The women rolled up their sleeves and gave the church a hundred-year cleaning. Its leaded windows gleamed, its candlesticks glittered, its altar cloths glowed, and not a speck of dust could be seen on its polished flagstone floor or its splendidly carved wooden pews. The men mowed the churchyard surrounding St. George’s, raked its gravel paths, and planted fresh fall flowers on every grave. Mr. Barlow, the local handyman, had taken it upon himself to re-shingle the lych-gate’s leaky roof and to give its aging hinges a generous dose of oil, to prevent unseemly squeaking on the big day.
My neighbors had bestowed the same loving care on their own dwelling places and businesses, which had gone from slightly scruffy to sublime. In Bill’s words, Finch now looked as if it were posing for the centerfold of a Prettiest Villages calendar.
There’d been a flurry of shopping trips to Upper Deeping as villagers bought or rented their wedding-day finery. After consulting with Nell’s father, Derek Harris, Bill and Willis, Sr., had decided to wear their best Savile Row suits. My dress—an emerald-green silk with long sleeves and a sweetheart neckline—had been made in the village by Sally Pyne, the local tea shop owner and seamstress, but I’d bought my hat at a swanky boutique in London. Over the years I’d learned that hats were de rigueur for women attending English weddings. I wouldn’t have dreamed of entering St. George’s without one.
Finch was, of course, awash in wedding gossip, to which I contributed freely. My neighbors and I chattered endlessly about the flowers, the cake, the music, the ceremony, and the reception, but our most intense speculation was focused squarely on Nell’s wedding gown. What would she wear, we wondered? Silk? Satin? Lace? Taffeta? Would the style be classic or modern? What dress, however glorious, could possibly do justice to such an ethereal beauty? Opinions varied, but since Emma Harris was keeping the gown a closely held secret—even from me, her best friend—the rest of us could do nothing but wait and see.
Luckily, Emma couldn’t conceal the plans for the reception from me because my sons would be taking part in it. Emma ran the Anscombe Riding Center from the stables of her sprawling home, Anscombe Manor. Kit was the ARC’s stable master as well as my sons’ riding instructor, and Nell was in charge of the ARC’s dressage classes. Since the happy couple’s world revolved around horses, it stood to reason that horses would play a central role in their wedding.
Rob and Will, along with other members of the ARC’s gymkhana teams, would form a mounted honor guard to accompany the newlyweds’ open carriage from St. George’s church to the reception at Anscombe Manor. Because each member of the honor guard would be attired in formal riding gear, Emma had been forced to discuss her plans with the participants’ parents. Needless to say, I gleefully relayed the insider information to my neighbors as soon as Emma passed it on to me.
The names on the guest list had been broadcast at regular intervals by Peggy Taxman, who, as Finch’s postmistress, had personally handled each of the invitations. The guest list had aroused much interest in the village because it included a duke, an earl, several knights, and a retired London police detective as well as a handful of French counts. Friends past and present would walk, ride, fly, drive, and, in once case, pilot a private helicopter to Finch to take part in the joyous occasion.
Emma and Derek Harris had gone to great lengths to prepare Anscombe Manor for the reception. They’d cleaned the great hall from top to bottom, engaged a caterer, hired musicians, brought in professional gardeners to tidy the grounds, and purchased enough champagne to float a battleship. On the morning of the wedding, Derek would rope off a parking area, Emma would put the horses in the pasture farthest from the manor house, and they would both run a brand-new flag up the family’s flagpole.
I could hardly wait to see it wave.
The costumes were ready, the stage was set, and the cast was assembling. In less than a week, I told myself, staring dreamily at the cluster of hearts I’d drawn on the kitchen calendar, Kit Smith would finally—finally!—marry Nell Harris. My eyes welled with happy tears.
Sighing rapturously, I dried my eyes and turned off the oven. I was about to call my menfolk in to wash up before dinner when the telephone rang. I quickly wiped my hands on my apron and answered it, hoping that another delicious tidbit of gossip would soon be in my keeping.
“Lori? ” said Emma Harris.
“Emma!” I replied cheerfully. “How’s it going? Have you and Derek finished scrubbing the rhododendrons and vacuuming the lawn? I’ve been keeping an eagle eye on the weather forecast for Saturday and it looks as though a shower of rose petals will be falling—”
“Lori,” Emma interrupted, and it occurred to me that she sounded a bit strained.
“You poor thing,” I commiserated. “You must be exhausted. If you need help with anything, and I do mean anything, I can be over in two shakes of a pony’s tail. Just say the word and I’ll—”
“Lori! ” Emma exclaimed. “Will you please shut up?”
I stared at the telephone in amazement. Emma was a cool, calm, and collected sort of woman. She had never before raised her voice to me and I’d never heard her tell anyone to shut up. The pressure of planning the wedding of the century had clearly gotten to her.