A Mourning Wedding

by Carola Dunn

  “Hello, Jennifer,” said Daisy.

  “Hello, Daisy. Shall I show you your room while Lucy goes to her mother?”

  Lucy opened her mouth to object, caught her grandmother’s eye, sighed again, and acquiesced.

  “I hope to see you at tea, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Lady Haverhill, “if you feel up to coming down.”

  “I’ll be there, never fear.” Daisy walked with Jennifer along the carpeted gallery and turned left into the west wing.

  “I expect you’re surprised that we’re still living here,” Jennifer said with a touch of belligerence.

  “Not surprised, exactly, though I do remember some talk last time I was here about you and Johan returning to … Luxemburg, is it?”

  “That’s right, only my husband likes to be called John now. He went back for a visit and found everything quite devastated after the German occupation. He’s decided to become a British subject, as much for Emily’s sake as anything.”

  “Oh yes, your baby. How is she?” Nowadays Daisy was genuinely interested in babies.

  Jennifer’s rather plain face lit up. “She’s just beginning to talk comprehensibly. Would you like to come and see her?”

  “After tea, perhaps?”

  “Anytime. Lady Haverhill’s been terribly good about letting one of the housemaids play nursemaid for Emily sometimes, but of course I mostly look after her myself.”

  “That must keep you busy.”

  “It does, but I lend a hand with the housekeeping as well. The housekeeper’s nearly as old as Lord Haverhill and won’t be pensioned off. And John is acting as Lord Haverhill’s secretary and cataloguing the library, so we are not living on charity, whatever Sally says. Here’s Lucy’s room, and this is yours next door. There’s a bathroom in between, all the hot water you want, and the lav is just across the passage there.”

  “Thank heaven the first Earl of Haverhill didn’t insist on mediæval plumbing to match the exterior!” said Daisy.

  As the bride, Lucy had one of the better of the thirty or forty guest chambers, so Daisy’s room was also spacious and comfortably furnished. There was a small writing table with paper, envelopes and an inkstand. A couple of easy-chairs stood by the window, which looked over parkland to the lake and the folly on the low hill beyond. Daisy’s bags had been sent up by the chauffeur, and a maid had already started unpacking.

  Jennifer Walsdorf seemed disposed to stay and chat. Daisy didn’t know her well but rather admired her for having the nerve to marry a foreigner in spite of family disapproval. They sat in the chairs by the window. Daisy asked who else had already arrived for the wedding.

  “Lucy’s parents. I expect you know them?”

  “Yes. I used to call them Uncle Oliver and Aunt Vickie, but I expect that’s inappropriate now I’m married. Who else?”

  “Lady Eva Devenish, Lord Haverhill’s sister. She often comes down for the weekend, so she’s just stayed on. I can’t wait to see her hat for the wedding.”

  “Yes, there’s something to be said for those vast Edwardian hats she still goes in for.”

  “Her son, Sir James, is here too, with Lady Devenish and Angela.”

  “Angela?”

  “Their unmarried daughter. Her brother, Teddy, is coming later. Their married sister—one of them—will be here tonight, I think, with husband and children. That’s Veronica and Peter Bancroft. They sometimes come for the weekend when Lady Eva’s here, and Emily likes their little girl. She’s crazy about Dickie Fotheringay, too—Sally’s little boy, who’s already here. You know Sally, don’t you? Colonel Rupert’s wife?”

  “I just met her. Rupert’s not here yet?”

  “No, he’s on manoeuvres, if the Household Cavalry do anything so prosaic. Most of the men are coming down later. Uncle Montagu’s here, though, and Lucy’s brother Timothy, the clergyman, and family. He’s going to perform the ceremony.”

  “Yes, Lucy told me she’d asked him.”

  “Then there’s a variety of cousins—you don’t want me to go into all the cousins and their spouses and children, do you? There will be over twenty for dinner tonight, and more swarms turning up throughout the week. I have a hard time keeping them straight, though most of them visit here quite often. You’ll never manage it in four days.”

  “No, you’re right, I shan’t try. Just thinking about them exhausts me. I think I’ll put my feet up for a while.”

  “You ought to have a footstool.”

  “Oh, that’s all right, the bed will do.”

