A sly look passed over Jo’s face, replaced by a furrowed brow. “No, it’s nothing that terrible. It’s just that—Cordelia is ill. When they arrived yesterday, baby Oliver wasn’t feeling well, and just now, when they were on their way out the door of their hotel room, both of them, Dele and Oliver, were sick all over the carpet. I’m sorry, Pru,” Jo said, taking a tissue out of her pocket and twisting it around her finger. “You’ve no music. I don’t know what to do.”
“No music,” Pru said flatly, but guilt chased away her disappointment. “I’m sorry that Cordelia and Oliver can’t be here.” Pru stared off toward the rock garden, its delights escaping her as she thought through this latest obstacle. She’d reclaimed their minister, but she couldn’t play the piano herself. A movement caught her eye, and she looked up to see Alan in animated and convivial conversation with Dugald and Sheena, Lucy standing guard nearby.
“No, Jo, don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll take care of it.” Pru broke away and marched over to the group.
“Sheena, could I have a word…” They stepped aside, and Pru whispered her request. Sheena took Dugald by the hand, and they disappeared inside the hall.
“Alan,” Pru said, “I have a favor to ask. It’s about Dugald.”
Her request was brief, but Alan acted as if all his worldly cares had been cut in half. “What a grand idea,” he said.
Jo corralled her once again, standing next to Alan and almost acknowledging his existence with a slight incline of her head. “Pru,” she said, “I stopped by your flat to get a few things for you, but I couldn’t find your heels. Do I need to send someone back?”
Pru tried to keep from blushing. “No, I have them in my bag…I…took them to London with me.”
“You shouldn’t be wearing them out,” Mother Jo said, “we wanted them to be perfect for today.”
“They’re fine, they’re perfect. I needed more practice,” Pru said.
“Did you, now?” Jo asked with an arched brow.
“Here,” Pru shoved her bag at Jo.
“Jo,” Alan began.
“Alan, we’ll talk later,” Jo replied. Their eyes met; Alan nodded, threw his shoulders back, and walked into the hall.
Rosemary peered out the door of the hall and waved. “Here’s the bride now. Jo, could I steal you away?”
“Jo,” Pru said, “it’ll be all right, won’t it? Between you and Alan? You’re still thinking of getting back together?”
Jo shook her head. “It isn’t like that with us—not like you and Christopher. Not only are you in love, but you like each other, too. You can spend day after day together, and you still like each other.” She sighed. “It seems that Alan and I work best for short periods of time. Now”—Jo turned Pru toward the marquee—“in you go, time to get dressed.”
“What am I getting dressed in?” Pru asked. “Aren’t you going to help?”
“I’ll be in directly. And look at me now.” She locked eyes with Pru. “This will be all right.”
That didn’t bode well. Pru went in the front flap, past two coatracks, and stopped in front of the second flap, taking a deep breath. She stepped in and onto a temporary hardwood floor. A dais stood in the middle of the room, with a three-paneled mirror at its edge and a privacy screen covering the back corner; someone behind it was humming. Pru heard a yip from a fern stand in the other corner, and her eyes fell upon Tassie a second before she heard, “Ms. Parke, is that you? Come through, dearie.”
Rooted to the spot, Pru could only whisper, “Madame Fiona?”
Madame Fiona emerged, various undergarments hanging over her shoulders, straight pins lining the neck of her smock, and a strand of gray hair escaping from her bun.
“Not to worry, Ms. Parke, everything is under control. Now, we must begin in case there are any final adjustments.”
How could Jo do this to her? Pru’s eyes cut left and right, but there was no escape—she couldn’t make a run for it on her wedding day, especially as she’d had to chase down the minister when he’d tried to do the same thing. Her breathing had become shallow and she felt faint; she stopped to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. She would do this. Little Bo Peep, Barbie doll/lounge singer—regardless, she would hold her head high, and she would be married.
“Yes, I’m ready.”
