Isabel's Wedding

by Pamela Oldfield

  The barmaid said, ‘You should visit the cathedral in the town before you move on. It’s worth a look. Very famous, our cathedral. People come from overseas to see it. They write about it and some paint pictures of it.’ She indicated the young man. ‘This gentleman’s an artist. He painted that.’ She pointed to an oil painting on the wall beside the old man with the pipe.

  Grateful for an opportunity to avoid speaking to the young man he crossed the room, passing the old man who had now dropped his tobacco pouch on to the floor and was scrabbling to scrape the spilled contents together.

  Standing with his back to the bar he stared at the picture and then at the signature. ‘Very good! Yes,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Luke painted it specially for us a couple of years ago.’ She smiled. ‘When he’s famous he’s promised us that that picture will be worth a lot of money!’

  The young man laughed. ‘No harm in hoping!’

  She said, ‘When we took the place over I wanted to rename this place “The Cathedral” but my husband wasn’t keen. Said it was too religious. I said, “But Jesus drank wine, didn’t he?”’

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘But seriously, you really should see the cathedral. Inside as well as out.’

  The signature was clearly visible. Lucas Fratton.

  She persisted. ‘So what do you think of it?’

  ‘Excellent,’ he repeated, afraid to turn back and face them.

  Finally losing his nerve, he finished his drink, invented a meeting with someone and made a quick exit. ‘You were a fool to come back,’ he told himself bitterly. It’s never going to work out. Lucas Fratton. So that was the youngest boy. Obviously very talented. Very artistic. Ellen would have been delighted if she had lived to see his success. And he was so much like his mother. Poor Ellen. She had missed so much – never seeing the children grow up.

  Almost stumbling, he realized that his eyes were moist, the beginning of tears blurring his vision. With four children to raise, Ellen would have needed her husband’s support. And might have had it, had Alice not interfered the way she did. Talk about lighting the touchpaper! She may have been well intentioned but she had had no right to say what she did . . .

  Not that poor Ellen would have survived the last baby’s birth but at least she would have been spared a great deal of unnecessary grief and worry.

  As he plodded on in the direction of the town and his lodgings, he wondered whether or not to buy a bicycle – or maybe even a small motor car. The latter had its appeal but was he staying long enough to make it a sensible purchase? That all depended on the family and he had no idea how they would react. He might be setting off again in the near future. More than likely! ‘This is not going to be easy,’ he warned himself yet again. ‘In fact it’s going to be damned nigh impossible! Maybe you should think again!’

  The auction room was already filling up as Theo made his way along the two tables that held the first of the items to be auctioned. As the number was read out from the catalogue, he would hold up the appropriate item for a last glimpse for the audience before it went under the hammer.

  The prospective bidders sat in rows facing the rostrum on which the auctioneer would shortly take his place. Many were private buyers looking for something to add to their collections but probably a dozen or more were traders who themselves owned antique shops or whose job was to seek out items for their wealthy clients who preferred to stay at home and let someone else do the searching for them.

  Theo glanced at the items for sale – glass decanter, seventeenth century; an exquisite miniature by an unknown artist; a set of bone-handled knives; a doll with a head made of wax; a snuff box – probably seventeenth century . . .

  Michael Rawley appeared beside him. ‘I was thinking last night about the book idea. You told me once you had a lot of Georgian silver in that old house of yours. Maybe each book could specialize in a certain period – sixteenth-century pottery, seventeenth-century glassware – that sort of thing. Narrow each one down a bit.’

  ‘It could work,’ Theo replied cautiously because he was beginning to have doubts about the idea. Rawley meant well but Theo felt he was being pressured and that if he failed to succeed with the book idea he would be letting his colleague down. He opened his mouth to make the point as tactfully as he could when he was interrupted by the auctioneer who took his place on the rostrum with a cheery greeting. A hush fell over the room with all eyes focused on him and his ‘hammer’. He was what Theo thought of as ‘bluff’ or maybe ‘hearty’ with a face full of reddened veins which suggested an enthusiastic use of alcohol.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said in his familiar gravelly voice. ‘Nice to see so many people here this afternoon – both regulars and new faces. Please have your catalogues to hand – plus pockets full of money – and we’ll make a start.’ He rearranged a few papers on his lectern and reached for his gavel. ‘Item number one is a glass decanter.’