  “I’ll send a footman up with a footstool later. Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “No thanks, Jennifer. I’ll see you later. Tea’s in the Long Gallery, as usual?”

  “Or out on the terrace if it stays warm. Quarter to five. Is there anything else I can get you now?”

  The maid had finished unpacking and departed. Daisy took off her skirt and jacket and blouse and lay down on the bed in her petticoat. Next thing she knew, Lucy was shaking her shoulder.

  “Darling, if you want tea—which I’m sure you do or I wouldn’t wake you—you’d better get dressed.”

  “Gosh, is it that late already? I’ll be right down.”

  2

  Five minutes later, thanking heaven for shingled hair which didn’t have to be unpinned and brushed and pinned up again, Daisy hurried down to the Long Gallery.

  It was her favourite room in the house. One long wall was devoted to panelling salvaged from the old house, elaborately carved with knights and musicians, birds and animals, flowers and trees, even ships and sea serpents. Along the wall stood marvellous old chests, some carved, some of marquetry, and a hideous table with ornate gilt legs and a green marble top inlaid with swirling patterns of multicoloured marble.

  The opposite wall was all windows and French doors opening to the terrace and the gardens beyond.

  Outside, the marble benches along the balustrade had been supplemented by a scattering of chintz-cushioned wicker and wroughtiron chairs. With the dining room and drawing room wings protruding at either end, the south-facing terrace was sheltered from stray breezes. Summer frocks and shady hats flocked about a teatable presided over by Lady Haverhill, though Jennifer was doing the actual pouring, Daisy noticed.

  Of the few gentlemen present, for the most part the elder were in tweeds, the younger in flannels and blazers. Amongst this casual country attire, a dark blue pin-striped suit stood out.

  Daisy recognized its wearer as the Honourable Montagu Fotheringay, the earl’s younger brother, a very large gentleman fortunately seated on iron, not wicker. Montagu resided at his club in London, and though his forays to Haverhill were frequent, he never ventured further out of doors than the terrace.

  With him at the small glass-topped table was his sister, Lady Eva Devenish. Her proportions were majestic rather than ample. So was her Edwardian cartwheel hat, which bore a veritable garden of rosebuds and a bird’s worth of pink feathers. Her frock bloomed with cabbage roses—though widowed, unlike her sister-in-law she eschewed black. Even her stockings were pink to match the roses.

  She and her brother had their heads together, deep in conversation. Daisy wondered how much of Lady Eva’s purported vast fund of information about the aristocracy originated with her brother’s fellow-clubmen’s gossip.

  According to Lucy, her great-aunt did not rely on rumour but always did her best to verify the facts. She was not herself a gossip; she simply enjoyed her omniscience.

  All the same, Daisy was uneasy with someone who had all the facts about her life at her fingertips. If, as Lucy said, Lady Eva was still interested in her, no doubt she knew that Daisy had not only married a policeman but had managed to entangle herself in a number of his investigations.

  So, on her way to get the cup of tea of which she was sorely in need, Daisy tried to pass the pair inconspicuously.

  “Daisy!” Lady Eva’s strident voice called her back. “I suppose it’s Mrs. Fletcher now, but having known you since you were a schoolgi
rl …”

  “Daisy is quite all right, Lady Eva. Good afternoon, Mr. Fotheringay.”

  Montagu, who had heaved himself to his feet, bowed courteously, if ponderously, and waved her to his seat. “I’ll fetch you a cup of tea, Mrs. Fletcher. Eva’s dying for a chat.”

  “I see your sister has a girl this time,” Lady Eva started. “Still, she’s already produced two boys. It’s a shame there’s no title to be inherited. I know several families who’d be thrilled to have a son and heir. How is your mother?”

  “Very well.” Her health was about the only thing the Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple never complained about.

  “Still not reconciled to the present Lord Dalrymple, I hear. Pity she didn’t have two sons.”

  Daisy resented this casual reference to her only brother’s death in the War. “Unfortunately one has no choice in the matter,” she said coolly.

  Ignoring her tone, Lady Eva got down to what she really wanted to talk about: “Odd, this business of Westmoor’s heir. Of course it’s in the courts now and the rights of it are still to be decided, but I suppose what your mother told me is accurate?”

