The Wrong Rite (12 page)

Janet had the sense to recognize an order, however politely disguised. She handed over the prize to the victors and perforce accepted Mary as a most unwelcome substitute.

Mary was as exasperating to walk with as she was to listen to, darting ahead or lagging back, grabbing Janet’s arm then pushing it away, urging her on or nagging her to slow down. Janet tuned her pestiferous companion out as best she could, and concentrated on the day and the scene.

There was plenty of activity around the farm. The kitchen door stood wide open; people were rushing in and out, carrying things up from the milking shed, into the house, out to the barn, back and forth, forth and back. Nobody had time to stop and chat. Elen’s watering pot was standing on the long wooden bench outside the door, Janet filled it from the spigot and went on to the chapel.

Her flowers had held up pretty well, but it was surprising how much water they’d managed to drink. Janet went around tweaking out the wilted ones, nipping off a faded blossom here and there, moving a stem to make a better show, refilling the depleted jars. She didn’t have to worry about spills, water couldn’t hurt stone and that old curtain over the altar was too far gone to matter. It did make a pleasant effect, though, with Aunt Elen’s candles, the big bouquet in the middle and the massed jam pots below.

Mary had, for a wonder, fallen silent while Janet worked. Now she erupted again. “Where is the mullein? I am seeing no mullein. There must be mullein.”

“And where do you propose to find any this early in the year?” Janet snapped back. “Anyway, mullein isn’t much to look at.”

“But mullein is necessary.”

Janet couldn’t see why, nor did she care. “Then why don’t you go see if you can find some?”

She might have known Mary wouldn’t pay attention, “And bindweed.”

“Bindweed? Do you mean wild morning glory?” Janet had seen some in the hedgerows: big white blossoms, much more impressive than the smaller pink-tinged ones she was used to in New Brunswick. “I know it’s lovely but the flowers shut right up if you pick them.”

“Three days before the new moon.”

“Is it? I’ve lost track, what with all the traveling.” Janet didn’t see what relevance the moon had to bindweed unless morning glories worked the night shift in Wales. Or unless Mary was just talking to hear herself talk.

“Oh, you did use toadflax. That’s a relief.” The bright handful of yellow and orange flowers, like tiny snapdragons crowded together on spiky stems, did make a pleasant splash of color against the dark gray stone. Perhaps that was what Mary meant, if in fact she meant anything at all.

“Our name for it back home is butter and eggs,” said Janet. “When I was little, my father showed me how to make the blossoms open and close their mouths. I used to pretend they were talking to me. We had a great patch down behind the barn.” Where the old backhouse used to be—she didn’t have to include that detail. “An old neighbor of ours called them ramstead. She claimed it had been a Welshman named Ramstead who first brought the plants over to North America. Did you know that?”

Mary didn’t answer; she was walking round and round the altar widdershins, mumbling something to herself. Janet pinched one little blossom gently at the sides so that she could see the toad’s mouth open, then picked up the now-empty watering pot.

“There, that’s done. I’d better get back to the big house and put on my glad rags. Are you coming, or do you want to go looking for mullein?”

Not that Mary’d be apt to find any, but at least the hunt would keep her busy for a while, which was a consummation devoutly to be wished. Janet had a beautiful thought.

“You know, Mary, that’s really a marvelous outfit you have on. I was just thinking how picturesque you’d look rambling around the hilltop, where people could see you as they came up. Guests ought to begin arriving pretty soon, hadn’t they?”

“Yes! Yes they will.”

Without another word, Mary hared off up the slope. Janet breathed a sigh of relief, put the watering pot back where she’d found it, exchanged a few quick words with passing Rhyses, and went on down to Uncle Caradoc’s. He and Sir Emlyn were having a companionable wander around the garden. Lady Rhys and Dorothy were nowhere in sight.

“What have you done with my daughter?” Janet asked them.

“Sillie took her up to get dressed for the party,” her father-in-law answered. “Madoc’s gone over to Lisa’s on some kind of secret mission. How did you manage to shake Mary?”

“I sent her up on the hill to look picturesque. Actually she’s trying to find some mullein and bindweed—she didn’t think much of the way I did the flowers for the chapel. Except the toadflax, she approved of that. Did you know it was brought over to the colonies by a Welshman?

“No, but I surmise why a Welshman might have wanted to have familiar plants growing around him,” said Sir Caradoc. “Mary had better leave your flowers alone.”

Janet couldn’t have agreed more, but she did wonder why the old man spoke so sharply. Sharply for him, anyway. Perhaps he was as fed up with Mary as the rest of them were, it was high time for a change of subject.

“Where’s Gwen this morning? I haven’t seen her yet. Or Dai either, come to think of it.”

“Gwen came down right after you left,” Sir Emlyn told her. “She had some tea and went to fix her mother’s hair. We’re supposed to send you straight up the minute you get back, to have your hat fitted. Dai, I believe, got up very early and went to join Owain’s lot.”

“That’s good, they’ll keep him busy. I’d better hop along, then, before Gwen comes after me.”

“You had indeed. Our Gwendolyn is not to be gainsaid.” Uncle Caradoc was smiling down at her. “Jenny, it is a joy to have you here. I hope you will enjoy my birthday as much as I am doing.”

“I fully intend to.”

Just so Mary didn’t go messing around in the chapel. Mullein and bindweed, forsooth! Either the woman was a little bit cracked or else she’d been watching some television program about flower arranging for the space age. Well, to heck with Mary. What if the hat didn’t go with her dress?

Janet ran upstairs, changed into her Liberty lawn, grateful that she wouldn’t have to wear winter woolies under it on a day like this, and rushed to see her hat. It was perfect. Gwen was an enchantment, Lady Rhys an empress in disguise, Dorothy a living doll. Now for the birthday party.

J
ANET HAD BEEN WONDERING
how they were going to cope with Dorothy all day, she might have known Madoc would come up with the answer. He was back from Lisa’s pushing a magnificent pram that must have been Tib’s, complete with flounced pillows and an embroidered pink silk carriage robe, plus a more utilitarian one to spread on the grass for the baby to crawl around on. Janet was ecstatic.

“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.