Madame Fiona sorted through several pairs of pantyhose draped over her shoulder. “Here now, Ms. Parke, we’ve plenty of tights in case of a ladder. Ms. Howard did gather a few things for you—one of these bras should be suitable. And try this camisole.” Madame Fiona ushered Pru behind the screen and arranged her collection on the back of an upholstered chair. But the dress, Pru thought. What about the dress?
“I’ll return in a moment,” Madame Fiona said. Alone behind the screen, Pru wasted no time in doing as she was told. When Madame Fiona returned and approved the first layer of clothing, she unzipped a garment bag hanging behind them and said, “Now, Ms. Parke, time to take the plunge.”
It was a two-piece suit. The dressmaker helped her into the skirt first, buttoning and zipping and giving the waistband a tug before smoothing out a nonexistent pucker in the material. Then came the jacket.
“Is this it?” Pru asked, still afraid to look down at herself. They had gone from one extreme to the other and ended up in the middle, the very place Pru wanted to be. It all seemed so…reasonable.
“This, as you say, Ms. Parke, is it. Now, come out and let’s have a look, shall we?”
“Pru?” Jo called as she walked under the marquee.
Pru emerged from behind the screen, and Jo gasped. “Look at you,” she said, breathlessly.
“I haven’t. I haven’t looked at me,” Pru said. “Am I…all right?”
Jo held her hand out. Pru took it and stepped up onto the dais, eyes closed until she stood ready to face her reckoning. She blinked to get her image in focus.
The pencil skirt skimmed her hips and stopped just at her knees. The fitted jacket flared slightly below the waist and had three-quarter sleeves with a deep sweetheart neckline that echoed the shape of her fan pendant necklace. The warm rose pink of the watered silk picked up color in Pru’s cheeks that she didn’t even know existed. She began to cry. “Oh my God, it’s beautiful.”
“No tears, Ms. Parke,” Madame Fiona cried out, rushing toward her flapping a handkerchief. “No tears—you’ll stain the silk.”
Pru bent over from the waist, and her tears splashed onto the dais. “Oh dear, that’s going to be a problem.”
“Madame Fiona, you’ve outdone yourself,” Jo said, clutching Pru’s bag to her chest.
“Thank you so much,” Pru said, soaking up the tears that leaked out the corners of her eyes. “It’s perfect, really.”
“Yes, yes—accolades after, ladies,” Madame Fiona said, dismissing the compliments with a nod while she fussed with Pru’s sleeves. “We must press on. Ms. Howard, the shoes.”
Jo lost her smile and held out Pru’s bag, open. “No shoes, Pru. You didn’t leave them in London now, did you?”
“I certainly did not,” Pru said. But an image arose in her mind, and she saw them clearly in Christopher’s flat: one shoe under the sofa, the other on the mantel. “Or possibly…oops.” Her red face clashed with the pink dress. “We left in a rush this morning,” she added, her only defense.
The three women contemplated Pru’s stocking feet in silence. At last, Jo said, “Right. Where’s the nearest shoe shop?”
Pru heard a peal of laughter and the clack-clack-clack of footsteps outside the marquee. “No need for a shoe shop,” she said. “I’ll take care of this.” She climbed down off the dais and stuck her head out the side flap.
“Polly!” she called to her sister-in-law, who stood at the door of the hall. “Would you tell Krystal I need to see her?”
Chapter 43
Pru had been dressing herself for many years, but only through this group effort did she achieve so much in so little time. Polly applied a hint of makeup, and Jo twiste
d Pru’s hair up into a free-form bun, and pinned on a blusher. It had a scrap of lace, a few fresh flowers and a cluster of delicate feathers that floated just out of Pru’s line of sight and made her think that a swarm of midges was following her around. Pru rose to new heights on Krystal’s spare pair of heels.
She stood just inside the marquee waiting for Simon and watching their guests arrive until at last Lydia brought her flowers, a small bouquet of ivory roses, a sprig of heather, and some greenery.
“Have you seen the table arrangements?” Lydia asked.
