“How good of Lisa! See, Dorothy, now you can take a nap whenever you want and nobody will have to miss the party watching you snooze. We’ll just stick her diaper bag in at the foot, and a bottle of water in case she gets thirsty. There’s bound to be something she can eat at the luncheon, Elen’s got food enough for an army. Do you want to push, or shall I?”
“This is man’s work, love.”
“Pooh, you just want to show off in front of the family. Come on, Dody, in you go. Da’s going to take you for a ride.”
“Da.”
“Madoc, she said it! That’s a good little Welsh girl, now let’s hear you say Mam.”
But Dorothy was her father’s daughter this morning. Janet didn’t care. She was happy enough to walk behind the pram with Gwen and her mother, pleasantly conscious of the picture they made in their flowered frocks and blooming hats, with white shoes and white gloves in the Windsor style. The gloves were just for fun, of course, they wouldn’t stay on long. At least Janet’s wouldn’t.
Sir Caradoc should probably be up front leading their little parade, but he looked happy enough escorting three so elegant ladies. Sir Emlyn was right beside him, unobtrusively ready to lend a hand should one be needed. Most likely it wouldn’t, the old baronet could probably outwalk them all.
Bob the Blob had attached himself to their tail end. And a strange appendage he must make, Janet thought, toiling along in his hot padded robe with his whiskers en pointe and an antique tome tucked under his arm to show how brainy he was. That couldn’t actually be one of John Dee’s works he was carrying, she didn’t suppose. Maybe it was Mrs. Beeton’s Cookbook, which would be equally appropriate. Anyway, she hoped Bob wasn’t planning to read it to anybody; Mary was nuisance enough for the pair of them.
She was up there, sure enough, right on the crest of the hill. She did look quaint and picturesque in her steeple hat and scarlet petticoat, and she did appear to be clutching an assortment of vegetable matter. Janet made out a snaking stem or two, Mary must have found the bindweed. Well, good luck to her.
Now they were getting in among the throng. Not that it was all that much of a throng yet but more kept coming, some on foot, some in cars that Danny the Boots was making them park down at the foot of the drive. Somehow or other Janet found herself in an impromptu receiving line with Sir Caradoc, Lady Rhys, and Mavis doing the honors for, the farm because Elen was too busy helping Lisa cut up the pies.
There was no earthly use trying to remember names. Janet just kept smiling and shaking hands, and saying no, she and Madoc hadn’t been much bothered by polar bears during the winter. Madoc and Gwen were handy by, smiling and chatting with some of those who’d come through the receiving line. Janet couldn’t help noticing awed glances being cast from Madoc to herself to Dorothy queening it in her borrowed pram.
Bob had wandered off, thank goodness. He’d buttonholed some poor soul of a minister, and was expounding something out of his book. Dafydd and Tom were here at last, Mavis said Lisa and Tib had come earlier in the estate car with the leek pies. Tib was now among Owain’s pack, off a bit from the grown-ups, dressed in something mildly outlandish and managing to look adorable regardless. Dai was also with the young bloods, looking rather bloodless himself but less miserable than he’d no doubt have been made to feel with his aunt and uncle.
As usual, Dafydd had turned on the charm and begun cutting a swath. He seemed happy enough to be surrounded by admirers, though Janet though his smile looked a bit forced. What was eating that man, anyway?
Tom the Flicks had clearly appointed himself the life of the party. He breezed up to the receiving line resplendent in baggy white flannels, a mustard-colored jacket with a pinched-in waist and huge green tattersall checks, and a pink-striped shirt with a celluloid collar. A malacca cane hung over his arm, a straw boater was moored to his topmost buttonhole by a long elastic. Lady Rhys was only mildly amused.
“You look like a leftover chorus boy from Charlot’s Revue, Tom. Do try not to trip over that cane.” After he’d flitted on to find a more appreciative audience, she murmured to Janet, “Oh well, there’s always one in every crowd. Huw will keep him in line. Cousin Glynis, how lovely to see you!”
