CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN
The Best Man
‘What do you mean the church is already being used?’ Louisa shrieked, as she stood with the white-gloved wedding entourage in the foreground of St Mark’s Anglican Church in Bellerive. ‘My daughter is supposed to be getting married in there in less than half-an-hour! And pray where is Mr Hall? He is supposed to be conducting the service!’
The Reverend William Wilby looked indignant. ‘My colleague has been indisposed since last month, and I’ve been filling his shoes. As for the other matter, it appears that there has been some sort of misunderstanding with the arrangements. Perhaps you are booked in at St Matthew’s in Rokeby. The names are very familiar.’
‘With all due respect, Mr Wilby,’ Louisa resumed heatedly, ‘the Wentworth family has been attending St Mark’s for years. Mr Hall can testify to that, most assuredly.’
‘But how can there be a misunderstanding?’ Michael cut in impatiently. ‘We confirmed these arrangements last week. What’s more, my fiancée’s sister was inside that church only yesterday, arranging all the flowers.’
‘Yes, well as I understand it,’ the clergyman said in a slow, deliberate voice, ‘this wedding was rescheduled several weeks ago.’
‘That is true,’ Louisa admitted, turning towards Michael, ‘Michael tripped…’
‘I was involved in an accident,’ Michael interrupted.
‘Oh yes,’ Mr Wilby replied, watching the local doctor with undisguised amusement in his eyes, ‘I heard about that.’ He seemed to be trying not to smile. ‘Very unfortunate.’
Michael looked away. ‘I knew I should have had this ceremony at Rosewood,’ he muttered to Louisa. ‘Mr Hall could have come to the house, and then we wouldn’t have had to worry about re-booking the church.’
Louisa turned sharply upon her future son-in-law. ‘I am not having my daughter married in some drawing room,’ she said scornfully. ‘Mercy! Nothing but the House of God is good enough for my Agnes.’ As she spoke, the feathers on her white, voluminous hat quivered significantly. With a sniff of resentment she returned her attention to William Wilby. ‘Why can we not go inside the church? What is going on in there?’
‘The church is filled with mourners, I’m afraid,’ Mr Wilby explained. ‘I’m just about to conduct a memorial service for a young man lost at sea.’
The feathers on Louisa’s hat stopped quaking. ‘Oh,’ she said, distributing looks of concern to the onlookers around her, ‘that is most unfortunate. Was he a fisherman?’
The wiry minister looked down at Louisa through his spectacles. ‘No, no, nothing like that. It was Tommy Fairweather, Frederick Fairweather’s eldest son. Couldn’t hold his drink. Took to the river in a small boat, which by all accounts was not seaworthy. Only one oar apparently. Was muttering something about circumnavigating Bruny Island. As I understand it, he didn’t get beyond Bellerive Beach.’
Under normal circumstances either George or Frances would have sniggered over this remark, but this morning these two guests were strangely silent and aloof. Frances was standing at a disinterested distance from the proceedings, and a stony-faced George was leaning against one of the headstones in the small churchyard burial ground, nibbling his fingernails. He was so engrossed with his nails, in fact, that he did not seem to hear Louisa’s voice as it resounded loudly across the churchyard.
‘I somehow feel that we are getting away from the point,’ she declared rather pettishly. ‘The Wentworth and Brearly families are highly respectable families in this town, and we should be treated with the reverence we deserve. It is not acceptable to keep us standing here in this absurd fashion. Look at our guests,’ she said, indicating the impatient gathering with a majestic sweep of her hand. ‘You are not only insulting us, but you are also insulting our friends.’
At this point, the timorous Charlotte chose to intervene. ‘Mama,’ she exhorted, ‘the longer you keep Mr Wilby waiting, the longer it will take for him to finish the memorial service.’
Louisa dabbed affectedly at her nose with a crisp, white handkerchief. ‘Very well,’ she said to the young clergyman, ‘please continue with your service. I shall incommode you no longer.’
William Wilby straightened his back and again looked down at Louisa through his spectacles. ‘Thank you, Mrs Wentworth. As soon as the service has concluded and the mourners have departed, I will come out here and call everyone in. I shall not keep you waiting any longer than you have to.’
‘And what does that mean?’ Louisa countered. ‘How long do you think it will take?’
‘Oh, no more than fifteen minutes,’ he said decisively, ‘or thirty minutes at most,’ he continued, a little less confidently. ‘I can’t say with any certainty.’ He turned his back on the Wentworth matriarch, and began walking haughtily back to the church.
‘This is monstrous!’ Louisa exploded, once the clergyman had disappeared into St Mark’s and closed the door behind him. ‘Agnes will be arriving here shortly and what am I to tell her? That she shall have to wait?’ In the background, the wedding guests were impatiently consulting their watches. ‘Oh, my poor Harold,’ Louisa resumed sadly, ‘he would turn in his grave if he could see what was happening. This is such an intolerable state of affairs.’