  “I don’t know what she told you, but I’d be very surprised if she made up a story for your benefit.”

  “She said you—”

  “Daisy!” Lucy came to the rescue. “Excuse us, Aunt Eva. Grandfather wants a word with Daisy.”

  “I’ll talk to you later, Daisy,” Lady Eva promised—or threatened, depending on one’s point of view. “Lucy, has your uncle Aubrey come to tea?”

  “I think he’s still in the conservatory.”

  “I’ll go and rout him out. He ought to be more sociable at a time like this. His weak heart is mostly in Maud’s imagination and he uses it as an excuse.” Lady Eva strode off around the side of the house, carrying her seventy-plus years and thirteen-plus stone lightly.

  “Sorry to summon you like that.”

  “I’m delighted, darling.”

  “I thought you might be. The thing is, Grandfather’s feeling rather rheumaticky. Old age seems to have pounced rather suddenly instead of creeping up in a decent manner.”

  “What a shame. Your great-uncle Montagu was fetching me a cup of tea … .”

  “I’ll redirect him. Oh, here comes Uncle Aubrey. Aunt Eva dashed off on a fruitless errand.”

  Lord Fotheringay came out from the Long Gallery with his wife. Tall, thin, balding, stooped, with gold-rimmed glasses, he might have looked scholarly but for his sun-ruddy skin and disreputable clothes.

  “I have washed my hands, Maud,” he was saying plaintively. “You know the sap won’t wash off. Oh, Miss Dalrymple!” he greeted Daisy with delight.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” Lady Fotheringay corrected him. “I told you.”

  “It’s been ages since you were here. I have some new specimens which will interest you, and any number of plants in bloom: tuberose, hibiscus, oleanders, gardenias, and some quite spectacular orchids. Shall we … ?”

  “Daisy’s dying for a cup of tea, Uncle Aubrey,” Lucy came to the rescue again, taking his arm and moving the group towards the tea table. “I expect you are, too.”

  “I usually have it in the conservatory,” he said doubtfully, glancing down at his baggy-kneed, earth-stained trousers. “I’m not exactly dressed for company, but Maud told me …”

  “I told you your mother expects you to turn out when we have so many people here for Lucy’s wedding. And I told you no one would expect you to climb all those stairs to your dressing room to change your clothes, not in your state of health. It’s all family, after all, except for Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “I’d love to see your flowers, Lord Fotheringay,” Daisy put in quickly. “After tea, perhaps?” She remembered she was to visit Jennifer Walsdorf’s little girl after tea. “I’ve promised to pop into the nursery but I shan’t stay more than half an hour, then I’ll come and find you. And now I must go and say hello to Lord Haverhill.”

  The old Earl was still an impressive figure, his silver hair and moustache as thick as ever. Daisy found him in a sardonic mood. “I suppose Aubrey’s been inviting you to take a look at his plants. When I’m gone, he’ll no doubt turn the entire estate over to hothouses and conservatories.”

  “I think it’s admirable that Lord Fotheringay found an interest and has pursued it with such success.”

  “Hmph. Well, he always was a sickly boy. I never thought he’d outlive me.”

  Daisy couldn’t think of any polite retort which would not imply that either Lord Haverhill or his son was facing imminent death, so she changed the subject. “You’re putting on a splendid do for Lucy’s wedding.”

  “She’s the best of my grandchildren,” the Earl said gruffly. “Standing on her own two feet, though it wouldn’t have been countenanced in a girl in my young day. She’s not forever running to me with her hand out. Pity she wasn’t born a boy.”

  “Never say that, Nick!” Montagu arrived bearing Daisy’s cup of tea and a plate with an assortment of tiny sandwiches, biscuits and cake. He deposited the lot on the table between his elder brother and Daisy. “Can’t ever be too many lovely ladies in the world, eh, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  Another unanswerable comment. Daisy smiled and sipped her tea.

  “You’re a dolt, Montagu,” snapped Lord Haverhill. “Mrs. Fletcher is right, at least Aubrey has a respectable hobby.”

  “And expectations. All he has to do is sit tight and Haverhill drops into his pocket,” said Montagu, his affability apparently undiminished.