Iseult and Reuel were almost the last to arrive even though they’d had the shortest distance to cover. Perhaps the film writer had been skittish about being plunged too early into a maelstrom of Rhyses, or perhaps the actress had run into delays getting her eyelashes on. Iseult did seem to be awfully lush about the eyeballs today. Hauling that freight of cilia up and down every time she batted her eyes at Dafydd must be hard on the eyelid muscles, Janet thought.
A person did have to admire Iseult’s outfit, though; she was one long ripple of lime-green chiffon from neck to ankles, with a turban to match and a big emerald brooch stuck in the front of it. A relatively modest assortment of emerald bracelets and dangly earrings completed her simple toilette.
“Do you suppose she plans to tell fortunes?” Mavis whispered in Janet’s ear between handshakes.
“Not mine,” Janet murmured back, and went on being polite to the relatives.
Madoc was managing just fine; Dorothy was handling her own receiving line with grace and aplomb. The young boys in the party were especially charmed by the tiny May Queen in her nest of furbelows. Janet wasn’t surprised, having seen her own nephews’ reactions, but Madoc was all set to play the stern father if any of them tried to date his daughter up.
Now the guests were all assembled, Elen was getting ready to serve. The meal was to be a sit-down affair. Janet had wondered how the Rhyses were going to handle such a crowd until she’d seen the U-shaped table that had been built sometime in the past for just such occasions. It ran the entire length of the great barn on three sides, except for a few gaps where people could get in and out without having to crawl underneath. Chairs had been borrowed from all four of the local churches and white sheets for tablecloths from anybody who still had some to lend. Overlaps in the cloths had been camouflaged by wreaths of ivy with daisies tucked in here and there: the short-stemmed, rosy-tipped kind one never saw growing wild in Canada.
Betty’s multiple nieces had done the flowers, robbing gardens and hedgerows to make a good show, and succeeding beautifully. The focal point was at the center of the room, where stood three tall golden harps, surrounded by great tubs of fern and flowering hawthorn. Three harpists all in cloth of gold or a reasonable facsimile, with wreaths of ivy crowning their heads, were plucking music that rippled like a cooling stream on a summer’s day. The harpists must be Sir Emlyn’s birthday present to his father, Janet thought; she hoped to goodness somebody was taking pictures.
Even Lady Rhys wouldn’t have tried to seat a table this size, but it arranged itself quite easily. Families mostly stayed together. Guests either knew or were gently reminded who was entitled by ties of blood to sit where. Everybody sat with his back to the wall, facing out toward the harpists; servers simply remained on the outside and reached across the narrow tables. A great oak armchair wreathed in garlands of green had been set thronelike at the exact center of the middle table for Sir Caradoc. His own son and grandson took the places of honor at either side of him.
As the patriarch’s only nephew, Sir Emlyn counted among the elect. A high chair with a single rosebud in a tiny vase on its tray had been placed at the far end of the head table, next to the gap, so that Dorothy could easily be coped with. Janet sat next to her, of course, with Madoc, Gwen, Dafydd, and Lady Rhys all in a row beside their illustrious paterfamilias. Betty had also been graced with a seat at the head table, Janet was glad to see.
Close but not all that close connections got the seats nearest the bends of the U, the rest took the leftovers and were glad to get them. Bob and Mary had managed to bag themselves chairs up near the corner but on the other side, Janet was relieved to note. Iseult and Reuel were at Dorothy’s end. The writer must have been promoted to honorary fiancé for the occasion, Janet decided; she wondered how much he appreciat
ed the honor. Anyway, Reuel had some third cousin’s pretty daughter at his other side and looked to be settling in comfortably enough; though he did keep a hopeful eye on his champagne glass all through the grace, which was said in Welsh by three different ministers speaking in relays. Janet was relieved for him when Huw rose to give the birthday toast to his father and it was safe to take a drink.
As always, one toast led to another but the rhetoric was not allowed to interfere with the eating. Bowls and platters of food were simply put on the table at frequent intervals and everybody helped everybody else. Lisa’s leek pie was superb. So were Elen’s chicken pie, Betty’s steak-and-kidney, and all the other pies and pastries, the sliced meats, the cold salmon, the fresh peas, the crisp salads, the edibles beyond enumeration. They vanished like the snows of yesteryear amid music and laughter and general rejoicing.
