The boy moved his head from side to side in a negative shake.
“Good boy. Now go on with what you’re doing.” Sheila patted him on the shoulder then turned back to Elizabeth. “You’ll have to excuse him, m’m. It’s the shock, you see. He hasn’t spoken since the night Amelia died.”
She’d barely finished speaking when the most terrible sound echoed through the rafters of the cowshed.
Elizabeth’s stomach turned when she realized the awful noise was coming from Maurice-his head thrown back as the agonized wail poured from his mouth in a torrent of uncontrolled grief.
“Oh, poor baby!” Sheila cried and rushed over to his side, her arms enfolding him against her bosom.
Elizabeth left them there, certain she would never forget that dreadful sound for as long as she lived. She was almost at the door of the shed when she saw a navy blue jacket hanging from a nail on one of the doorposts. It was a reefer jacket, and as far as she could see, every highly polished button was intact.
An hour later she parked her motorcycle in the street alongside the tearoom and prepared herself for the forthcoming ordeal. Once Rita found out that the important mission was nothing more demanding than decorating the town hall for a dance, Elizabeth was quite certain she would raise all kinds of objections.
It was up to her, Elizabeth reminded herself, to make the assignment sound as exciting as possible. In any case, it would do some of these women good to get involved with something frivolous for a change. The war had made things so unutterably dreary, it was up to all of them to make an effort to enjoy themselves for once.
The tearoom was once a part of a rather impressive house, owned by a wealthy merchant at the turn of the century. Shortly after Elizabeth was born, the merchant fell upon bad times, due mostly to the collapse of the British Empire. Deprived of most of his foreign trade, the merchant auctioned his house and moved to London in pursuit of more lucrative endeavors.
Bessie’s father had won the bid and turned the servants’ quarters into a bakery. The wall between the once elegant drawing room and the vast library had been torn down and the space converted into a fashionable tearoom. Bessie, as sole heir, had inherited the business upon her father’s death.
Having been taught as a child and handed down her father’s secret recipes, Bessie proved to be an even better pastry chef than he had been. She had added her own special touches to the quaint tearoom, such as hand-painted flower boxes on all the window sills, shiny horse brasses pinned to black and red leather straps hanging on the walls, and bright copper tea urns decorating the fireplace, where a coal fire burned for much of the year.
Delicate lace curtains hung at the leaded pane windows, and embroidered lace edged the white linen tablecloths, which were lovingly laundered by Bessie and hung on the line to dry in the back garden. The fragrance of fresh flowers and greenery wafted around the arrangements on each table, mingling with the delightful aroma of coffee and fresh-baked bread.
The room had an aura of welcome about it, as if one were paying a private visit to a dear friend’s house, and the cheerful service given by Bessie’s staff emphasized that feeling. Although Elizabeth rarely visited the tearoom, she invariably enjoyed herself here and came away with a conviction that, like the Manor House, as long as Bessie’s tearoom was there, the traditions of Sitting Marsh would remain relatively unscathed by the ravages of war.
The clamor of chattering voices faded one by one when Elizabeth stepped through the door, until a respectful hush fell over the room. Rita rose from her seat at the table nearest the door, where no doubt she had been holding court over the entire room.
“Lady Elizabeth,” she announced in the haughty tone she reserved for such an occasion.
Elizabeth graciously inclined her head at the murmured echoes of greetings. “I do hope I haven’t kept you all waiting.”
“Not at all, your ladyship,” Rita said briskly. “I think everyone is here. I have reserved a chair for you at my table.”
Elizabeth stifled her pang of resentment at Rita’s obvious attempt to upstage her. “Thank you, Rita, that is most kind of you.” She took the seat offered her and sat down, smoothing her skirt beneath her.
Bessie came bustling out, her face wreathed in smiles as usual. “Lady Elizabeth! I thought I heard your voice. The ladies informed me you were hosting this event this afternoon.”
Elizabeth smiled back. “That’s right, Bessie. Please bring everyone afternoon tea, and I’ll settle with you later.” She would have to come up with a brilliant plan for the settlement of such a large bill, she thought as Bessie scurried away to the kitchen. But that could wait until later. Her proposition was the important issue at that moment.
“Ladies! I have an announcement to make,” she called out, rising to her feet again. “I’d like to get the business part of this meeting over with first, then we can all relax and enjoy our tea.”
An array of hats with curious eyes beneath the various brims turned in her direction.
She waited until she had everyone’s rapt attention then cleared her throat. “As you are no doubt aware, relations between the Americans and the people of Sitting Marsh have been somewhat strained. I would like to attempt to remedy that.”
A smattering of comments greeted her words, while Rita began, “If I might-”
Elizabeth silenced them all with a raised hand. “Please hear me out, then everyone can have their say. I called a council meeting this afternoon, and we have decided to hold a dance in honor of our American guests. Everyone will be invited, including the soldiers from Beerstowe.”
This time the chatter was much more vibrant. Elizabeth had to shout in order to be heard. “Ladies! The dance will be held this Saturday, and since this is such short notice, we desperately need your help to decorate the town hall and perhaps help Bessie provide refreshments.”
Again a burst of comments and questions broke forth. Rita’s cheeks glowed as she rose, one hand raised to silence her followers. “Ladies, please.” She turned to Elizabeth. “A dance at the town hall, your ladyship? In two days? Isn’t that asking just a bit too much?”
“Go on, Rita, you’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first.” Clara Rigglesby smirked as the others giggled.
“You’re right,” someone else said. “Blimey, just think of the fun we could have at a dance with them Yanks.”
“Better hope our husbands don’t get to hear of it, then,” muttered Joan Plumstone, a thin-faced woman with a sour disposition.
“Oh, belt up, Joan,” her companion said, giving her a nudge in the arm. “Who’s going to tell them? What the eyes don’t see the heart won’t grieve over.”
“Yeah, don’t forget. Loose lips sink ships.”
Nellie Smith, now wearing a large, floppy-brimmed hat, waved her hand. “Your ladyship, does that mean you’re inviting the soldiers from the camp as well?”
“Anyone who wants to come,” Elizabeth assured her.
“How much is it going to cost to go, m’m?” Clara asked.
“I hadn’t really thought about that.” Elizabeth did some fast calculations in her head. “I suppose we could charge everyone sixpence, the way we do at the village hall.”
“At least a shilling,” Rita argued, apparently realizing she was outnumbered in her skepticism. “After all, the town hall is much bigger and better than the village hall.”
“We’re not going to have Ernie’s Entertainers, are we?” someone asked.
A chorus of deep groans followed that question.
“No, we’re not.” Bessie arrived on the scene carrying a huge tray loaded with teapots. “We’re going to play my Philip’s records. You’d all better learn to jive and jitterbug if you’re going to dance with the Yanks.”
A ripple of excitement ran through the crowd.
“I’d like to see a Yank throw me over his shoulder,” a chubby woman commented.