The Windsor Knot

by Sharyn McCrumb

  It was now June (lion cubs on her World Wild Life calendar), and she contemplated the next twelve months, feeling like someone crouched with her toes on a white line. It was going to be a year of computer screens and boiled rice. (On second thought, that menu reminded her too much of her present reading material. Make that lettuce salads.) In September she would take her orals and then begin writing the dissertation for her doctorate in forensic anthropology. If all went as planned, a svelte (with cheekbones!) Elizabeth would defend before her doctoral committee near the end of the term in May, and then Dr. Elizabeth could concentrate on Cameron Dawson, the marine biologist whose picture adorned her desk.

  He was spending the summer at home in glorious Scotland, while she was stuck at the university, teaching undergraduate anthropology to disgruntled summer-school hostages in an un-air-conditioned building. Some people have all the luck, she thought, frowning at Cameron’s picture. And her parents had taken a long-awaited trip to Hawaii, without even a perfunctory expression of regret that she couldn’t go along. “Don’t call us,” they told her. “Not even if one of the relatives dies. We need this vacation.”

  Elizabeth sighed again. There was some justice: Bill wasn’t having a restful summer, either. Her brother was clerking for a law firm in Richmond; she hoped the lawyers were getting their money’s worth. At least she would have a break in another week when the spring semester ended, perhaps a week at the beach-Virginia Beach, that is; a poor substitute for Waikiki. And that would be after she graded a zillion exams. Then came summer school. A bleak summer of work and dieting. Maybe there was something to be said for being a maggot. They ate all the time, grew enormously fat on purpose, slept it off in a cocoon, and then sprouted wings and burned off all the calories by flying. Not a bad deal. She was considering the possibilities of an insect afterlife when the telephone rang.

  “Forensic anthro,” she said in her most businesslike tone.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Anthro,” said an unmistakably Scottish voice.

  “Cameron! I was just thinking about you!”

  “And why was that?”

  Wisely deciding not to mention the maggot article, Elizabeth simpered charmingly for a few minutes before it occurred to her to ask, “Why are you calling me in the middle of the day? The rates haven’t changed yet, have they?” Such considerations are necessary in a long-distance romance.

  “No, no,” said Cameron. “I just felt like talking to you. How are things at the university?”

  “Dull,” said Elizabeth. “I feel like a prisoner in this Gothic mausoleum. I’d rather be at the beach. How are things with you?”

  “Oh, peaceful,” said Cameron, who thought it would be unchivalrous to claim to be having a good time when one’s fiancée has declared herself miserable. “Miss you, of course.”

  “I should hope so.”

  “I do have a bit of good news, actually,” said Cameron, endeavoring to sound both casual and innocent. “Thought you might like to hear it. Do you remember that work I did on the project to save the North Sea seals? The country has recognized my work by giving me a bit of an honor. I’ve been invited to the Royal Garden Party here in Edinburgh.”

  After a gratifying gasp of awe, Elizabeth said, “What does that mean, exactly? Why do they want to see you?”

  “To look after the royal seal!” Cameron laughed-alone-at his little marine-biologist joke, and then proceeded to explain. “Each summer the palace gives two garden parties (one at Buckingham Palace for English notables, and one for Scots at the Palace of Holyroodhouse in Edinburgh) to honor various members of the British public: distinguished civil servants, influential business people, civic officials, and outstanding achievers in the arts and sciences.”

  “Just the odd thousand or so of the Queen’s closest chums,” said Elizabeth. “I see.”

  Cameron saw his chance. “More like eight thousand, I’m afraid. You’re right, of course. I doubt if I’ll catch more than a glimpse of Her Majesty. Just a dreary function, really.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Elizabeth.

  “No, I shan’t. Technically one mustn’t. After all, it is a royal summons. I’ll tell you all about it.”

  There was a transatlantic silence.

  Cameron cleared his throat. “Well, I just thought I’d tell you the news. I know you’re rather interested in all the royal goings-on. Thought you’d be pleased for me.”

  After another frosty interval, Elizabeth said, “You mean you just called me to tell me about the invitation? Don’t you have the common decency to invite me along?”