“Not yet. Mrs. Wilson asked Simon to bring up flowers from their own garden at Greenoak,” Pru said. “Isn’t that lovely?”
Lydia laughed. “They are perfect for you, believe me.” She kissed Pru on the cheek, said, “I’m so happy for you, mija,” and left. She was replaced at the marquee flap by her brother.
“He’s waiting for you,” Simon said. Pru took his arm, walked to the door, and held her breath. She hadn’t instructed Sheena about what music to play. Pru expected to hear the first notes strike in a Lerner and Loewe medley, and that would be all right, really it would, because it was so good of Sheena to step in like this. A sublime chord sounded, then another and another, and she heard Polly whisper, “I love Handel at weddings.”
Simon and Pru stepped into Caledonian Hall and turned right for the short walk up to where the wedding party waited: Christopher with Graham in attendance, Jo and Lydia, with Alan and Dugald both to conduct the proceedings. Pru glanced to her left and saw that the cake table held an abundant arrangement of summer color. A trailing green hop vine twined around roses, clematis, alliums, and—Pru’s head spun around to take a second look. Beets. A cluster of baby beets on one side and there, at the base, a bunch of young carrots, their ferny foliage adding a soft texture. Pru laughed aloud and looked at Simon, who grinned and raised his eyebrows. “She told me to bring whatever looked best,” he said.
Simon handed her off to Christopher, and she managed a smile at him before Alan began. “Welcome to this celebration of love and family as we join Prunella and Christopher…” and her eyes filled with tears.
“We give thanks to God,” Dugald said, taking his part, “for the gift of this marriage and the special gifts bride and bridegroom bring to each other. We ask for God’s grace for them that their marriage be enriched.”
Pru thought she might just set a world record for blinking, as she attempted to stem the flow so that Madame Fiona wouldn’t vault over the guests waving her white hankie.
Christopher’s son, Graham, took out the rings.
“I, Christopher, take you, Prunella, to be my wife. In the presence of God, and before this congregation, I promise to be a loving, faithful, and loyal husband to you as long as we both shall live.”
She heard a sob behind her. Jo? Lydia? She looked back—no, Krystal.
“I, Prunella, take you, Christopher, to be my husband. In the presence of God, and before this congregation, I promise to be a loving, faithful, and loyal wife to you as long as we both shall live.”
“We pray for this new marriage and for the home that will be shared,” Dugald said.
Alan continued with confidence, “We pray for the families from which the couple has come, and we remember with thanks those gone before who have contributed much to them. And now…”
With an enormous sigh of relief and just the right kiss, it was, as they say, done and dusted.
—
Pru stood chatting with guests as she peeled a strip of marzipan off the cake and dropped it in her mouth as Sheena began a waltz. Pru felt a warm presence at her side and Christopher’s lips against her hair. “May I have this dance?”
They did themselves proud, and after one go round the dance floor, others joined them. After the waltz, Sheena segued into a more spirited number, and Pru and Christopher moved to the side.
“You sorted it all out,” he said as they watched Jo and Alan slow-dance to a foxtrot.
“My magic is short-lived where the Howards are concerned,” she replied. “Alan is staying here, and Jo is going back to London.”
“It must suit them.”
“I suppose.” Pru looked down at the ring he’d slipped on her finger. A narrow gold band with leaves etched all round. She held it out to get a better view. “They’re oak leaves,” she said in astonishment. “It’s beautiful.”
“My great-aunt’s,” Christopher explained. “Claire has our mother’s ring, you see, and…”
She kissed him before he could go on. “I gave our dad’s wedding band to Simon. Yours belonged to an uncle of Dad’s. It has a June date engraved inside—but from 1924.”
Her gaze moved to a couple behind the cake table—Krystal talking with Murdo. She saw Marcus watching Krystal, hands in his pockets, and went over to him.
“Congratulations,” he said, managing to combine sincerity with moroseness.
“Thanks.” She looked over at Krystal. “Why are you standing here like this?”
