She sighed. “I have to admit, it wasn’t one of my better ideas.”
“Well, since I’m the only ‘bloody Yank’ here, as the villagers are fond of calling us, you don’t have to worry about anything upsetting this little shindig.”
“Not unless Martin decides to sample the cake. I’d better get over there.”
She left his side with reluctance. Her moments with Earl were all too brief lately. His duties at the base kept him busy, and what little time he could spare with her gave them scant opportunities for meaningful conversation. Which perhaps was just as well.
With a divorce pending, Earl had promised to keep his distance until the matter was settled. Even then, so many problems regarding their relationship would still exist. His home in America and her duty to the villagers of Sitting Marsh being the most prominent.
Elizabeth heaved a heavy sigh as she approached the rounded, frail shoulders of her butler. There were times when she heartily wished her kitchen maid mother had chosen to marry someone of her own station, instead of an earl and lord of the manor.
Martin’s hand wavered under the weight of the food he’d piled on his plate. Fat, savory sausage rolls sat on top of delicate, crustless shrimp paste and cress sandwiches. Pickled onions neatly lined the plate’s rim, while a slice of cold pork pie balanced on top of a wedge of Gorgonzola cheese.
“Oh, there you are, madam.” Martin looked guiltily at the loaded plate. “I thought I’d have a little refreshment while Violet makes a ghastly spectacle of herself associating with that charlatan. I was told to help myself.”
Elizabeth eyed the mound of food. “So I see.”
Martin wavered, then said bravely, “May I offer you a morsel or two?”
“Thank you, Martin, but I think I’ll wait a while.” She glanced at the wedding cake, magnificent on its silver stand, and let out her breath in relief to find it untouched.
As if reading her mind, Martin murmured, “I suppose we will have to wait for the bride and groom to cut the cake.”
“That is customary, Martin.”
“Yes, madam. I hope the ladies remembered to bring a knife. I can’t see one on the table.”
“I would imagine they are waiting until they are ready to cut the cake.”
As if in answer to her comment, a slight commotion turned her head. Wally was leading his bride toward the table, while behind him an urgent discussion appeared to be going on in the open doorway that led to the kitchen.
Marge Gunther, an overly plump woman with frizzy hair, stood waving her hands in agitation, while Rita Crumm, hands on hips, towered over her with a ferocious glare. Florrie Evans, the most nervous member of the group, seemed to be trying to soothe ruffled feathers without much success.
Martin mumbled something about getting a drink, but Elizabeth paid no attention to him. Obviously all was not well in the kitchen. Fortunately, the newly wedded couple seemed unaware of the commotion. Too wrapped up in each other to pay attention, no doubt.
Determined to prevent anything from spoiling this big day, Elizabeth headed purposefully toward the militant group of women. They had now been joined by Joan Plumstone, a sour-faced woman whose seemingly sole purpose in life was to cast gloom and despair everywhere she went, and Nellie Smith, the youngest and sole unmarried member of the Housewives League, who’s amorous adventures were outwardly scorned and secretly envied by her peers.
As Elizabeth approached, she heard Rita Crumm’s strident tones above the clamor of music from the inept band.
“How can it be bloody missing, you twit? I saw it myself not half an hour ago.”
“I don’t know.” Marge’s whine was no less audible and Elizabeth put on a spurt.
“What on earth is going on here?” she demanded, in the most commanding voice she could muster.
Florrie uttered a little shriek and slapped a hand over her mouth.
Rita gave the startled woman a scathing glance, then turned to Elizabeth. “There is no need to concern yourself, your ladyship,” she announced haughtily. “I have everything quite under control.”
Nellie’s laugh was blatantly derisive.
Rita quelled her with one of her vicious scowls.
“I would like to know what is causing this dispute,” Elizabeth persisted. She glanced back at the table, where the bridal couple was now poised in front of the cake, looking somewhat confused. “As you can see, Wally and Priscilla are about to cut the cake.”
Joan moaned, while Florrie muttered nervously, “Oh, dear me.”
“That’s the point, your ladyship,” Nellie said, with a defiant look at Rita’s enraged face. “The knife is missing, isn’t it.”
Elizabeth stared at her in confusion. “You mean the knife to cut the cake?”
Nellie nodded, while Joan moaned again.
“Well, then, get another knife. There must be others in the kitchen.”
“Lady Elizabeth, you don’t understand.” Rita stepped forward, her face a stony mask of annoyance. “This is a very special knife. Solid silver, mother-of-pearl handle, embedded with three diamonds. It was handed down by generations of my family, for the sole purpose of slicing a wedding cake. I agreed to lend it to Priscilla for the occasion. Apart from its value, it’s the only knife we have with a blade long enough to do the job properly.”
“Bessie’s got a bread knife in there,” Nellie said helpfully. “I used it to slice the pork pie.”
Rita rolled her eyes, making her scrawny features look all the more ridiculous beneath the brim of her black and white straw hat. “You can’t cut a wedding cake with a bloody bread knife!” she howled.
“Yes, you can!” Elizabeth said fiercely. “Nellie, please go to the kitchen and get the knife. Make sure its clean and take it immediately to Wally. The rest of you please refrain from creating any more fuss. This is a wedding, and we are here to help the happy couple celebrate. They are not going to care, or even notice, what they use to cut the cake. I promise you.”
Looking extremely put out, Rita gathered her entourage and herded them off to the chairs that circled the dance floor. Nellie darted off and, much to Elizabeth’s relief, reappeared with the bread knife. Having settled the matter to her satisfaction, Elizabeth made her way back to Earl just in time to toast the blissful couple with a glass of scrumpy.
The speeches went well, though Earl seemed to find them amusing. Elizabeth wasn’t quite sure why, and she promised herself she’d ask him later. Small slices of the dark rich fruitcake topped with brittle royal icing were handed out, then came the flurry of good-byes and good wishes as the newly married pair prepared to depart on their honeymoon in the Scottish Highlands.
Florrie and Marge rushed around filling everyone’s hands with what appeared to be hastily torn-up pieces of colored crepe paper. Somewhat surprised that someone hadn’t thought to bring genuine confetti, Elizabeth joined everyone in throwing the tattered paper over the bride and groom as they dashed for the car that was to take them to the train station.
At last the long day was over, and satisfied that the villagers had done their best considering the limitations, Elizabeth leaned back in her chair next to Earl’s and uttered a long sigh.
Earl surreptitiously squeezed her arm then withdrew his hand. “It was a swell wedding. Wally and Priscilla couldn’t have asked for anything better.”
Elizabeth gave him a tired smile. “It did go rather well, in spite of the upset over the missing knife.” She frowned. “I must ask Rita if anyone found it. It means a great deal to her. I should hate to think someone stole it.”
“Well, at least the bride and groom didn’t know anything about it. They were too wrapped up in each other. Lucky stiffs.”
Elizabeth smiled. “They were rather precious, weren’t they. But then that’s the way it should be for two people in love.”
“Amen to that,” Earl said softly.
The gleam in his eyes unsettled her and she looked away, pretending to scan the room. Most of the guests had left, including all three Winterhalters, Daphne, Rodney, and Tess. Polly and Sadie were nowhere to be seen, and had most likely joined some of the other guests who had earlier announced their intention of continuing the celebrations at the Tudor Arms.