chandlers were endlessly regaled with the minutiae of the plans concerning the decorations, the reception, and the costumes of the participants, themselves included.

In desperation Dr. Robert Chandler had invented the necessity to rewrite chapter seven of his book on the whim of his editor, who was conveniently away on vacation in Nassau, unaware that he had been cast as the villain of the charade. The fugitive author had taken refuge in his study, ostensibly to complete this vital task, with strict orders that he was not to be disturbed, and his wife supposed him to be toiling away before the silent word processor in thrall to a deadline. He was careful to keep the television volume turned low and to hide his cache of Louis L’Amour novels behind the filing cabinet in case of unannounced visits from the wedding terrorists.

The doctor’s companion in exile was Valerian, an imposing Maine Coon Cat, whose shaggy and shedding dark coat had thrown him into disfavor with the current regime. After having been driven from the sofa, the armchair, and even the carpeted staircase by cleaning fanatics, the feline emperor had demanded asylum by scratching on the door of the doctor’s study and meowing piteous complaints about his ill-treatment. All eighteen pounds of him were now comatose and sprawled across the book galleys as he recuperated from the fatigue of an interrupted nap. His fellow refugee napped in the chesterfield chair by the window.

When someone tapped softly at the door of the study, Dr. Chandler awoke with a start-and with just enough presence of mind to thrust his paperback between the seat cushion and the arm of the chair. Valerian did not twitch so much as an eyelid.

“Come in!” called Dr. Chandler, scrambling to get to his desk. Unfortunately, his manuscript was buried under an avalanche of cat, so he endeavored to look busy with a yellow legal pad.

“Robert, I thought you might like some coffee,” said his wife, appearing in the doorway with two cups and a plate of cookies on a newly polished silver tray. The tray and the fact that the cups were from a set of antique Bavarian china, usually kept in the bow-fronted display cabinet, were other signs of the rampant formality occasioned by the wedding. “I see you plan to join me, dear,” said Dr. Chandler, eyeing the second coffee cup. “How thoughtful.”

The invasion having been accomplished with the utmost civility, Amanda set the tray on the glass-topped table and settled into the chesterfield chair with the air of one who is about to preside at a meeting. “How is your chapter coming?” she asked, handing him the plate of cookies.

“Oh, tolerably,” he replied, glancing nervously at the cat. “It’s painstaking work, you know.”

“No. I cannot think why anyone would want to write a book. It pays very little and people only seem to read them in order to express unkind opinions about them.” She shrugged. “Really, why bother? But you go right ahead with your little hobby. I just wanted to tell you how things were progressing with the wedding.”

“Elizabeth isn’t even here yet,” he grumbled, thinking it only fair that the blushing bride should share in the general inconvenience.

“No, but that hardly matters, does it? Brides are a nuisance, anyway. They always come up with the most unsuitable ideas and often one has to be quite firm with them.”

“Why shouldn’t she have some say-so, Amanda? It’s her wedding!”

Amanda laughed. “Really, Robert, you might as well ask the cow how it wants the roast cooked. Elizabeth will be wise to leave everything to me, as I have a great deal of experience in social matters. She did phone to ask about locating one of her old school friends from high school. Wants her for a bridesmaid.”

“And were you able to assist her?”

“Oh, yes. She certainly isn’t hard to find.” Amanda paused for effect. “It’s Jenny Ramsay.”

Dr. Chandler thought hard. “That name sounds familiar. Have we met her?”

“Every day for four years, Robert. She’s the weather girl on Channel Four.”

“Oh! Jenny. The perky little blonde who does the parades and things.”

“Exactly. Elizabeth hasn’t seen her since high school, but apparently they’d made some sort of teenage promise to be bridesmaids at each other’s wedding. I told you brides were dangerous.”

“She’ll look quite nice as a bridesmaid.”

“Certainly she will.” Amanda looked as if she wanted to add something, but apparently she thought better of it. “Oh, well!” she said with a little laugh. “Where was I? Oh, yes. I have made an appointment with Country Garden in Chandler Grove so that we can talk about the flowers-Elizabeth will be able to contribute to that discussion. And I have spoken to Mr. Compton at the community college about handling the photography. Now the caterers pose a bit of a problem. Lucy Bedford is on vacation this month and I had counted on using her. However, Charles recommended a new group in town. He has spoken to them and they are coming out tomorrow, so perhaps it will be all right.” Pushing her reading glasses back on the top of her head, she took an appraising look at her husband. “I’ll need to take a look at you in your black suit, dear. I did think that morning coats might be nice, but we can’t be sure of what the groom is planning to wear. Possibly a kilt.”

“He’s on his own, then.”

“He will have to be telephoned. I will delegate that to Elizabeth. Now, is there anything else I’ve forgotten?”

“Are you sure this is all right with Doug and Margaret? She’s their only daughter, you know.”

Amanda looked thoughtful. “I imagine it’s a great relief, really. You know that Margaret’s idea of formal entertaining is two tables of bridge. Besides, I think they may see it as a kindness.”

“How’s that?”

“Because we lost our little girl just before her wedding.” To her husband’s surprise, the brisk efficiency dissolved into the faltering voice of one trying very hard to overcome great obstacles.

Dr. Chandler kissed his wife’s cheek. “If there’s anything I can do, Amanda, just let me know.”

She patted his hand. “Thank you, Robert. I am managing well enough right now. You go back to your cowboy book.” With that she picked up the tray and was gone.

CHAPTER 6

ELIZABETH LOOKED AT the collection of mismatched and battered luggage heaped on the pavement beside her car. Each suitcase and totebag bore an identifying label (Cosmetics; Shoes; Stationery) so that she could find the items she had flung inside in the little time she’d had to pack.

“If I were organized, I would be taking only half this much,” she mused. As it was, she had thrown everything into the baggage, just to make sure that she wasn’t missing anything that would later turn out to be vital. She would have a difficult time fitting the untidy mound into her little car.

Elizabeth’s one point of satisfaction in seeing the mismatched heap was its striking resemblance to a pile of luggage pictured in one of her ubiquitous books on the royal family (they were now stashed in a black canvas suitcase labeled Books on Royal Family). Someone had photographed the Queen’s baggage at dockside, waiting to be loaded onto the royal yacht Britannia; there was a jumble of leather suitcases, cardboard boxes, green canvas bags, British Airways totebags, and black trunks, all