  “Well, I would, you know, if it were up to me. Really, I would. But one may not bring guests. Except spouses, of course. Fiancées don’t count, I’m afraid.”

  What a coincidence, thought Elizabeth, scowling. Just as I finish reading an article about Scottish maggots, one of them rings me up. She wisely refrained from expressing those sentiments aloud.

  Cameron, who had interpreted his fiancée’s silence as a concession to the force of his arguments, offered another-fatal-bit of logic. “And like an idiot, Ian forgot to send me the letter. So I’m only just finding out about the invitation now, with the garden party only three weeks away-”

  “Three weeks!” cried Elizabeth.

  “Yes,” said Cameron, more confidently now. “Thursday, the sixth of July. Hardly any time at all, really.”

  “Three weeks! I thought it was tomorrow. I can plan a wedding in three weeks! We can go to Edinburgh for the honeymoon! Just imagine getting to meet the Queen on your honeymoon! That ought to show Mary-Stuart Gillespie with her stupid trip to Puerto Vallarta! Oh, Cameron, this is wonderful!”

  British reserve was much in evidence on the other end of the line. “I thought your parents were away on vacation-”

  “They are. In Hawaii. But Mother is no good at this sort of thing anyway. No, if you really want a society wedding, my aunt Amanda is the only person who can handle it. I’ll bet she could even manage it in three weeks. I’m not sure if we could get the invitations engraved-raised lettering, I mean-but a good printer can get them done in three days the regular way.” Elizabeth stopped short, listening to the voluminous silence from the receiver. “Cameron?”

  “Yes. I’m here.”

  “This is all right with you, isn’t it?” she asked softly. “I mean, we were planning the wedding anyway, and I know this is short notice, but the Queen!”

  Cameron sighed. He had not mistaken her reasonable tone for a willingness to be reasonable. “Well, I hadn’t planned on spending my honeymoon in chilly Auld Reekie. Look, how about going to the Bahamas instead? Maybe you can meet Miss Universe.”

  “Don’t be silly. King Farouk was right, you know.”

  “What? Sorry, bad connection. It sounded like you said King Farouk.”

  “So I did. King Farouk once predicted that in fifty years there would be only five kings in the world: spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs, and the King of England. British royalty is… I don’t know… sort of magical.”

  “I know.” Cameron sighed again. “I had a friend who went to school at Gordonstoun, and he said that the surest way to have it off with a girl was to pretend to be-”

  “Cameron!” Elizabeth’s tone was ominous.

  “All right! All right! Benedict Arnold must be laughing up his sleeve somewhere, you bloody royalist! But if you think you can manage, and if you’re set on doing it…”

  “You don’t mind getting married in America?”

  “No. I don’t anticipate having many guests anyway, since I haven’t really kept up with my mates from school. Mother and Ian will come over, of course, and I expect Denny Allan will attend if he can. After all, he knows you from the Banrigh expedition, and besides, he’s always wanted to go to Disney World, and this is a perfect excuse to get there. I’ll give him a call, and then let you know if he’ll be on hand. We can draft him as an usher.”

  “Good! What about bridesmaids? Any cousins or old girlfriend
s you’d like to import?”

  “No, thank you. You’ll have to manage on your own.”

  “Leave everything to me! Oh, Cameron, thank you! This is going to be so amazing! I’d better get started on the preparations right away. Was there anything else?”

  “What? Oh, no. No.” Just a small matter of running Adam McIver to earth and squeezing another invitation out of him. Cameron wondered if they’d have to fax over a copy of the marriage license. Which reminded him… “Wait! Elizabeth! Don’t I have to be in America to apply for the wedding license?”

  “I’ll see if we can get around that!” his bride-to-be assured him. “My brother is a lawyer, remember?”

  Too bad he isn’t an archbishop, thought Cameron. “Very well, dear. I’ll leave you to it. Let me go and tell the family the good news. Perhaps I ought to call your parents as well. Ask for your hand officially, and all that.”