When at last even Bob had had enough, the tables were cleared, the cloths crumbed, and the desserts brought on. There were mounds of strawberries, jugs of cream, gateaux on stands, tarts on platters, mighty glass bowls of trifle, Welsh cakes in greater profusion than the daisies on the grass. There were epergnes spilling over with grapes and peaches, apples and figs, nuts and chocolates, and strong peppermints to ease the overstrained stomach. Janet took a peppermint.
Dorothy had behaved well enough during the long drawn-out meal, with one pit stop between courses; now she was beginning to flag. Madoc picked her up and cocked an eyebrow. Janet nodded. They went into the farmhouse, got their daughter comfortable, rested in the quiet parlor until she fell asleep, then took her back outside and bedded her down in the pram.
During their brief absence, family and guests had been drifting out of the barn to a broad lawn framed in blossoming hawthorn, mulberry, and apple trees. Here, chairs, rugs, and pillows had been carried out to make a sort of informal amphitheater, with a little knoll at one end as a natural dais where the Maypole had been raised, bedecked with garlands of ivy and streamers of gold. The oaken throne chair was sitting there now but Sir Caradoc was still mingling with his well-wishers. Lady Rhys had staked out a rug and some chairs at a strategic point close but not too close to the dais, in the shade of a not-too-shady tree. Trust her. Madoc trundled the pram over that way, the springs taking the bounces easily, Dorothy not so much as blinking. They got her parked, then sprawled on the rug as a change from too much sitting.
“Comfortable, Jenny love?”
“Wonderfully. What happens now?”
“Poetry, in Welsh. Think you can stick it?”
“Translate for me. Till I fall asleep, anyway. All that food in the middle of the day’s making me drowsy.”
“You and plenty of others. Want another cushion, or will you settle for my manly bosom?”
“I’d better take the cushion. This crowd seems to be about half ministers and Sunday School teachers, and you know how your mother feels about your father’s position. Oh look, they’re bringing out the harps.”
The majestic carved and gilded instruments turned the picnic into a fairy tale. Gwen, her daffodil hat and frock gold as the harps in the afternoon sun, could easily have passed for a fairy princess if she hadn’t happened to be sprawled none too decorously, on the blue rug with her clarinet case open beside her, taking her instrument apart and squinting into one of the pieces. She’d be playing in a while.
Dafydd would sing, of course. He was next rug over with Lisa and Tom, Tib having taken Dai under her wing and steered him across to where Owain’s lot had staked out a claim. Lisa was straightening Dafydd’s new ascot for him. Antique gold with a pattern of scarlet griffins might have been a bit much on some men, it was just right for Dafydd Rhys. That celluloid collar of Tom’s must have been cramping his windpipe, he’d swapped it for a shocking-pink ascot with green horseshoes. Janet wondered whether the vanished Patricia had picked it out for him. Too bad she’d had to miss the party; she’d seemed a friendly soul. Perhaps she was only a casual acquaintance, though; nobody had so much as mentioned her since that first evening.
No sprawling on rugs for Iseult; she was artfully arranged in one of the lawn chairs, watching her light green draperies undulate in the gentle breeze, idly turning her emerald bracelets to catch the light. Reuel was stretched out on the grass with an arm across his eyes. Half-asleep and half-seas over, Janet thought uncharitably.
Bob had a chair planted smack in front of the dais. He’d donned a panama hat over his skullcap and was glowering out from under its brim at the harpists tuning their instruments, daring them to strike a false note. The empty chair beside him was presumably reserved for Mary, but she was in no hurry to take it. Janet could see her darting here and there among the guests, perspiring in her checked woolen shawl but showing no inclination to take it off. Oh dear, she was heading this way. Janet sat up and prepared to be civil if necessary, but Mary plumped herself down beside the semicomatose Reuel.
“Well, Mr. Williams, we meet again. Enjoying the revels? You were always a great one for revels, were you not? Or should I say fun and games?”
His answer was a less than civil grunt, it didn’t put her off a whit.
“You found my little dissertation on Sir Caradoc’s emerald last night interesting, did you not, Mr. Williams?”
“Oh yes. Very interesting.” He yawned without bothering to cover his mouth, just so she’d know he really meant what he said.
