A Murder in Time(43)
“So . . . what’s next?” she asked the young maid seated next to her.
“Lady Atwood’s gipsying.”
“Gipsying?”
“Aye. We’ll need to bring the lot down to the lake.”
The lot, Kendra soon realized, was four long wooden tables and several dozen chairs, which were loaded into a horse-drawn wagon, along with enormous wicker baskets carefully packed with starched, hemstitched linens, polished silverware, china, and cut crystal. Smaller linen baskets, laden with food, spices, liqueur, and wine, were carried out under the watchful eye of Mr. Harding and Mrs. Danbury. Kendra found herself in charge of one of them, and joined the procession as it marched out the servant’s door and down a flagstone path flanked by hedgerows, winding its way around one of the many gardens.
For just a moment, Kendra allowed herself to forget about her crazy situation and drink in the sheer physical beauty surrounding her. It was nice to be outside, to feel the sun beating warmly on her face and the faint breeze that carried the perfume of honeysuckle and rose, lilac and peonies. Beyond the ebb and flow of conversation and steady shuffling of feet around her, she could hear the drone of bees, the chirp of birds, the rustling of shrubs, and long blades of grass. It wasn’t silent by any means, but Kendra was keenly aware of the lack of twenty-first-century noise. This was a world with no automobiles or airplanes. No jets would streak across the sky. There was no mechanical thrum of tractors plowing across the fields or cars moving along the country roads. Steam locomotives were in their infancy, with another ten years to go before England developed its first public steam railway. On water, steamboats were just beginning to chug their way into a territory dominated by sails.
Oh, God. Had it only been two days ago that she’d jumped on a Boeing 747, flying 567 miles per hour, touching only clouds?
The flagstone path fell away, replaced by a ten-minute walk up a gently sloping hill before curving down into a forest. Kendra could feel the strain in her muscles as she shifted the wicker basket, but she doggedly kept pace. No one else seemed to find it an effort.
The floral scent of the garden gave way to the more loamy smells of the forest. Shadows, cast by tall pine trees and ancient oak and elm, dueled with the sun’s light. Between the tall, spiky weeds and woods, Kendra saw the gleam of blue, heard the splash and murmur of moving water. She caught herself from stumbling over exposed roots and pushed forward. Again, she shifted the basket to relieve the dull ache in her arms. Two minutes later, they arrived at their destination, a picturesque dell ringed by trees and rock formations and a lake. Water cascaded down sheer rocks at the far end.
Kendra saw that the horse-drawn wagon was already parked (could you park horses?) on the other side of the trees so as not to ruin the tranquil ambience of the area. Mrs. Danbury and Mr. Harding must have come with the wagon, because they were already there, keeping an eye on the footmen who were setting up the tables and chairs.
It was like a Ralph Lauren ad come to life. Somebody had even produced—and lit, for heaven’s sake—heavy brass candelabras on the tables. Lady Atwood may have wanted to dine alfresco—gipsying, as the maid had called it—but that didn’t mean she wanted a picnic, Kendra reflected wryly as she helped shake out the white linen tablecloths and napkins.
Footmen uncorked bottles of fruity white wine and set them in the lake to chill. Bottles of red were kept to the side. The servants congregated around two of the tables that were laden with plates of food that would be served: baked trout swimming in cucumber sauce; roast beef and ham so thinly sliced it was almost transparent; baby asparagus salad as a side dish. Butter cakes were set alongside fruit stacked like pyramids.
Mrs. Danbury checked her pocket watch, and nodded to Mr. Harding. There was a military precision to planning such an event that Kendra hadn’t appreciated before. She’d been to similar functions, but always as a guest.
“’Ere they come,” whispered one of the maids, who apparently had ears like a bat. Half a second later, Kendra heard the voices interspersed with feminine laugher and masculine chuckles.
They were an exotic parade, thirty men and women in total. The Duke of Aldridge led the way. On his arm was a small, plump woman in a vivid blue dress and bonnet decorated with an enormous peacock feather. Alec was right behind him. He looked more handsome than the last time she’d seen him, probably because he wasn’t scowling. Instead, he seemed relaxed, smiling at the woman he was ushering into the clearing. Kendra couldn’t see the woman’s face, since it was angled toward Alec, and obscured by the bonnet and gauzy white veil she wore. Wife or girlfriend? Kendra wondered as she observed the intimacy between them.
She nearly jumped when Alec turned his head suddenly, looking straight at her. Even from that distance Kendra could see the green eyes narrow in suspicion. His companion turned, too, and looked at Kendra.
She wasn’t beautiful, Kendra noted with some surprise. That, she supposed, was her own prejudice. Guys who looked like Alec usually had a beautiful woman on their arm. This woman—Kendra pegged her to be in her early twenties—had pleasant enough features, but her skin was severely pockmarked, destroying any hope of beauty.
When the woman turned back to say something to Alec, drawing his attention, Kendra deliberately shifted her gaze to the rest of the group. It was odd that there were more women than men. Societal mores, she’d have thought, would have paired up the sexes.