  Theo lifted it carefully and held it steady so that the audience could examine it.

  The auctioneer continued. ‘Seventeenth century, a couple of small chips around the top edge but otherwise in very good condition. A well-fitting lid. No reserve so start the bidding where you will.’ He looked round the room expectantly.

  Rawley lowered his voice to a discreet whisper. ‘How d’you come to have so much silver, if you’ll pardon the question?’

  ‘Our godmother, Alice, comes from the very wealthy Redmond family. She and my mother, Ellen, were friends since Mother was their fourteen-year-old housemaid. Alice, who became our godmother, was the only child of the Redmond family and inherited the house, which she hated, and with it her father’s collection of antique silver.’

  Around them the bidding was rising and then the hammer went down. ‘Item number two.’ The auctioneer glanced towards Theo who hastily lifted the next item. ‘A very beautiful miniature of a young woman by the name of Jessica Leonora West, unfortunately by an unknown artist; otherwise we would today be looking for a much higher valuation . . .’

  Rawley continued in a whisper. ‘And you are allowed to sell whatever you like?’

  Theo kept his voice low. ‘Not exactly. Alice likes to keep the house maintained while we are living in it so she regularly suggests that we sell some of the antiques. The money helps us to pay for our food and heating and pays for repairs when necessary.’ Lowering his voice, he leaned towards the older man. ‘There’s always been a suspicion that for some reason she feels responsible for our father leaving home so abruptly, but when I once plucked up courage to ask her about it she very firmly brushed the question aside and has never said a word about it since. It’s as though that part of our past never happened!’ He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I do love a good mystery!’ Rawley grinned then pressed a finger to his lips. ‘Not a word will pass my lips,’ he vowed, rolling his eyes.

  The auctioneer was now adopting a petulant tone. ‘Now ladies and gentleman, I cannot let this beautiful miniature go below the reserve price. Think about the undoubted quality of what is being offered. I am sure it will realize a profit when it is sold on at the right auction. Or it would make a delightful present for someone dear to you. Dig a little deeper into your pockets . . .’

  Rawley changed the subject. ‘So how’s the wedding going? Your sister, isn’t it? Isabel?’

  ‘The invitations have gone out! Can’t change her mind now.’

  ‘You hope she won’t!’

  Theo grinned. ‘I don’t even want to think such a thing. Poor Olivia swears she will be grey before the great day finally arrives – and I still have to write a speech which Izzie approves of!’

  Friday, 11th May (ten past eleven!)

  I had a talk with Luke this evening about Fenella Anders, which came up because he told me about a stranger who turned up in the Coach and Horses earlier today and Luke thinks he had an American accent and did I think it might be Father ‘casing the joint’ – as he so eleg
antly put it! He seemed to suggest that the man who might or might not be Father may be closer than we think and spying on us. I pointed out that there must be hundreds of stray Americans wandering around England. I showed him the photo of the two of them as young men and he said it was difficult because the man he saw was much older and has a moustache and a bit of a beard.

  He said that the man was interested in Luke’s painting of the cathedral but very soon left the pub. Luke then changed the subject and went on to talk about Will Anders who is away for several weeks, supposedly with his father or his aunt or someone who is dying of consumption, but Fenella thinks he is with another woman. And that makes me very nervous! But as Luke reminds me time and again, I am only his sister and have no right to pry or even to offer unwanted advice!

  Theo has had a brief note from Aunt Alice telling him to sell the two remaining Georgian candlesticks for us – the tall silver ones from the old study. I shall be sorry to see them go but needs must, I suppose. Theo believes they will fetch a few pounds – maybe as much as ten or eleven! She is so generous with her antiques – we could never thank her enough for keeping us ‘afloat’, as they say. She always pretends the money has to go on maintenance of her property but she knows we would find it hard to stay here without some financial help.

