The Wrong Rite (13 page)

As the patriarch’s only nephew, Sir Emlyn counted among the elect. A high chair with a single rosebud in a tiny vase on its tray had been placed at the far end of the head table, next to the gap, so that Dorothy could easily be coped with. Janet sat next to her, of course, with Madoc, Gwen, Dafydd, and Lady Rhys all in a row beside their illustrious paterfamilias. Betty had also been graced with a seat at the head table, Janet was glad to see.

Close but not all that close connections got the seats nearest the bends of the U, the rest took the leftovers and were glad to get them. Bob and Mary had managed to bag themselves chairs up near the corner but on the other side, Janet was relieved to note. Iseult and Reuel were at Dorothy’s end. The writer must have been promoted to honorary fiancé for the occasion, Janet decided; she wondered how much he appreciated the honor. Anyway, Reuel had some third cousin’s pretty daughter at his other side and looked to be settling in comfortably enough; though he did keep a hopeful eye on his champagne glass all through the grace, which was said in Welsh by three different ministers speaking in relays. Janet was relieved for him when Huw rose to give the birthday toast to his father and it was safe to take a drink.

As always, one toast led to another but the rhetoric was not allowed to interfere with the eating. Bowls and platters of food were simply put on the table at frequent intervals and everybody helped everybody else. Lisa’s leek pie was superb. So were Elen’s chicken pie, Betty’s steak-and-kidney, and all the other pies and pastries, the sliced meats, the cold salmon, the fresh peas, the crisp salads, the edibles beyond enumeration. They vanished like the snows of yesteryear amid music and laughter and general rejoicing.

When at last even Bob had had enough, the tables were cleared, the cloths crumbed, and the desserts brought on. There were mounds of strawberries, jugs of cream, gateaux on stands, tarts on platters, mighty glass bowls of trifle, Welsh cakes in greater profusion than the daisies on the grass. There were epergnes spilling over with grapes and peaches, apples and figs, nuts and chocolates, and strong peppermints to ease the overstrained stomach. Janet took a peppermint.

Dorothy had behaved well enough during the long drawn-out meal, with one pit stop between courses; now she was beginning to flag. Madoc picked her up and cocked an eyebrow. Janet nodded. They went into the farmhouse, got their daughter comfortable, rested in the quiet parlor until she fell asleep, then took her back outside and bedded her down in the pram.

During their brief absence, family and guests had been drifting out of the barn to a broad lawn framed in blossoming hawthorn, mulberry, and apple trees. Here, chairs, rugs, and pillows had been carried out to make a sort of informal amphitheater, with a little knoll at one end as a natural dais where the Maypole had been raised, bedecked with garlands of ivy and streamers of gold. The oaken throne chair was sitting there now but Sir Caradoc was still mingling with his well-wishers. Lady Rhys had staked out a rug and some chairs at a strategic point close but not too close to the dais, in the shade of a not-too-shady tree. Trust her. Madoc trundled the pram over that way, the springs taking the bounces easily, Dorothy not so much as blinking. They got her parked, then sprawled on the rug as a change from too much sitting.

“Comfortable, Jenny love?”

“Wonderfully. What happens now?”

“Poetry, in Welsh. Think you can stick it?”

“Translate for me. Till I fall asleep, anyway. All that food in the middle of the day’s making me drowsy.”

“You and plenty of others. Want another cushion, or will you settle for my manly bosom?”

“I’d better take the cushion. This crowd seems to be about half ministers and Sunday School teachers, and you know how your mother feels about your father’s position. Oh look, they’re bringing out the harps.”

The majestic carved and gilded instruments turned the picnic into a fairy tale. Gwen, her daffodil hat and frock gold as the harps in the afternoon sun, could easily have passed for a fairy princess if she hadn’t happened to be sprawled none too decorously, on the blue rug with her clarinet case open beside her, taking her instrument apart and squinting into one of the pieces. She’d be playing in a while.

Dafydd would sing, of course. He was next rug over with Lisa and Tom, Tib having taken Dai under her wing and steered him across to where Owain’s lot had staked out a claim. Lisa was straightening Dafydd’s new ascot for him. Antique gold with a pattern of scarlet griffins might have been a bit much on some men, it was just right for Dafydd Rhys. That celluloid collar of Tom’s must have been cramping his windpipe, he’d swapped it for a shocking-pink ascot with green horseshoes. Janet wondered whether the vanished Patricia had picked it out for him. Too bad she’d had to miss the party; she’d seemed a friendly soul. Perhaps she was only a casual acquaintance, though; nobody had so much as mentioned her since that first evening.