  “I have the number of the hotel somewhere here,” said Elizabeth, flipping through papers on her desk.

  “What time is it in Hawaii, anyhow?” asked Cameron, wondering if the task could be postponed until he got accustomed to the idea himself.

  “I don’t have a clue,” said Elizabeth. “I’m not even sure what day it is there. Speaking of days, what date shall we set for the wedding?” She riffled through her calendar. “How about July the first? That’s the Saturday before the garden party. Is that date all right with you?”

  “Just fine, dear,” said Cameron. Ian should have stopped laughing by then. Sighing in resignation, he started to look up the number of Old St. Andrews House, where no doubt Adam McIver was lurking, making trouble for untold numbers of his old schoolmates.

  Department of Forensic Anthropology

  Office of the Graduate Students Merridew Ball

  June 12

  Dear Bill,

  I hope that you have refrained from being a nuisance to your summer employers to the extent that they are willing to release you for a couple of days. Or, conversely, that you have been fired, so that when you slink home in dishonor, you can make yourself useful, because the first part of the summer is going to be very hectic, and we could use all the help we can get.

  I am getting married!

  Now I know that the drain trap you call a mind has just come up with a number of uncomplimentary explanations for this sudden haste, but you are quite mistaken. For someone who is in training to be an attorney, you certainly do jump to a lot of conclusions.

  As a matter of fact, we are getting married on July the first (mark your calendar) so that I can accompany Cameron to the Royal Garden Party in Edinburgh on the sixth! I’m going to make sure this fact gets mentioned in the newspaper article on the wedding.

  You are hereby appointed as one of the ushers. So is Cousin Geoffrey, so it is safe to assume that people will be thinking “House of…” when contemplating your ushership… usherhood. Whatever you call it. I expect the Queen would know; perhaps I shall ask her. Anyhow, I feel safe in allowing the two of you into the wedding party (without being chained together at the ankle, which was my first thought) because the whole affair will be managed by none other than Aunt Amanda, and neither you nor Geoffrey would dare to cross her.

  As you may have deduced from this, we are getting married in Chandler Grove, and, yes, Mother and Dad will be back from Hawaii in plenty of time. Meanwhile I am subsisting almost entirely on lettuce. You will be pleased to learn that you will not need a morning coat for the occasion. If I decide to outfit you in kilts, I will let you know.

  And, remember, I am the bride, so you have to do as I say.

  Love,

  Elizabeth

  Department of Foresnic Anthropology

  Office of Graduate Students Merridew Ball

  Dear Bill,

  We are not amused.

  And I advise you not to bother a serious organization like Amnesty International with your frivolous attempts at humor.

  We will see you at the wedding.

  Cordially,

  Elizabeth

  CHAPTER 3

  AMANDA CHANDLER REPLACED the telephone receiver with a soft click and stared off into the distance as if she were still listening to disembodied voices. “What an extraordinary call,” she said at last. “The Queen.”

  Her husband, Dr. Robert Chandler, halted his proofreading of the galleys of his book on colonial medicine and regarded his wife with an expression of concern. He hoped that she wasn’t hallucinating again, although the clinic had assured him that Amanda was perfectly fine-as long as she didn’t drink. Had she been drinking? He didn’t think so. Surreptitiously, Dr. Chandler leaned forward in his chair to see if there was a glass on the end table beside her. He didn’t see one. He ventured a timid inquiry. “The Queen called you, did she, dear?”

  Amanda stared at him over the top of her reading glasses. “Really, Robert! Have you taken leave of your senses? That was Elizabeth on the phone.”

  Dr. Chandler took a deep breath. “Yes, dear,” he said carefully. “I know who the Queen of England is.”

  “No! I mean, it was our niece Elizabeth. She wants to get married as quickly as possible.” Noting his blushing reaction, she added quickly, “There you go again! It’s not what you think. Do you remember that young man of hers, the one from Scotland?”

  “As well as one can remember someone one has never met,” Dr. Chandler replied, stealing another glance at his book galleys.

