an
actual wedding taking place, so they had made their excuses and returned to
their hotels or homes. Far too much food had been left over, so Glorianna had
swept it up and had it transported home for dinner. She was trying to put a
brave face on the matter, but was clearly drained and miserable.
Peg had smoked herself sick and was toying with a plate
of cold meat and potatoes. Hogarth was the opposite, downing his food in record
time and demanding more, clearly comfort eating to assuage his misery and
confusion. Susan had fluttered down from her room, but was morose, aware that
her own performance the night before had not aided domestic harmony. Only
Eustace ate with what seemed a normal appetite, his indigestion fast forgotten.
Andrew was still missing.
Clara picked her way through some cold chicken, guiltily
casting an eye to an assortment of exquisite looking desserts stocked on the
sideboard. At home dessert tended to be occasional and consisted of rice
pudding or a fruit crumble. The extraordinary dishes that had been prepared for
the wedding were a far cry from her usual sweet delight, and her eyes were
unerringly drawn to a sherry trifle, with thick cream and gold flakes on the
top. The wedding cake had not returned home, at least, not to the dining room.
It had been dismantled, its many layers parcelled out between the staff at the
hotel and the Campbell servants. At least for them the day had ended with a
pleasant surprise.
Dinner finished abruptly. There was dessert for those who
wished it, but Glorianna, Susan and Peg retreated solemnly. Clara decided it
prudent to discreetly pile a bowl with dessert and disappear to consume it in
her room. Tommy followed her example and they quietly made their excuses
leaving the two Campbell brothers alone.
“I hope they don’t fight.” Clara briefly thought to
herself as she locked herself in her bedroom.
It was oddly relaxing to suddenly be free of the Campbell
drama and safely shut away. Clara dumped her bowl of trifle, lemon torte and
chocolate mousse on a writing desk and began spooning her way through while
composing a letter to her maid, Annie, informing her she was likely to be delayed
in coming home.
Dessert dealt with and the house strangely quiet, Clara
found herself at a loose end. She opened her window a touch as the night was
stuffy and sat thinking of nothing much for a while. She listened to an owl
calling and noted how silent it was in the countryside. At any given time at
her house in Brighton there was bound to be some noise coming from outside.
Just before midnight she gave up trying to think of
something to do and went to bed. Naturally this was not conducive to instant
slumber and she lay awake for a while, her mind working over-time.
The woman in the church had to be genuine. No one
would try such a scam otherwise, it would be so easy to dismiss. And Andrew had
not said a word, not denied her, not laughed, not even shown a trace of anger.
He was so mute over it all. That chilled Clara. Laura had acted as expected;
complete shock, outrage and horror. She had drooped back in her father’s arms,
clearly overcome. Then there was Mr Pettibone, yes, that was curious. Surely
any normal father would have ranted and raved over his only daughter being so
humiliated? But Mr Pettibone had gone along with things so quietly and meekly.
No furious outpourings. No blustering denials. Was this really the wealthy
businessman Clara had been told about? She supposed everyone had their own ways
of acting; perhaps Mr Pettibone was not the demonstrative type. Glorianna, at
least, had acted true to form.
So, if the crisis were true, as it very much seemed to
be, where did that leave things? And what did it say about Andrew? Well, in the
second case it meant he had lied and kept secrets not only from his wife-to-be,
but his family too. Tommy was probably right in that it was a wartime fling, a
moment of madness that Andrew had endeavoured to forget. But secrets like
actual wedding taking place, so they had made their excuses and returned to
their hotels or homes. Far too much food had been left over, so Glorianna had
swept it up and had it transported home for dinner. She was trying to put a
brave face on the matter, but was clearly drained and miserable.
Peg had smoked herself sick and was toying with a plate
of cold meat and potatoes. Hogarth was the opposite, downing his food in record
time and demanding more, clearly comfort eating to assuage his misery and
confusion. Susan had fluttered down from her room, but was morose, aware that
her own performance the night before had not aided domestic harmony. Only
Eustace ate with what seemed a normal appetite, his indigestion fast forgotten.
Andrew was still missing.
Clara picked her way through some cold chicken, guiltily
casting an eye to an assortment of exquisite looking desserts stocked on the
sideboard. At home dessert tended to be occasional and consisted of rice
pudding or a fruit crumble. The extraordinary dishes that had been prepared for
the wedding were a far cry from her usual sweet delight, and her eyes were
unerringly drawn to a sherry trifle, with thick cream and gold flakes on the
top. The wedding cake had not returned home, at least, not to the dining room.
It had been dismantled, its many layers parcelled out between the staff at the
hotel and the Campbell servants. At least for them the day had ended with a
pleasant surprise.
Dinner finished abruptly. There was dessert for those who
wished it, but Glorianna, Susan and Peg retreated solemnly. Clara decided it
prudent to discreetly pile a bowl with dessert and disappear to consume it in
her room. Tommy followed her example and they quietly made their excuses
leaving the two Campbell brothers alone.
“I hope they don’t fight.” Clara briefly thought to
herself as she locked herself in her bedroom.
It was oddly relaxing to suddenly be free of the Campbell
drama and safely shut away. Clara dumped her bowl of trifle, lemon torte and
chocolate mousse on a writing desk and began spooning her way through while
composing a letter to her maid, Annie, informing her she was likely to be delayed
in coming home.
Dessert dealt with and the house strangely quiet, Clara
found herself at a loose end. She opened her window a touch as the night was
stuffy and sat thinking of nothing much for a while. She listened to an owl
calling and noted how silent it was in the countryside. At any given time at
her house in Brighton there was bound to be some noise coming from outside.
Just before midnight she gave up trying to think of
something to do and went to bed. Naturally this was not conducive to instant
slumber and she lay awake for a while, her mind working over-time.
The woman in the church had to be genuine. No one
would try such a scam otherwise, it would be so easy to dismiss. And Andrew had
not said a word, not denied her, not laughed, not even shown a trace of anger.
He was so mute over it all. That chilled Clara. Laura had acted as expected;
complete shock, outrage and horror. She had drooped back in her father’s arms,
clearly overcome. Then there was Mr Pettibone, yes, that was curious. Surely
any normal father would have ranted and raved over his only daughter being so
humiliated? But Mr Pettibone had gone along with things so quietly and meekly.
No furious outpourings. No blustering denials. Was this really the wealthy
businessman Clara had been told about? She supposed everyone had their own ways
of acting; perhaps Mr Pettibone was not the demonstrative type. Glorianna, at
least, had acted true to form.
So, if the crisis were true, as it very much seemed to
be, where did that leave things? And what did it say about Andrew? Well, in the
second case it meant he had lied and kept secrets not only from his wife-to-be,
but his family too. Tommy was probably right in that it was a wartime fling, a
moment of madness that Andrew had endeavoured to forget. But secrets like
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