  Big occasion! This afternoon Izzie put on her wedding dress for me and she looks really wonderful. She has stopped complaining that Miss Denny was ‘too cheap to be any good’ and now admits that the design and the workmanship could not be bettered even if we had paid twice as much. I felt a little choked as I looked at her, slowly twirling to show off the dress. We had roughly pinned up her hair with combs. Hard to believe but soon she will be a married woman. I feel I should be talking to her about the more intimate side of marriage but as she points out I know very little, if anything, being a sad old spinster with no prospects of ever being anything else – although she did not put it quite like that!! Hopefully Izzie’s mother-in-law to be might help her.

  I am still worrying about Mrs Whinnie’s description of a terrible quarrel that happened here just before Father went back to California and I shall write tomorrow to Aunt Alice to ask her if she knows anything about it and can throw some light on the subject. What on earth was happening that was so disgraceful that it was being gossiped about by all the neighbours? It is all something of a mystery and it would be helpful to know the full story of what went on before Father arrives so that we might know how to treat him.

  Theo’s father-in-law sent up a couple of rabbits for Sunday’s lunch. He is very kind. I shall add some bacon, herbs and an onion. Rabbit can be rather tasteless.

  The following Sunday, after the service, the vicar stood in the stiff breeze outside his church porch, shaking hands with his parishioners as they made their farewells, claiming as they always did that they had enjoyed both the sermon and the service and mostly wishing him well for the coming week or sending good wishes to his ‘good lady wife’ and also to his brother, who had been remembered in their prayers and who was, it seemed, seriously ill and not likely to recover from poisoning of the blood after dentistry.

  He said, ‘Ah! Mrs Westbury . . .’ and gave her a broad smile. She was a wealthy widow and very generous. She frequently paid for fresh flowers for the church and always made a special donation at Christmas.

  ‘A nice sermon, vicar. Very topical.’ He imagined a glint in her eye as she added, ‘We must all be aware of the dangers of temptation,’ and watched her nervously as she moved on.

  Behind her came a small man in a bowler hat: Mrs Westbury’s butler, who was always a source of irritation to the vicar who found him altogether too servile. Why did servants have to think like servants even when they were not ‘on duty’, he wondered, shaking him firmly by the hand.

  The butler said, ‘Thank you. Thank you. A good sermon. Plenty to think about, vicar,’ and scurried past.

  A woman took his place and looked at him admiringly, as many of the female parishioners did. ‘The sermon was splendid.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’ He knew her name but was trying to place her.

  ‘Truly uplifting. It gives me the courage to face our uncertain future with strength of—’

  ‘Uncertain future?’ He wondered if he had missed something.

  ‘Our Mr Fratton coming home after all these years and none of us knowing what to expect! What changes will he make? I’ve been with the family for nigh on ten years and—’

  ‘Ah yes! The prodigal father.’ He suddenly remembered her. This was Mrs Bourne, housekeeper to the Fratton family – and the daughter was shortly going to be married. Isadora? No, Isabel. ‘I’m sure your services will still be needed, Mrs Bourne . . .’ He reached out a hand to the man behind her and she took the none too subtle hint and moved on.

  ‘Mrs Anders!’ He had heard rumours but smiled nonetheless.

  She said, ‘We rarely see you, vicar.’

  ‘My days are so full but I will try.’

  ‘We’ll look forward to seeing you.’ Her smile dazzled him. ‘Our good Lord was not averse to a glass of wine!’

  ‘Er – very true. Yes, thank you. Yes indeed . . .’ He thought she could be seriously tempting. ‘Ah! Good morning, Mr Timmins, so good to see you up and about again.’ He stepped back sharply to avoid the swing of the wooden crutch. Mr Timmins was a hostage to gout but, to his credit, rarely missed the Sunday morning service.

  He received a shy nod from the retired teacher by way of answer.

