Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(55)

No one else liked the idea. Viola would have vetoed it anyway had her wishes been consulted.

They would marry here by special license, either in the village church or in the nearest town, as soon as it could be arranged, with eight members of their families in attendance—to add an air of respectability, of course, though Mrs. Morrow, whose suggestion it was, did not say so.

Joel did not like that idea. No one else seemed thrilled with it either.

“Camille will want to attend her mother’s wedding,” Joel said. “And Mrs. Kingsley will want to attend her daughter’s wedding.”

They would marry in Bath, then, where everyone could come and find good hotels to stay at. Perhaps in Bath Abbey, where Camille and Joel had married last year. Bath, after all, was Viola’s original home. The suggestion was made by Abigail, who had been quiet and listless until she spoke up. Joel and Alexander and Elizabeth looked upon the suggestion with some favor, but the others did not. It would be too impersonal with all the guests spread over Bath in various hotels and neither the bride nor the groom having a home of their own there.

They would marry at Redcliffe Court, Lady Estelle Lamarr decided. She appeared to be the only one who was contemplating the wedding with any enthusiasm. It was because she hoped marriage would settle her father down and keep him at home, Viola realized with a sinking heart. The girl was somehow or other going to end up terribly hurt. She was probably already carrying around a lifetime of hurt inside her. The wedding would be solemnized within the next few weeks and would replace the birthday party she had planned. She would adapt the plans and expand upon them. It would be a wonderful challenge—and Bertrand would help. She was quite sure her aunt would too, though she was going to take the lead herself.

“I am going to organize a grand wedding breakfast,” she said, smiling at all the solemn faces about her, “in the ballroom.”

“A wedding on the scale you imagine would be impossible to plan so quickly, Estelle,” her aunt said. “You have no idea of all the work it would involve, my love. And your father’s aunt and cousin are already deep into the planning of a wedding for Margaret. Very elaborate and costly plans, I might add.”

“The wedding must be celebrated at Brambledean Court,” Alexander said. “At Christmastime. It is the appropriate place for it, as Viola was once Countess of Riverdale and Brambledean was her official residence. And my wife and I are the appropriate people to host the event, since I am head of the Westcott family. Wren will be delighted. She and Viola became particular friends earlier this year. And there will be plenty of time between now and Christmas to make all the necessary plans and send out all the invitations.”

Viola did not bother to point out that she was not a Westcott.

“That does seem like an excellent idea, Alex,” Elizabeth said. “And since you are now starting to restore Brambledean to its former splendor, you can make a sort of housewarming of Christmas and Viola’s and Lord Dorchester’s wedding.”

“I do think the Earl of Riverdale’s suggestion the wiser one, Estelle,” Mrs. Morrow said.

“Yes, Aunt,” the girl said, but she looked suddenly crestfallen. Elizabeth must have noticed it too.

“What I would suggest,” she said, “is that you convert the birthday party you have so carefully planned into a betrothal party, Lady Estelle. It could still be a birthday party too, though somewhat belated perhaps.”

The girl’s face lit up in response. “Oh,” she said, “that is a splendid idea, Lady Overfield. Is it not, Bert? Is it not, Papa?”

He entered the conversation for the first time. “I am fast learning,” he said, his voice soft and languid, “that a wedding belongs to everyone except the bride and groom. Arrange your party, Estelle. Arrange your Christmas wedding, Riverdale. I will do my part by attending both. My betrothed, I do not doubt, will do likewise.”

“Of course,” Viola said.

And so it was all settled—a betrothal party at Redcliffe in the next few weeks, a wedding at Brambledean at Christmas.

There was going to be horrible turmoil, Viola thought, and some hurt feelings when neither event took place. She looked from Abigail to Estelle to Bertrand.

For of course there was no betrothal.

And there would be no marriage.



* * *



? ? ?

It was evident to everyone that despite the fact that the cottage boasted eight bedchambers and they could all conceivably have squeezed into them, it was really not a practical idea for everyone to spend the night there. At first it was suggested that Marcel and his family remove to an inn in the town across the river, while Viola and her family remained at the cottage. It was ultimately decided, however, that the men would move to town and the ladies remain where they were. Either way, Marcel was to leave his own home, presumably because it was deemed improper for him to sleep under the same roof as his betrothed.

Riverdale made the final decision, explaining that he needed to have a few private words with Dorchester. Marcel assumed he was to be interrogated on his eligibility by a man ten years his junior and a rank below his on the social scale—but with all the damned dignity of head of the family, no doubt.

So they drove off, the five of them squashed together in Riverdale’s carriage, to an inn that mercifully could provide them with a room each. They dined together on boiled beef, potatoes, and cabbage. And they conversed on a variety of topics, not one of which touched upon betrothals or weddings or prewedding honeymoons. It was all very amiable and very civil. But after they had finished their suet pudding with something drizzled over it that was not custard but was not anything else recognizable either, André got to his feet and clapped Bertrand on the shoulder.