He shrugged. “She’s busy. She’s always got some new scheme going. Now she’s interested in Murdo—just his furniture, she says, but I’m not so sure.”
“Snap out of it, Marcus.”
“Yeah,” he said, straightening, “thanks for the sympathy.”
“Say something to her—have you tried that? Does she know how you feel?”
“That hasn’t always worked out for me,” he said, glaring at her.
“Nope.” She shook her head. “I refuse to accept responsibility for that. You need to make a move.”
He exhaled in a huff, and said with a half grin, “You can be really annoying, you know that?”
She looked round to find the Wilsons and Christopher. Mr. Wilson kissed her cheek. “Your wedding, a holiday in Scotland, and an opportunity to take a look at the latest dig along Hadrian’s Wall—how could we resist?”
“You’re a beautiful bride,” Mrs. Wilson said, and Pru blushed accordingly. “How lucky to have Madame Fiona create such a lovely suit.”
“Yes,” Pru said, nodding. “It was a fascinating process.”
“What will you and Christopher do now?” Mrs. Wilson asked. “Where will you live when you leave London?”
“We haven’t a—” The last word of their stock reply stuck in Pru’s throat, and was outpaced by an answer that galloped up from the rear and out her mouth before she knew it. “Hampshire.”
Yes, of course, she thought, that’s the answer. She looked at Christopher with eyebrows raised. He had that ghost of a smile and didn’t look a bit surprised. “Hampshire it is,” he said.
“We’re moving to Hampshire,” she said, her confidence growing. “It’s time I got to know my brother. I hope we’ll be close to Greenoak.”
The Wilsons glanced at each other. “We hope you’ll be more than close,” Mr. Wilson said.
“We hope that Christopher will get on with a local force,” Pru continued, her attention captured by the scene in her head. “And I’m going to be a gardener again. Not a head gardener, I don’t need that, mind you—I’d prefer to work with someone. You wouldn’t happen to know of a position open?”
Glancing at her brother, Christopher slipped his hand around Pru’s waist and gave her a squeeze. “I think they just might.”
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Shauna Hay, Press & Marketing Manager, and David Knott, Curator of the Living Collection at the Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh for allowing me a behind-the-scenes look at the Botanics, after which I distorted the real world to suit my story.
Archibald Menzies is best known for introducing the monkey puzzle tree, Araucaria araucana, into European cultivation, and for his plant exploring in the Pacific Northwest. I got to know Mr. Menzies by reading his journal, housed at the British Library—except, of course, for that missing last year (found only within these pages, along with the invented history of that pesky fuchsia). For more on Mr. Menzies, see Monkey Puzzle Man: Archibald Menzies, Plant Hunter by James McCarthy.
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Continuous appreciation goes to my critique group and fellow authors—Kara Pomeroy, Joan Shott, and Louise Creighton—and to my good friend Victoria Summerley for her generous response to my constant questions on Scottish and English language and culture.
The best editor offers both praise and appropriate suggestions—that is the very definition of Dana Isaacson at Alibi. Thanks to my agent, Colleen Mohyde, who is always available.
With many thanks to Edinburgh for the lovely city it is, the Colonies, and our local, The Stockbridge Tap. Leighton, as always, much love.
BY MARTY WINGATE
The Potting Shed Mysteries
The Garden Plot
The Red Book of Primrose House
Between a Rock and a Hard Place
The Birds of a Feather Mysteries
The Rhyme of the Magpie
PHOTO: MARY M. PALMER
In addition to the Potting Shed Mysteries, MARTY WINGATE is also the author of The Rhyme of the Magpie, a Birds of a Feather Mystery. A well-known speaker on gardens and travel, she has written numerous nonfiction books on gardening, including Landscaping for Privacy. Marty’s garden articles have appeared in a variety of publications, including The American Gardener, and Country Gardens. She is hard at work on her next novel.
martywingate.com
Facebook.com/MartyWingateAuthor
@martywingate
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Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3) Page 27