Dusters and Dreams
Page 26
They nearly lifted the roof off the shepherd’s cottage as, with one heart, the rustic voices sang out—
Praise God from whom all blessings flow,
Praise Him all people here below.
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host.
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
CHAPTER 46
AFTER A RESPECTFUL PAUSE AT the end of the wedding ceremony, Mrs. Brookes scurried off to the kitchen to make tea for the guests. Her daughters duly followed. All except Violet, that is, for today and today only, she didn’t have to lift a finger. All she had to do was stand by her husband’s side and graciously receive the best wishes and congratulations their guests would bestow upon them.
“And my dear,” Mrs. Grey burbled on, “always iron the sleeves of the shirt first.”
Violet had failed to catch the first gem of advice, for she had been receiving the congratulations of Mrs. Thorpe.
“Thank you, Mrs. Grey, I will remember that,” she replied.
“But not today!” Mrs. Thorpe said with grin. “No ironing today, Violet.”
“I will try to resist the temptation,” giggled Violet in return. But one look at Mrs. Grey’s crestfallen face stopped her laughter. Mrs. Grey was aware she had been ridiculed, and Violet felt awful. On this happy day, she should be sharing her joy with everyone, even the Mrs. Greys of this world.
She flashed the older woman a reassuring smile. “I will remember your advice. Shirts can be tricky. I know from doing Pa’s.”
“Do them damp” was Mrs. Grey’s parting advice as she headed toward the tea tray.
The rich fruit cake, which had been made in October and intended as a Christmas cake, was served on the Brookes’ best china plates.
“I laced it with brandy once a week,” explained Mrs. Brookes to those who were singing its praises.
“But, so did I!” exclaimed Mr. Brookes.
Everyone laughed and declared it the richest and most more-ish fruit cake ever tasted. Then, after a second cup of tea, the guests, knowing what was expected of them, congratulated the couple once again, complimented the cook, and took their leave one by one. The biting north wind had brought snow clouds to the sky and a few flakes starting to fall silently.
Violet could not let the Hayworths slip away without a special thank you. Pushing her way through the visitors, she caught up with Rebecca at the front door. The two women hugged each other warmly.
“Thank you for all your friendship and advice, Mrs. Hayworth.”
“No,” replied Rebecca, looking earnestly into her eyes, “thank you. You have been and always will be a dear friend. I really hope we can stay in touch, even when you emigrate.”
“We must!”
“And it is wonderful to see you so happy, Violet,” continued Rebecca as Violet picked up Grace, who had toddled to her.
Violet kissed the little girl’s rosy cheeks.
“And you—so happy too. You’re a lovely mother.”
“We have both been greatly blessed.” Rebecca smiled as she took Grace in her arms, her eyes brimming with joy and tears.
“Indeed, we have.”
Once only the immediate family was left, the spare chairs were removed, and the atmosphere became less formal. The young Brookes and Mason children—who had sat still for too long—grabbed their coats and hats and ran excitedly into the garden to catch the steadily falling snowflakes. Violet and Joe retired to the parlour with the menfolk, while the ladies prepared the dinner. Mrs. Mason, who had been longing to help in the kitchen ever since the Doxology, grabbed the apron she had smuggled in and went to help. Mr. Mason gave his son a hearty slap on the back by way of congratulating him before making himself at home by the fire.
Soon the subject under discussion was logs and how long each type of wood should be seasoned. But Violet wasn’t listening: her gaze turned from the roaring fire to the holly branches that decorated the room. They would be withered by Christmas, but young nephews could be relied on to gather more. Dried hydrangea heads decorated the mantelpiece. But in prize place on the dresser was a beautiful bunch of pink forced roses from Biggenden Manor’s glass house, adding fresh colour to the rather sober floral arrangements. Their heady scent wafted toward Violet, mingling with the aroma of beef casserole and fresh bread from the kitchen. How wonderful everything was today!
Sitting at the table beside her husband, Violet found that the beef was succulent and the gravy rich. The company was agreeable and the cottage cosy. But try as she might to appreciate these things, she couldn’t stop fiddling with her wedding band under the tablecloth, wondering how quickly she and Joe could make their escape without seeming rude. After all, people had said all they needed to say. Her brothers-in-law had teased her quite enough, and she had given them all the witty replies they had grown to expect. Glancing down at her left hand, she smiled. How mature and capable it looked! Joe noticed her action, captured her hand, and kissed it.
As soon as the Bible reading and prayer were over, Joe pushed back his chair. Violet’s sigh of relief was almost audible.
“Well, I’d best get my wife home before it gets dark.”
“Sundown isn’t for a couple of hours,” teased Agnes’ husband as Violet quickly rose from her chair to stand by Joe.
“You can’t be too careful when a woman is in finery like my beautiful bride is wearing today,” replied Joe, smiling appreciatively at his wife.
Violet’s heart sang as Joe put his arm around her waist and guided her to the door. Extracting themselves from the hugs and kisses of their families, and loaded up with a dish of hot casserole, a cottage loaf, and a package of wedding cake, they set off along the lane, now beautifully transformed with a light dusting of snow, to their snug stable attic and the life they would share together, no matter where it took them.
HISTORIC NOTES
To my Tonbridge readers who are appalled at my constant misspelling of their home town: Tonbridge was spelled with a u until, in the 1870s, it was considered confusing to have a Tunbridge and Tunbridge Wells in close proximity, and the name was changed to the present-day spelling. Of course, this was very controversial, and it was not totally accepted until the 1890s.
The story in Chapter 4 of the mother who lost so many children to diphtheria is true. The woman was my paternal great-grandmother. It was I, not Rebecca, who rubbed the lichen off the graves to read the inscriptions.
All other characters in this novel are purely fictional.
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