No sprawling on rugs for Iseult; she was artfully arranged in one of the lawn chairs, watching her light green draperies undulate in the gentle breeze, idly turning her emerald bracelets to catch the light. Reuel was stretched out on the grass with an arm across his eyes. Half-asleep and half-seas over, Janet thought uncharitably.

Bob had a chair planted smack in front of the dais. He’d donned a panama hat over his skullcap and was glowering out from under its brim at the harpists tuning their instruments, daring them to strike a false note. The empty chair beside him was presumably reserved for Mary, but she was in no hurry to take it. Janet could see her darting here and there among the guests, perspiring in her checked woolen shawl but showing no inclination to take it off. Oh dear, she was heading this way. Janet sat up and prepared to be civil if necessary, but Mary plumped herself down beside the semicomatose Reuel.

“Well, Mr. Williams, we meet again. Enjoying the revels? You were always a great one for revels, were you not? Or should I say fun and games?”

His answer was a less than civil grunt, it didn’t put her off a whit.

“You found my little dissertation on Sir Caradoc’s emerald last night interesting, did you not, Mr. Williams?”

“Oh yes. Very interesting.” He yawned without bothering to cover his mouth, just so she’d know he really meant what he said.

“You made good use of my knowledge once before, didn’t you? Remarkably good use. Isn’t that right, Mr. Williams? Or was it in fact not at all right?”

Williams was sitting up now, looking at Mary as though he couldn’t quite make out what she was. “The show went well enough, I suppose. It’s been a long time.”

“Indeed it has, and much has taken place since then. Arthur Ellis’s death, for instance. We must have a talk, Mr. Williams. Later on, when you’re fresh and rested. A good, long talk.”

“Arthur Ellis? He was the gem buyer, right? The one who wouldn’t let himself be photographed except with his back to the camera? What is there to talk about?”

“Come now, Mr. Williams. Don’t be coy. You know what.”

She bounced away, with an eldritch cackle that would have done any one of Macbeth’s witches proud. Iseult was amused.

“Just can’t keep them off, can you, Reuel? What was that all about?”

“God knows. The old hag must be drunk.”

Mary was something, at any rate. Now she was scuttling back across the lawn, to where Dai appeared to be hitting it off pretty well with Mavis’s Patagonian niece, a pretty girl of sixteen or so. His aunt was the last person he wanted to see just then, his attitude made that plain. Mary said something to him, he tried to turn away. She grabbed the lapel of his blazer and started berating him about something, wagging a finger in front of his nose.

The other young people were starting to draw away. Who could blame them? Janet could have cried for the poor misfit who wanted so badly to be one of the crowd. Even from here she could see how red Dai’s face was getting, see him finally pull away and stalk off, looking for a hole to crawl into. Tib, bless her heart, was running after him, soothing him down, drawing him back to the pack. He’d be all right now, nobody was paying any attention to him. People were quieting down, finding their places, looking expectantly toward the dais where the harpists were poised to begin.

All but Mary. She was still flitting from one to another, making, as far as Janet could see, a thorough pest of herself. Finally Bob the Blob had literally to force her to sit down and behave herself. He was as angry and humiliated as Dai had been. What in the world had got into the woman?

Either Mary was deliberately out to make an enemy of everybody present or else she’d popped her cork. Surely a little champagne wouldn’t have done that; nobody had got more than a respectable amount at the table. Not even Reuel, hard as he’d tried. The writer might well have brought a pocket flask with him, but Janet couldn’t believe he’d have shared it with a woman whom he so obviously considered a pain in the neck. Mary must be overexcited in anticipation of the Beltane fire. What else could it be?

And who cared? Old Iowerth, Sir Caradoc’s lifelong friend and butler, was center front now, advancing to the dais with stately tread and lofty mien, a sheaf of papers in his hand. As the harpers struck up an overture anticipatory murmurs ran through the crowd. Here in Wales, a poet was a personage, Iowerth was said to be one of the best. This could be his crowning achievement.