  “Ah yes,” said the Earl with a sneer, “it was hard luck on you that Rupert dodged all the German bullets sent his way in the War, wasn’t it? With Aubrey in poor health, you might have stepped into my shoes after all.”

  “Are you insinuating … ? Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher!” Montagu waved Daisy back to the seat from which she was rising. “Don’t go. Brother Nicholas and I rub each other the wrong way, as you can see. I’m off.”

  Uncomfortably, Daisy settled back.

  “My apologies, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Lord Haverhill. “I usually manage to muster more patience with fools, even my brother. I must be growing old! Tell me, what are you writing these days? I read your articles in Town and Country with great enjoyment.”

  “And little else,” said a mournful voice. Johan—now John—Walsdorf bowed. He was a small, spare man, sandy-haired, wearing steel-rimmed glasses. His accent was barely detectable. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Fletcher,” he continued. “I do not mean to disparage your articles, which are indeed delightful and well written. However, I could wish there were something of more substance in his lordship’s library than bound copies of Punch, dating back to the inception of that excellent magazine, and a century’s worth of popular novels.”

  “Nonsense, my dear fellow. I distinctly recall my mother and my grandmother reading books of sermons.”

  “There are sermons,” Mr. Walsdorf acknowledged, a smile lighting his face. “Also out-of-date books on agriculture and the peerage. Like the rest of your library, my lord, none are of any conceivable antiquarian interest.”

  “We’re a young family, Mrs. Fletcher, about the same age as the house. Of no antiquarian interest, and without literary aspirations. The ancestors hanging in the hall are someone else’s. But I expect you have heard the story?”

  “No, actually.” The Dalrymples stretched back into the mists of time and Daisy had never been particularly interested in noble lineages. Moreover, the War had allowed her to avoid a young lady’s usual introduction to Society: she had worked in a military hospital instead of attending balls and hunting a husband of her own class.

  It was odd, she now realized, that Lucy, who was much more conscious of such things, had never talked about her own family’s history.

  “It all started,” said the Earl, “with Eustace Fothers, who was a manufacturer of umbrella silk in the Suffolk town of Haverhill. You know it perhaps?”

  “I don’t recall it.”

  “Unsurprising. It is a s
mall and very dull town.”

  Mr. Eustace Fothers, it seemed, did rather well with his umbrella silk and quadrupled the resulting fortune by shrewd investment. The purchase of an estate (from a noble but impoverished family who had not soiled their hands with trade since the sixteenth century) scarcely dented his wealth.

  Mr. Fothers had torn down the house and, having built the present pile, renamed the place after the source of his fortune, then changed his own name to Fotheringay. His investments continuing to prosper, he had next made a very large donation to the political party then in power. His reward, not unexpected, was a viscountcy, soon raised to an earldom.

  His son, the second Earl, had been lucky in both his investments and his marriage to a daughter of the old nobility.

  “My mother,” said the third Lord Haverhill, “did not cavil at the umbrella silk. By that time, fortunately, the taint of trade was no longer regarded as an insuperable obstacle.”

  “A great deal more respectable than being a peer because a distant ancestor was Charles the Second’s mistress,” said Daisy.

  The Earl shouted with laughter. Heads turned. Mr. Walsdorf looked faintly puzzled, as if he couldn’t see what was funny in the ignoble origins of the English peerage. After all these years in England, all those bound volumes of Punch catalogued, he still did not quite fathom the English sense of humour. On the other hand, Daisy suspected Lucy would be equally unamused.

  Smiling at Lord Haverhill, she set down her empty cup and saucer. “If you’ll excuse me, it’s time I said hello to Lucy’s parents.”

  The Honourable Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Fotheringay were a staid, rather dull couple. He sat on the boards of a couple of companies, doubtless due to his courtesy title, and was a churchwarden. She pottered contentedly about the garden of their small manor house in a small Essex village, driving her gardener to distraction, and was sometimes asked to open church fêtes. Their two sons, Lucy’s brothers Timothy and George, were both equally stodgy. Daisy had never understood how they could have produced a vivacious daughter like Lucy.

  However, they had always been kind to Daisy, ever since her first visit from school, and she was fond of them. She was making her way towards them when Sally came up to her.