“The first of July of this year?” purred Geoffrey. “Speaking of blessed events, perhaps?”
“No. I understand that the haste has something to do with an invitation to meet the Queen.”
Geoffrey strove to look unimpressed. “This will be an occasion of note, then,” he murmured. “Perhaps we should both brush up on wedding etiquette, Charles.”
Charles’s lips tightened. “I am a scientist,” he announced grandly. “My concerns are above matters of social conventions. I am unworldly.”
“You are unearthly,” Geoffrey agreed pleasantly. “Now run along, Charles. I must go and consult, before Elizabeth concocts an absolutely ghastly public spectacle.”
When the door to his room had closed (with more force than is strictly necessary to move a hinged pine board), Geoffrey Chandler walked back to the window and looked across the road at the confection of turrets gleaming in the moonlight. His cousin Alban’s architectural flight of fancy had ceased to be merely silly a few years earlier when tragedy had ended plans for another family wedding. Even after years of familiarity had rendered the castle commonplace, Geoffrey could not look at it without a feeling of disquiet. To him the castle did not conjure up thoughts of Disneyland and Bavarian calendars, but memories of madness and family sorrow. He wished it had been built of spun sugar rather than Georgia granite so that it would melt away in the spring rains. Just as well that Elizabeth was not lumbering her wedding with the emotional baggage of Cousin Alban’s castle, he thought. He wondered what she did have in mind.
Charles Chandler stalked off down the hall, trying to mutter the quote about a prophet being without honor in his own country, but he kept getting tangled up over the wording. Literary matters were not within his realm of expertise. The sentiments were right, though, he thought with a stab of self-pity. Not only was he without honor in his own family-much of the time he was without ordinary politeness as well. Charles, the earnest and ascetic scientist, felt so out of place in his hearty country family that he took refuge in fantasizing himself as a changeling. He often wondered if Carl Sagan had a son his age who liked touch football and tailgate picnics; and if so, could they arrange to have blood tests?
He wished that it had not been necessary for him to come home again, but his other place of residence, the scientific commune to which he had belonged since college, had been struck by what Charles liked to call Sunnyvale Syndrome, leading to its disbanding and to the relinquishing of the group’s long-term lease on the property. The symptoms of Sunnyvale Syndrome included a sudden aversion to orange crates used as furniture and an uncontrollable urge to possess a BMW. In short, Charles’s scientific cronies had sold out. One by one, as they passed into their third decade of life, the commune members began to seek out jobs in the computer industry; some of them even applied for teaching positions on the same college campuses they had fled not so long before.
“Face it, Charles,” said one deserting yuppie, “even if you are the next Einstein, as long as you stay unaffiliated with a university or corporation, you’re never going to get a grant to fund your work, and anyway, the Nobel prizes are rigged politically, so you’d never get one. No bucks, no glory. I mean, what’s the point, man?”
Others had warned him about the so-called biological clock of physicists, which was just as ominous in its way as the baby deadline was to women. Charles was past thirty. Virtually all of the great discoveries in the theoretical sciences are made by young minds, his colleagues reminded him. Einstein proposed his special theory of relativity at the age of twenty-six. His fellow physicists Niels Bohr and Werner Heisenberg had won their Nobel prizes by the time they were twenty-eight. Didn’t Charles think that it was time to face the obvious; shouldn’t he start considering tenure and tax shelters? Stung by their lack of faith in his ability, Charles had retorted that Isaac Newton had been a late bloomer, and that he would show them who was over the hill, but they had given him pitying, disbelieving smiles, and told him to keep the orange crates.
Then he tried to persuade them to spend a few more months testing cold fusion theories. According to reports in the journals, those experiments could be conducted in an ordinary kitchen without expensive equipment; anyone who succeeded in producing cold fusion would become immeasurably rich. Surely it was worth a try? They thought not. With ill-concealed grins they had pleaded prior commitments, so in the end, Charles packed his duffel bag and two orange crates and went home to Chandler Grove. Now he was trying to decide what to do, in case he didn’t manage to discover the process of cold fusion. He had nightmares in which Einstein and Alfred Nobel sang “Happy Birthday” to him over a blazing cake with dynamite sticks for candles. He would wake up screaming just as the explosion began. The fact that Charles’s sister had spent years in a mental institution did nothing for his peace of mind. Nor did his parents’ patronizing attitude toward his work. He thought his parents’ hospitality, and his own ability to endure it, might last until the end of the summer.
He welcomed his cousin Elizabeth’s forthcoming wedding as a diversion for the rest of the family. Perhaps everyone would become so occupied in meddling in her business that they would have less time to bother Charles. The sooner this occurred the better, he thought, and to that end he continued spreading the news about Elizabeth’s wedding to all the relatives he could find.
His next stop was a pine-paneled study in the back of the house, decorated with ship models and a framed photograph of Tom Clancy. There William Chandler, affectionately known to his daughters’ children as Captain Grandfather, kept himself busy with matters maritime. The old gentleman was seated at his keyhole desk, immersed in the latest edition of Jane’s Fighting Ships.
“Captain Grandfather!”
The old man looked up, frowning at the interruption. His displeasure with his eldest grandson had been clear for some time now, and he had taken to leaving Coast Guard brochures near Charles’s place at the dinner table. “Well, what is it?”
Charles endeavored to look enthusiastic. “Have you heard the news? Elizabeth is getting married!”
The response was a sour look. “What does that mean?” Captain Grandfather demanded. “Tired of graduate school, is she? I wish just one of my grandchildren would have the gumption…”
Charles stood silently through the tirade, trying to think of something else.
“And who’s the groom, pray? I suppose she told him about the inheritance.”
A look of wonder illuminated Charles’s unexceptional features. He had completely forgotten about the inheritance.
Ian Dawson was still in the garden, reading one of his brother’s science magazines when Cameron returned, decidedly paler than when he left.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Ian. “You’re looking rather peculiar. More so than usual, I mean.”
“I’m getting married,” said Cameron.
“Yes, I know.”
“I mean soon.”
Ian burst out laughing. “Let me guess! In time for the Royal Garden Party.”
Cameron nodded. “July first.”
“Well, congratulations and all that,” said Ian, still grinning. “I take it this is voluntary.”
“Yes, of course. But sudden.”
“Well, I hope it achieves its aim. Did you get up with the Fettes fiend who landed you in this mess?”
“Yes. Fortunately he was in his office. I explained to him that I was getting married before the event and would like to bring my bride.”
“Not telling him how suddenly this wedding had been arranged, I hope?”
“No. He’d have laughed himself into fits.”
“And did he promise to get her in?”