He began to read. Janet couldn’t understand one word in twenty, but she could relish the cadence: now grave, now lightsome, always reflecting the love and admiration this man felt for the patriarch who was being honored today. It was more than a poem, it was a paean. Gradually it became a lullaby. Decorously propped against her husband’s shoulder, her face screened by her garden-party hat, Janet slept.

I
T WAS DOROTHY WHO
woke her, crawling around on the rug. The Queen of the May had been given a drink of water and a fresh nappy by her doting grandma, she was full of beans and eager to reign. Bob was on the dais delivering some kind of oration. It couldn’t be poetry—at least it didn’t sound like poetry.

“What’s he talking about?” Janet whispered to Gwen.

“He’s just gassing on about ancient rites, as when isn’t he. If it’s a cup of tea you’re wanting to wake you up, they’ve set up a table under the ash tree.”

Janet glanced at her watch. “Good heavens, it’s almost five o’clock. I didn’t realize I’d slept so long. I haven’t missed the music, I hope.”

“Oh no, that’s next. Come along, I need to wet my whistle and freshen up.”

“Won’t it be rude to go milling around while he’s still talking?”

“Not a bit. Bob’s so full of himself he won’t even notice. Iowerth’s poem was superb, which was rather a shame since none of those that followed could come up to his. Some weren’t so bad, though.”

“I can see Madoc will have to teach me Welsh before we come again.”

At least Janet would be able to appreciate the rest of the program. Her own family had been musical, after their fashion. When she’d been Dorothy’s age and a bit older, her father had sung to her about three little owls sitting in the forest. Her mother had been lead soprano with the church choir, Janet herself would probably have joined if she’d stayed in Pitcherville. As it was, she sang to Dorothy or herself and went to concerts at the university with her neighbor.

Now that Janet had time and opportunity to listen and the incentive of having married into such a family as Sir Emlyn’s, music had become one of her great joys. She had a good ear and was learning fast; her one regret was that she couldn’t share her pleasure with her tone-deaf husband. Madoc himself didn’t mind a bit.

Sir Emlyn was getting that look on his face which meant he was rehearsing in his head. Lady Rhys was down on the rug, tickling Dorothy with a blade of grass to their mutual delight.

“Go along with Gwen if you want to, Jenny. You might bring me back a cup of tea, and perhaps one of Betty’s cakes if there are any left. Emmy won’t want any.”

Naturally not. Sir Emlyn never could eat before a performance, even an informal one like this. He gave his two daughters a vague smile and waved them off; he could say more with his hands than with his mouth. They straightened their hats and went.

Naturally Gwen and Janet ran into any number of other people who weren’t listening to Bob either; naturally everybody wanted to stop and chat. When they finally got to the farmhouse and headed for the downstairs bathroom, they found half a dozen lined up before them. One was Mary, still in full cry. She had Mavis backed into a corner and was giving her the finer points on how to leap a Beltane fire. Mavis was looking a bit frantic, as well she might; a good deed was clearly in order.

“Oh there you are, Mavis,” said Janet. “We’ve been looking for you. Could you come along with us now, please?”

“Yes, of course. What’s up?”

“Nothing, really,” said Gwen once they’d got clear of the others. “Janet and I just thought you’d like an out from the Beltane fire. Come along to the manor, unless you’re really desperate.”

“I couldn’t be desperate enough to go back in there. What’s wrong with that woman, anyway? I’ve always thought of her as the original Minnie Mouse.”

Janet laughed. “So did I at first, woolly gray with a bright pink nose. But mice can be awful pests once you let them get inside the house. Has Mary always been like this, Gwen?”

“Actually, no. When I was a kid, I don’t recall Mary’s ever saying much except ‘Yes, brother.’ I believe they’re twins, though they certainly don’t look it.”

“But is it true, all that about her being a famous gem-cutter?” Mavis asked.

“I don’t know how famous; but yes, that’s what she does. Mary used to do work for Lisa’s husband. He was an importer of jewels—his father and hers had been in partnership or something. Anyway the Ellises bought the rough stones and the Rhyses cut them. I don’t know whom she works for now. I think Arthur Ellis pretty much ran his out of his pocket, so there wasn’t anybody to take over after he died.”

“What about Bob? Doesn’t he have something to do with the business?”