  Reluctantly he offered a handshake for the gravedigger in his Sunday best – a miserable old man who muttered something incomprehensible. He was probably complaining about the choice of hymns, the vicar thought resignedly. If ‘Abide with Me’ was not included in the service, the old fellow felt cheated.

  The vicar patted the heads of the three Cobbett children and smiled at the parents, who spoke as one. ‘Thank you, vicar.’ The mother added, ‘Very uplifting.’

  Only a few more, he thought.

  A small mongrel dog appeared, sniffing around, and the vicar clapped his hands to discourage him as the animal had been known to cock his hind leg against the gravestones in full view of the parishioners. The Cobbett children watched the animal hopefully but were disappointed.

  The vicar forced a smile for the younger Miss Fratton who had been hanging back waiting for the rest of the worshippers to leave. ‘Aha! Everything all set for the special day?’ he asked, expecting an answer in the affirmative.

  ‘I need to talk to you about that,’ she told him nervously. ‘You said I could come to you if I had any worries. I can’t talk to anyone else without upsetting them but . . . but I truly don’t know what to do or think or which way to turn.’

  His heart sank. The rest of the congregation had by this time drifted away and he had been looking forward to the small sherry that his wife would pour for each of them – their Sunday treat to celebrate another successful sermon. ‘We’ll go back inside,’ he suggested.

  Sitting with the vicar in the last two pews Isabel explained that her father was coming home but they did not know when he would arrive. ‘The point is that I would love him to be present at my wedding and I’m wondering if I could alter the date if necessary – that is if perhaps we get a letter telling us when he will arrive and we know it will be too late . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

  The vicar had pursed his lips and now sighed deeply. ‘It might be possible,’ he said slowly. He felt somewhat aggrieved by the suggestion. No one else would use the date for a wedding – not at such short notice – and that meant a loss of much needed revenue. ‘In fact it would be possible but you might then have to wait several weeks for your wedding, until we have another vacant date. Would that bother you, Miss Fratton? I mean, have you sent out invitations? You would have to let everyone know, wouldn’t you? Quite a palaver, I should imagine.’

  Her face had fallen. ‘It wouldn’t matter to me but . . . I don’t expect my fiancé would be very pleased – unless I co
uld make him understand how important it is for me.’

  ‘Mmm.’ He raised his eyebrows thoughtfully but said nothing.

  ‘Mind you . . .’ She brightened slightly. ‘One nice thing has happened. We have at last found a suitable flat – furnished naturally, but the landlord says we can take down his curtains and put up our own which will be fun. Bertie’s mother is going to make them for us as soon as we have chosen the material and I fancy something floral for the kitchen and in the front room maybe . . .’

  The vicar, not paying any attention to these details, looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Now how can I put this? Your fiancé would need to understand exactly why you want to delay the wedding. It might seem to him that you are more concerned for your father than you are for him. At such a vulnerable time in his life – you are both very young – he might begin to doubt that you are entirely certain of your feelings for him. Not that that is the case, of course, but it might look that way and perhaps you should not put doubts into his mind.’

  Isabel frowned unhappily. ‘But of course I am entirely certain. I do love him and I do want us to be married. I just want to walk down the aisle with my arm through my father’s arm the way other brides do.’ When he didn’t answer she added, ‘It’s not too much to ask of him, is it? He’s never done anything else for me in his whole life and I can forgive him for that but there’s just this one thing I desperately want him to do and what happens? He says he’s coming back to Canterbury but now we don’t hear a word from him. I love him dearly but he’s so thoughtless!’ She swallowed hard.

  She’s very close to tears, he told himself anxiously. ‘You must stay calm, Miss Fratton. Do you have any idea how near he might be?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘Could he be here already but maybe afraid to come forward? Cold feet, as they say. From his point of view . . .’

  Her eyes blazed suddenly. ‘If he’s here and too cowardly to make himself known to us then . . . then I don’t think very highly of him! Bertie – that is, my fiancé – is already wondering if the whole thing is a hoax! I dare not suggest such a thing to Olivia but . . .’ She held up her hands in a gesture of surrender.