  “Cameron Dawson. He’s a marine biologist. Well, Elizabeth tells me that he has got invited to some Royal Garden Party that the Queen gives each summer in Edinburgh. They want to get married in time for Elizabeth to go with him. Imagine! An opportunity to meet the Queen.”

  “That’s splendid,” he murmured, scribbling a notation in the right margin.

  “Yes, I thought so!” Amanda said happily, unaware of her husband’s flagging attention. “I had despaired of Elizabeth at one time. She wanted to cut up dead bodies for a living and she didn’t seem interested in social proprieties at all, but I see that it was only a phase she had to outgrow. I quite approve of her new self. You’ll notice that she knew exactly who to turn to in planning this wedding. The only problem is that Doug and Margaret are in Hawaii for the next two weeks-though they’ll be back in time for the ceremony.”

  “Ceremony?” Dr. Chandler looked up. “Where is the ceremony?”

  “Why, here, of course!” With a wave of her hand, she indicated that she meant within the house. “I thought perhaps the front hall for the processional. That oak staircase would look very nice in wedding photographs, and the chandelier provides excellent lighting.”

  “Er-shouldn’t Elizabeth’s parents have some say in the matter?”

  “She’s phoned them, of course, Robert. Margaret has given her the go-ahead. With considerable relief, I would imagine. Naturally, I shall manage the wedding. I am the one with all the social graces in the family. Have I not given a reception for the lieutenant governor of Georgia? All my sister Margaret knows how to do is macramé plant holders and speak bordertown Spanish. Where would she hold the wedding-on their carport?”

  Amanda Chandler’s eyes flashed with a sparkle of enthusiasm and her cheeks were flushed. Dr. Chandler noted these details with interest. He had rarely seen his wife so animated since their daughter’s death a few years earlier. At that time, Amanda had become depressed and her long-ignored drinking problem had worsened enough for her to be sent away for private treatment. She had been back for some months, and while she had not resumed her drinking, she was still not her old self. Her bright auburn hair showed streaks of the gray she had concealed for years, and she spent long hours in front of the television watching mindless sitcoms. Dr. Chandler had wanted to get more counseling for her, but she had insisted that nothing was the matter.

  “I shall have to get my hair done first thing tomorrow,” Amanda announced, peering at herself in the gilt mirror above the mantelpiece. “And then I’ll start making lists.”

  Dr. Chandler s
miled to himself. The old Amanda was back.

  The Chandler home was exactly the setting that a bridal magazine might choose for a photo layout. Surrounded by acres of forested hills, the brick Georgian-style mansion was set in a grove of oak trees in a white-fenced enclosure at the center of a rolling meadow. The house had been in the Chandler family for four generations, but its present stateliness was largely ascribable to the efforts of its present owner. Dr. Robert Chandler provided the income to finance the improvements, while his wife Amanda scoured Southern Living and various decorator magazines for ideas to refine the simple brick farmhouse. In two decades of relentless renovation, Amanda had demolished the white front porch in favor of a columned portico above the front door, added a one-story family room with sliding glass doors, and replaced the original plaster walls, which showed the age of the house like a wrinkled face. Oak paneling had been installed in the hallways and floral wallpaper adorned every other surface.

  The result of these modern amendments was a house that looked like an unspoiled relic of the antebellum South. One could imagine General Sherman halting his mount on a nearby hillside, gazing at the neat brick exterior and well-tended lawn of the Chandler property, and saying, “What a fine house! Let’s wipe our feet before we go in there to loot!” Actually, the late general (referred to by Southern punsters as Edifice Wrecks) was never in the vicinity of Chandler Grove, and if he had been, the Chandler farmhouse in its pre-Amanda simplicity would have been beneath his notice.

  Now, of course, the house was an object of lust for every realtor in the country. Modern-day Yankees, without the benefit of artillery to negotiate their property deals, would pay millions for the Chandler place. And it wasn’t even the biggest or most elaborate house in the county. No, that house was across the road from the Chandler mansion, and it was for sale, but the realtors weren’t sure what to do about it. They couldn’t even figure out how to word the advertisement. Realtors shrugged and told each other hopefully that somebody from California would buy it.