Four Funerals and Maybe a Wedding Page 28

  “Sorry that I didn’t notice it before,” Belinda said. “It was under some fabric and I’ve been so busy trying to get my own dress finished in time.” She looked awfully glamorous in figure-hugging off-white with a cape trimmed with feathers.

  “Ah, there you are at last.” Fig stepped out of the shadows with Podge and Addy at her side. “We were worried something had happened. Off you go, Podge. Don’t let us down.” She pushed her son forward. He was dressed in a kilt and blouse with a white frilled jabot and he looked worried.

  I gave him an encouraging smile. “Just follow us, Podge,” I said. “You’ll be splendid, I know.”

  He nodded solemnly.

  The two little princesses were standing with their nanny, looking absolutely adorable. They had fresh gardenias and orange blossom in their hair to match my bouquet. Elizabeth looked very solemn but Margaret was twirling around, watching her skirt go out. “You behave yourself, young Margaret,” the Scottish nanny said severely. “You’ll not be letting your cousin or the family down.”

  “You look lovely, Georgie,” Elizabeth said. “I’d like a dress just like that when it’s my wedding.”

  Binky held out his arm. “Are you ready, old thing?”

  I took a deep breath. “I think so. As ready as I’ll ever be.” I slipped my arm through his. He patted my hand. “Between ourselves I think you look spiffing and I think that O’Mara chap is a lucky devil.”

  The organ had been playing softly. Now the melody changed to “Here Comes the Bride.” The congregation rose. We started down the aisle. “Just don’t let me tread on your train,” Binky whispered. We exchanged a grin.

  Faces passed in a blur, all smiling at us. We reached the front pews, where the king and queen and the other royals were seated. I stopped, turned to face them and curtsied. I didn’t fall over. Binky didn’t tread on my train. The princesses didn’t drop the veil. Queen Mary was giving me an encouraging smile. So were the ancient great-aunts and various cousins. And a thought came to me: I might no longer be in the line of succession, but these are still all my relatives. I turned to face the altar again and walked on, and then he stepped out from the front pew on the right. My Darcy, looking so handsome that it took my breath away. And he looked at me and he winked.

  I don’t remember much about the ceremony. I think I said the right things at the right time. I know I said, “I do.” We went into the sacristy to sign the marriage register and as we came out the church was suddenly filled with an awful din. The bagpiper was waiting at the foot of the altar steps. He piped us all the way down the aisle and out to the waiting car.

  “Well, Mrs. O’Mara?” Darcy said as we drove away.

  “Oh, Darcy, I’m so glad that’s over,” I said.

  The reception went smoothly enough. The king and queen were seated in places of honor and smiled politely at the speeches. Binky managed to get through his with a couple of awful jokes. Darcy’s best man, a dashing-looking fellow, told some frightfully witty stories about Darcy’s misdeeds. We cut the cake and toasted with champagne, then Belinda and Mummy took me up to change into my going-away dress.

  “So you’re going to a houseboat with no servants?” Mummy said with horror. “Who is going to cook for you? Who will clean up?”

  “We’ll manage,” I said. “It’s what we want. To be on our own, completely.”

  “And you still don’t know where you are going for your proper honeymoon trip?”

  “I still don’t know. Maybe now Darcy will tell me.”

  “So how will you know what to pack if he doesn’t?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mummy. We’ll face that when we come to it.”

  “Just one word of warning,” Mummy said. “Don’t let Queenie pack for you.”

  * * *

  WE CAME DOWN the stairs. I threw my bouquet and Zou Zou caught it. Now that was auspicious, wasn’t it? I saw her glance across at Darcy’s father. I also did not miss my mother glancing at Sir Hubert. As we came out onto Belgrave Square, we had to dash through a barrage of rice and rose petals. The car was waiting and we drove away, watching the waving hands vanish in the rearview mirror.

  The houseboat was outside the city, on the Thames near Henley. There were no signs of civilization, just the river, meandering along at a sedate pace between lush green meadows. Weeping willows trailed branches into the water, where ducks and swans were swimming. We had to walk along the towpath with cows watching us curiously over a fence. Then I spotted it, moored beside a willow tree. It was an old canal longboat, brightly painted. Darcy put down my suitcase, swept me up into his arms and carried me aboard. On the deck a table had been set up with two chairs and a bottle of champagne, sitting in a bucket of ice.

  “Good show. Exactly as ordered,” Darcy said as he put me down on the deck, “And I think we’ll find the makings of a good dinner down below.” He took my hand and led me down the steps into the cabin. The table was well stocked. Darcy gestured like a magician. “Oysters. Smoked salmon. Lobster. Salads. Crusty bread. Do you approve?”

  “Brilliant.” I couldn’t stop smiling. “I’m absolutely starving. I couldn’t eat a bite all day, and there wasn’t a moment to eat at the reception.”

  “So you want to eat now?” Darcy’s eyes swiveled from the table to the bedroom beyond. “Because I thought of a better way to whet that appetite. . . .”

  I was suddenly embarrassed and hesitant. “Oh, I see.”

  He laughed and came up to me. “We’re married, you silly old thing. We’re perfectly legal. Finally you don’t have to fight with that Queen Victoria conscience of yours.” And he started undoing the buttons on my dress. There were many of them. “I suppose this is your good dress, is it? You wouldn’t like it if I tore it off you?”

  “I certainly would not, Darcy. You know how few good dresses I own. And you’re not ripping off my new silk underwear either.”

  “We’ll see about that.” He laughed, swept me up into his arms and carried me through to the bedroom, the romantic effect being marred only by the fact that he banged his head on the low doorway.

  And as to what happened after that, I’m afraid that modesty prevents me from going into detail, except to say that it was frightfully nice.

  About the Author

  Rhys Bowen, a New York Times bestselling author, has been nominated for every major award in mystery writing, including the Edgar®, and has won many, including both the Agatha and Anthony awards. She is also the author of the Molly Murphy Mysteries, set in turn-of-the-century New York, and the Constable Evans Mysteries, set in Wales. She was born in England and now divides her time between Northern California and Arizona.

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  Rhys Bowen, Four Funerals and Maybe a Wedding

 

 

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