‘Louisa,’ Michael said, squeezing her arm reassuringly, ‘please don’t distress yourself over this. There is nothing to be done about it.’
‘I have every right to be distressed! My daughter’s wedding and breakfast are about to be ruined, and nobody seems to care three straws!’ She looked at her guests accusingly, as though they were all mass conspirators in a plot to destroy Agnes’s wedding. ‘This is an omen. I know it is. You know what they say about March weddings.’
‘Louisa, please,’ Michael urged under his breath, ‘try to remain calm. This is a minor inconvenience only.’ He stepped closer to his future mother-in-law. ‘Forgive me for saying this, Louisa, but you are making things ten times worse. There is nothing we can do. Moreover, what difference does thirty minutes make?’
Louisa pursed her lips resentfully. ‘I just wanted everything to be perfect. Is that so wrong of me?’
‘Not at all, Mama,’ Charlotte said, taking one of her mother’s hands in her own, ‘but Michael is right. This delay is beyond our control. Why don’t we return to the carriage? There is no point standing out here in the sun.’
Louisa nodded miserably, and having no more energy left to protest, she let Charlotte lead her to the conveyance. Other guests soon followed suit, and a short time later, groups of people were to be found in carriages, standing under parasols in the sun, or chatting beneath the shady canopy of the trees that bordered the churchyard. Michael and Frances were two such people who sought this welcome shade, and while they had not planned their meeting, their pairing was still conspicuous. They were therefore resolved to stand apart, and while they waited the fifteen minutes for Agnes to arrive, they focussed their attention on little Jack Maycroft, who had just started chasing a lizard along the white, picket fence-line. The longer Frances and Michael waited, however, the more uncomfortable they grew. By the time Agnes’s carriage was spotted down the end of the road, Michael had loosened his necktie three times, wiped dirt from his patent leather buttoned boots, adjusted the flower on his frock coat lapel twice, and repeatedly smoothed down his striped gray cashmere trousers.
Frances was similarly agitated, and as the carriage made its way slowly towards St Mark’s, she toyed with her gloves, bit her lip, and dropped her hat onto the grass beneath her, where it was retrieved a short time later by a roving George Brearly. She accepted the hat from George with a coldly courteous smile, but she could not bring herself to thank him. Memories of his behaviour on New Year’s Eve came flooding back to her, and while she was tempted to abandon him where he stood, she checked her irritation, and reluctantly remained where she was.
‘There you go again,’ George said, with new-found cheerfulness, ‘throwing your possessions away. If you continue at this rate, Miss Norwood, you
’ll have nothing left.’ Frances made no reply to this, but glanced nervously in Michael’s direction. George followed her gaze and rested his eyes on his brother. ‘Well, well,’ he said, in a confiding tone, ‘Michael’s looking awfully edgy this morning. If he was any more tense, he’d have rigor mortis.’
‘Well, you’ve certainly changed your tune. Twenty minutes ago I saw you sulking near the headstones. Now that Agnes is arriving, you’re almost happy.’
George’s amusement quickly faded. ‘You bet I’m happy, Miss Norwood. As soon as this tiresome day is over, I’m heading back to Melbourne. My editor is getting twitchy over my belated return.’ He consulted his watch. ‘Besides, I’ll never have to see Agnes or your wretched aunt again.’
‘I’m sure my aunt will be equally appreciative,’ Frances muttered.
George glanced at his watch again. ‘What the blazes is going on inside that church?’
‘Oh? You have something else planned?’
George half-smiled. ‘Not until a little later,’ he replied. ‘I have a surprise for Michael. A wedding present, you could say.’ He glanced in Michael’s direction.
Frances began picking at her hat with agitated fingers. ‘Dare I ask what it is?’
George chuckled. ‘Alas, no. I can’t tell you. That would diminish the effect, somewhat. Suffice to say, that it will be completely original. No-one else can give him what I can.’ He straightened up and thrust out his chest. ‘I imagine he won’t like it at first, in fact I’m certain he won’t like it, but further down the track he’ll see that the present I gave him was invaluable.’
Frances hesitated. ‘Well it all sounds very intriguing. I look forward to seeing this mysterious gift, whatever it is.’
‘Rest assured it will be truly memorable. But enough said on it. If I don’t leave now I won’t have time to make the finishing touches to my brother’s present.’ He smiled. ‘Adieu, Miss Norwood,’ he said, and with a cold, formal tip of his hat, he disappeared behind a clump of shrubs, and promptly out of sight.
Breakfast at Midnight Page 47
