Read Online The Widow's Club by Dorothy Cannell - Free Book Online
Authors: Dorothy Cannell
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husband, my dear, wonderful, irreplaceable …” She couldn’t go on. The words I did not remember saying, but must have said, only minutes ago seemed to rise between us. Till Death Us Do Part . I found myself looking away, focusing on the little bar brooch worn by one of her tweedy companions. That brooch had blackbirds enamelled on it. Pretty.
“Madge, we should be getting into church.” Its owner prodded the new widow gently. With a feeling of escape, I hurried back to Ben. Several of the mourners stared.
“Are you all right, Ellie?” Ben asked.
“Yes.” I was watching the widow mount the steps.
“We’re going to miss the reception.”
We made for the lich-gate and had just reached it when the wind swooped up my veil and swirled it around my face. Laughing, Ben spun me around to unwind it.
The mourners had entered the church and the pallbearers were coming around the side of the building. Slowly they made their way up the steps. A flash of sun broke through the clouds. The girl with sandy plaits stepped forward and gently placed my bouquet on the coffin lid.
It began to rain again.
… “The widow’s handkerchief”—Hyacinth’s lips curved into a smile and her eyes became hooded—“was it wringing wet with tears? Ah! I thought so—dry as a bone.” …
The sky darkened and the rain changed from a drizzle to a downpour. I was doomed to enter the drawing room at Merlin’s Court looking like a corpse fished from the briny deep. Ben and I would wile away our honeymoon sipping cough syrup instead of champagne. Never would I recline in my foamy pearl-pink nightgown upon the four-poster at the Royal Derbyshire Hotel, idly turning those last few pages of Myths of the Bridal Bed: A Novice’s Guide . What idiot said, “Love is blind”? If Ben found me entrancing with a reddened nose and chapped lips, I would lose all respect for him.
“Nothing for it, Ellie, we have to take cover.”
My bridegroom opened a random car door, and I made a token protest as we settled ourselves on the front seat.
Ben rolled his window one-third of the way down and the wind burst in upon us. It yanked at my veil and crawled icily inside my thin bodice.
“This is cosy,” I said. A good wife understands all about male pride. Ben was extremely self-conscious about the claustrophobia which had plagued him since an early childhood trauma. He had been trapped inside a potato bin while playing hide-and-seek in his father’s greengrocer’s shop.
“If you aren’t one hundred percent satisfied with this accommodation, I am sure I can find you something nicer further down the line.” Ben nuzzled my neck.
“This is ch–charming.”
“You mean it’s musty and we’re sitting on a hairbrush.”
Rain does have that nasty habit of ripening fusty odours, and the car interior did smell rather pungently of spilt milk, cigarette butts, old newspapers, and dog hair. The hairbrush wasn’t the only object making the seat less than comfortable, but I was not about to subject our port in a storm to the white-glove test. Any more than I would dwell on that moment when I had seen my bouquet reverently laid on a coffin lid.
All things considered, this was wickedly snug. And, after a life of deplorable virtue, it was thrilling to be in a stranger’s car with Ben’s lips on mine and the warmth of his body closing in. How should I comport myself if he suggested our climbing over to the back seat?
The car doors vibrated. The wind had deepened to an anguished lowing; the windows were awash with rain. But for all that, Ben and I were as blissful as Mr. and Mrs. Noah when the wicked drowned, the earth sank, and the ark went bobbing on its merry way.
What cared I if the Aunts Astrid and Lulu were enlivening the reception by throwing wedding cake at each other? Or if Uncle Maurice were assiduously attempting to seduce the most sexually repressed woman in the room? Ben and I needed these moments alone to gird ourselves for the
“Madge, we should be getting into church.” Its owner prodded the new widow gently. With a feeling of escape, I hurried back to Ben. Several of the mourners stared.
“Are you all right, Ellie?” Ben asked.
“Yes.” I was watching the widow mount the steps.
“We’re going to miss the reception.”
We made for the lich-gate and had just reached it when the wind swooped up my veil and swirled it around my face. Laughing, Ben spun me around to unwind it.
The mourners had entered the church and the pallbearers were coming around the side of the building. Slowly they made their way up the steps. A flash of sun broke through the clouds. The girl with sandy plaits stepped forward and gently placed my bouquet on the coffin lid.
It began to rain again.
… “The widow’s handkerchief”—Hyacinth’s lips curved into a smile and her eyes became hooded—“was it wringing wet with tears? Ah! I thought so—dry as a bone.” …
The sky darkened and the rain changed from a drizzle to a downpour. I was doomed to enter the drawing room at Merlin’s Court looking like a corpse fished from the briny deep. Ben and I would wile away our honeymoon sipping cough syrup instead of champagne. Never would I recline in my foamy pearl-pink nightgown upon the four-poster at the Royal Derbyshire Hotel, idly turning those last few pages of Myths of the Bridal Bed: A Novice’s Guide . What idiot said, “Love is blind”? If Ben found me entrancing with a reddened nose and chapped lips, I would lose all respect for him.
“Nothing for it, Ellie, we have to take cover.”
My bridegroom opened a random car door, and I made a token protest as we settled ourselves on the front seat.
Ben rolled his window one-third of the way down and the wind burst in upon us. It yanked at my veil and crawled icily inside my thin bodice.
“This is cosy,” I said. A good wife understands all about male pride. Ben was extremely self-conscious about the claustrophobia which had plagued him since an early childhood trauma. He had been trapped inside a potato bin while playing hide-and-seek in his father’s greengrocer’s shop.
“If you aren’t one hundred percent satisfied with this accommodation, I am sure I can find you something nicer further down the line.” Ben nuzzled my neck.
“This is ch–charming.”
“You mean it’s musty and we’re sitting on a hairbrush.”
Rain does have that nasty habit of ripening fusty odours, and the car interior did smell rather pungently of spilt milk, cigarette butts, old newspapers, and dog hair. The hairbrush wasn’t the only object making the seat less than comfortable, but I was not about to subject our port in a storm to the white-glove test. Any more than I would dwell on that moment when I had seen my bouquet reverently laid on a coffin lid.
All things considered, this was wickedly snug. And, after a life of deplorable virtue, it was thrilling to be in a stranger’s car with Ben’s lips on mine and the warmth of his body closing in. How should I comport myself if he suggested our climbing over to the back seat?
The car doors vibrated. The wind had deepened to an anguished lowing; the windows were awash with rain. But for all that, Ben and I were as blissful as Mr. and Mrs. Noah when the wicked drowned, the earth sank, and the ark went bobbing on its merry way.
What cared I if the Aunts Astrid and Lulu were enlivening the reception by throwing wedding cake at each other? Or if Uncle Maurice were assiduously attempting to seduce the most sexually repressed woman in the room? Ben and I needed these moments alone to gird ourselves for the
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