“You made good use of my knowledge once before, didn’t you? Remarkably good use. Isn’t that right, Mr. Williams? Or was it in fact not at all right?”
Williams was sitting up now, looking at Mary as though he couldn’t quite make out what she was. “The show went well enough, I suppose. It’s been a long time.”
“Indeed it has, and much has taken place since then. Arthur Ellis’s death, for instance. We must have a talk, Mr. Williams. Later on, when you’re fresh and rested. A good, long talk.”
“Arthur Ellis? He was the gem buyer, right? The one who wouldn’t let himself be photographed except with his back to the camera? What is there to talk about?”
“Come now, Mr. Williams. Don’t be coy. You know what.”
She bounced away, with an eldritch cackle that would have done any one of Macbeth’s witches proud. Iseult was amused.
“Just can’t keep them off, can you, Reuel? What was that all about?”
“God knows. The old hag must be drunk.”
Mary was something, at any rate. Now she was scuttling back across the lawn, to where Dai appeared to be hitting it off pretty well with Mavis’s Patagonian niece, a pretty girl of sixteen or so. His aunt was the last person he wanted to see just then, his attitude made that plain. Mary said something to him, he tried to turn away. She grabbed the lapel of his blazer and started berating him about something, wagging a finger in front of his nose.
The other young people were starting to draw away. Who could blame them? Janet could have cried for the poor misfit who wanted so badly to be one of the crowd. Even from here she could see how red Dai’s face was getting, see him finally pull away and stalk off, looking for a hole to crawl into. Tib, bless her heart, was running after him, soothing him down, drawing him back to the pack. He’d be all right now, nobody was paying any attention to him. People were quieting down, finding their places, looking expectantly toward the dais where the harpists were poised to begin.
All but Mary. She was still flitting from one to another, making, as far as Janet could see, a thorough pest of herself. Finally Bob the Blob had literally to force her to sit down and behave herself. He was as angry and humiliated as Dai had been. What in the world had got into the woman?
Either Mary was deliberately out to make an enemy of everybody present or else she’d popped her cork. Surely a little champagne wouldn’t have done that; nobody had got more than a respectable amount at the table. Not even Reuel, hard as he’d tried. The writer might well have brought a pocket flask with him, but Janet couldn’t believe he’d have shared it with a woman whom he so obviously considered a pai
n in the neck. Mary must be overexcited in anticipation of the Beltane fire. What else could it be?
And who cared? Old Iowerth, Sir Caradoc’s lifelong friend and butler, was center front now, advancing to the dais with stately tread and lofty mien, a sheaf of papers in his hand. As the harpers struck up an overture anticipatory murmurs ran through the crowd. Here in Wales, a poet was a personage, Iowerth was said to be one of the best. This could be his crowning achievement.
He began to read. Janet couldn’t understand one word in twenty, but she could relish the cadence: now grave, now lightsome, always reflecting the love and admiration this man felt for the patriarch who was being honored today. It was more than a poem, it was a paean. Gradually it became a lullaby. Decorously propped against her husband’s shoulder, her face screened by her garden-party hat, Janet slept.
Chapter 11
IT WAS DOROTHY WHO woke her, crawling around on the rug. The Queen of the May had been given a drink of water and a fresh nappy by her doting grandma, she was full of beans and eager to reign. Bob was on the dais delivering some kind of oration. It couldn’t be poetry—at least it didn’t sound like poetry.
“What’s he talking about?” Janet whispered to Gwen.
“He’s just gassing on about ancient rites, as when isn’t he. If it’s a cup of tea you’re wanting to wake you up, they’ve set up a table under the ash tree.”
Janet glanced at her watch. “Good heavens, it’s almost five o’clock. I didn’t realize I’d slept so long. I haven’t missed the music, I hope.”
“Oh no, that’s next. Come along, I need to wet my whistle and freshen up.”
“Won’t it be rude to go milling around while he’s still talking?”
“Not a bit. Bob’s so full of himself he won’t even notice. Iowerth’s poem was superb, which was rather a shame since none of those that followed could come up to his. Some weren’t so bad, though.”
The Wrong Rite Page 10
