“Ellie, you were a lovely bride.” Rowland recaptured my attention.
I felt myself blushing; I’m not used to compliments. Ben was helping Miss Thorn off with her coat.
“It goes without saying,” Rowland continued, “that I wish both of you the best of everything. I think we have become friends and I value that.”
“So do we, don’t we, Ben?”
The noise level shot back up, and suddenly Rowland was hauled away by a female parishioner. Miss Thorn edged up close, her knobby hands clasped to her concave chest. “You may smile, Mrs. Haskell, but when I was a girl I used to lie awake at night and dream of being inside this house. So romantic a place! Exactly like those in Mr. Digby’s thrillers.” She peered round. “I don’t suppose he is here among us?”
“We may never know for sure; but I doubt it. Isn’t he known to be unsociable?” My voice was drowned out by the hubbub.
“Incredible as it may sound, I have never been here before. Unless we count the front steps. Years ago I came to ask if I might buy any old telephone directories”-Miss Thorn knotted her bony hands together-“but old Merlin Grantham threatened to drop the portcullis on me when I left. Such a colourful character, wasn’t he, like Mr. Digby or Smuggler Jim?”
The spectacles had cleared and her eyes were nice. A warm doggy brown.
“And then you came! So thrilling! The young heiress returning to the ancestral home”-a maiden-lady glance at Ben-“accompanied by a dark, handsome man from the big city. The village concluded you were cousins of sorts.”
“How charitable,” said Ben. Then, like an echo of our conversation, a voice drifted up from a leopard-skin hat.
“… Quite like a fairy tale-in every sense of the word; the best man a hairdresser.”
Miss Thorn was saying she would take her coat upstairs, pretty herself up a bit, and then (if we wished) be delighted to play for her supper. But she became another piece of human flotsam before I could tell her the harpsichord was stuck in the boxroom.
“Miss-Mrs. Haskell! Fancy meeting you again so soon! And Mr. Haskell!” The man with the oversized mop of black hair and jaundiced complexion, who had admitted us to the house, stalled in his tracks and affected a look of immense surprise and delight. He tucked two fingers into the pocket of his yellow waistcoat, then handed Ben a small white card.
“Vernon Daffy, estate agent. Five hundred houses sold in the past five years. My best wishes on this auspicious occasion. Should you wish to trade up, or down, remember we’re the best in town! Feel at liberty to phone day or night. Sometime in the near future you must tour our office-we offer free coffee.” All the while he was addressing my husband and me, Mr. Daffy was looking at Miss Thorn’s head, bobbing up the stairs.
“Thought I just heard that female say something to you about a thrill of a lifetime,” he said.
“Her first visit to this house,” I explained.
A burst of laughter from our rear. Mr. Daffy rubbed ginger-haired hands together. “Couldn’t for the life of me think what she could be talking about. Shouldn’t think her life is fizzing with excitement-ugly duck, isn’t she?” His eyes followed the sweep of the staircase. “A lot of charm these old places, wouldn’t lie to you on that score. But they don’t fetch what they did. Too much upkeep. Notice second bannister from bottom is loose. Now I concede that a certain amount of dilapidation may be complimentary to your antiques but…”
Mercifully, we were borne backward by the surging masses. Mr. Daffy’s voice drifted away like a man gone overboard. “Better find the wife-name’s Shirley, but I always call her Froggy.”
“I wouldn’t trust that man to sell me an egg timer,” said Ben. “Ancient proverb, Ellie, never trust anyone, male or female, when the hair on their hands doesn’t match the hair on their head.”
“Imagine,” I said, “a man calling his wife Froggy!”
I was talking to myself. Ben was gone. Attempting to follow, I was swept in the opposite direction.
Someone bumped into me. Dorcas! She was enveloped in one of Ben’s aprons and was holding my cat Tobias, looking a bit overdressed by comparison in his white satin bow.
“Thank God, you’re alive,” she rasped into my ear. She handed me Tobias, but taking exception to my veil, he leapt, hissing, onto her shoulder. “Where’s Ben?”
I explained.
“Never fear, Ellie, old chum, he’ll turn up.” Dorcas yanked at her apron straps. “Hell’s bells. Best say it and be done. I’ve bad news for you.”
I hate sentences that begin that way. Had a notice arrived from the Archbishop of Canterbury voiding my marriage until further notice? Or-I clutched an anonymous shoulder to steady myself-had Ben’s parents been fatally injured while speeding down the motorway in a rush to be with us after all?
“The temporary household help,” Dorcas continued, “has proved unsatisfactory.”
“Surely not,” I shouted, “the estimable bartender described by you as Lord Peter Wimsey come to life?”
Dorcas nodded bleakly. “His lordship sampled the gin. Found him in the pantry, face down in the lobster aspic. Sid Fowler put him to bed in one of the spare rooms.”
This was bad. That aspic was the culmination of months of experimentation. Ben might be so anguished he would be unable to function for the rest of the day-or night.
“It won’t be missed,” I lied. “What about the woman who came in to serve and do the washing up? Is she, by the good Lord’s grace, still on her feet?”
“Mrs. Malloy? She’s walking around, but not in a straight line.”
“From the general state of inebriation, I surmise our guests have been mixing their own poison.”
Dorcas shook her head and Tobias clamped a paw on it. “Jonas took over drinks, while Mrs. M. and I began getting the food out. He fixed a punch. Equal quantities of scotch, gin, vodka, brandy, and champagne. Can’t blame the old chap! Never drinks anything stronger than Ovaltine himself. But I agree mightily, Ellie, either we get some food into these people to sop up the booze or offer overnight hospitality.”
My heart sank. Already I was counting the minutes until I could get Ben into our hotel room. I would don my pearl-pink nightdress and he’d insist I take it off again, at once…
“Let’s find Ben,” I said, “he’ll be putting the final touches to the buffet table.”
“Can’t take Tobias into the drawing room.” Dorcas reached up a hand to haul him down but he leapt from her shoulder, ran along a roof of hats and was gone.
Dorcas snorted. “Already fetched him out of there twice. That antique dealer, Delacorte, is allergic to cats. Don’t like the man. But don’t want him ill.”
I agreed. People might think it was the food. “Better let me chase down Tobias while you put on some records.”
“Hope you can find him in this mob.”
“Foolish friend”-I patted her shoulder-“where food is, there too is Mr. T.”
“… The milkman told me she had done a marvellous job restoring the place.” I smiled at the leopard-skin hat who made this kind remark and began making circles like someone trapped in a revolving door. I would also do a marvellous job decorating the restaurant.
“And the butcher told me”-it was the same voice-“she inherited a bundle of money. Even so, she’ll be wise to keep busy; it’s my guess it won’t be long before she finds herself scribbling a few lines to Dear Felicity Friend.”
I was almost afraid to enter the drawing room. Unsuppressed sigh of relief. No overturned flower vases. No pictures knocked cockeyed on the walls. Lamplight illuminated the sheen of polished walnut and ivory brocade; and, as so often happened, Abigail’s portrait above the mantel warmed me more than the ruby glow of the fire. The wedding cake rose in tiered, pristine splendour on its own table.