The Wrong Rite (11 page)

“Oh, don’t worry about my dress. I’d love to help.”

Madoc, policeman that he was, hadn’t strayed far from the crosier since he’d got it down from the niche. As the well-trained son of a sometimes imperious mother, he’d put a neatly folded handkerchief in the breast pocket of the dinner jacket he’d inherited from his elder brother. Janet tweaked it away and tucked one corner into the neck of her gown.

“All fixed, Uncle Caradoc. You smear and I’ll wipe.”

They worked together happily, the old man applying the polish in reverent dabs, the young woman plying a soft cloth, bringing up the gentle sheen that only truly antique silver can achieve. It was ticklish, painstaking work wiping every trace of polish from the incised carving. Not that anybody would be apt to notice the odd smidge with the crosier up there above eye level behind its iron grille, but Janet was bound to do the job right for Sir Caradoc’s sake.

Watching somebody else polish silver, even such silver as this, was at best only the mildest of diversions. By the time Sir Caradoc pronounced the crosier burnished to his satisfaction and asked Madoc to restore the magnificent relic to its place of safety, most of the party had drifted away to their respective dinner engagements. Elen had kindly asked Dai to join Owain’s flock at the farm, Janet noticed with relief.

Alice had cleared away the buffet and picked up the empty glasses. Those staying for dinner were starting to cast hopeful glances at the now laid and waiting table. Danny the Boots carried away the ladder, Iowerth appeared through the swinging door.

“Dinner is ready to be served, my lady.”

There was no formal procession tonight, Lady Rhys got the party seated in jigtime. Janet wound up next to Reuel Williams. Not having the faintest notion what to say, she began by putting her foot in her mouth.

“We thought maybe you and Iseult would be going out tonight with Tom’s lot.”

The writer only shrugged and went on drinking his soup, so she did likewise. Then she reflected that hers hadn’t been a particularly tactful opening, and tried again.

“Are you gathering material for another play, or is this visit just for fun?”

“I never do anything just for fun.” Reuel sounded quite indignant at the notion. “Of course I’m garthering material. Writers are always working, though I don’t suppose you believe me.”

“Oh, I believe you. What sort of work are you planning? You look as though you might write spy stories.”

“Spy stories?” She’d startled him. “Whatever put that idea into your head?”

“I suppose it’s just that one tends to think of spies as being suave and inscrutable.”

That was a lie pure and simple. When Janet Wadman Rhys thought of spies, she thought of old Maw Fewter back in Pitcherville, with one ear to the ground and the other glued to the telephone for any scrap of gossip, however trivial, that she could spread around. Janet didn’t suppose Reuel Williams would have cared much for being compared to Maw Fewter, but he was taking her polite fabrication well enough. She could see him turning suave and inscrutable before her very eyes. Then Mary leaned across the table and raised her voice to the pitch of an overexcited peacock’s.

“Oh yes, Sir Caradoc, strange things happen in the world of gems. I’m sure Mr. Williams agrees with me. Don’t you, Mr. Williams?”

Janet heard a noncommittal grunt followed by a grinding of teeth. “God!” muttered Williams. “Why hasn’t somebody strangled that woman?”

S
IR CARADOC’S BIRTHDAY DAWNED
fair and warm as a day in mid-June. It wouldn’t have dared not to.

“Oh, Madoc, the weather’s going to be perfect!”

Janet spoke before she noticed that the other half of the bed was empty. Smiling, she went to scoop Dorothy out of the cradle.

“Come on, Dody, time to get up. Your da’s out climbing the ivy again.”

She’d got her daughter bathed, fed, and dressed all but the gala frock and bonnet and was laying out fresh underwear for herself when Madoc entered prosaically through the door. She gave him a kiss on the left ear.

“Good morning, Merry Sunshine. Been doing a reconnaissance?”

“Just making sure the larks are all on the wing and the snails aren’t muscling in on each other’s thorns. What’s up?”

“Us, almost. Keep an eye on Dorothy, will you? I’ve got to get organized.”

Janet left Madoc playing with the baby and went into the bathroom. There was a shower of sorts, just a rubber tube that fitted over the bathtub spout and had a sprinkler head on the other end. It worked well enough for practical purposes. She soaped and rinsed, gave herself a quick shampoo, and toweled her head. A comb through and a push here and there were all the hair-dressing she needed. Nature would handle the rest.

“I don’t think I’ll put my good clothes on yet,” she said.

“Glad to hear it.” Madoc plunked Dorothy back in the cradle, gave her a toy rabbit to chew on, and turned the cradle so that she couldn’t see what was happening in the bed.

“That wasn’t what I meant.” Nevertheless, Janet allowed herself to be persuaded. After a while, she rubbed her lips against his thick, dark hair. “That was a pleasant way to start the day, I hope it stays this good. In a manner of speaking, that is. You were planning to shave, weren’t you?”

“Yes, love, and I’d better get cracking before the rest are up and hogging all the hot water. You and Dorothy go on down to breakfast if you want.”

“No rush. She’s had her first course and my hair’s still damp. I’ll come and hold the hose if you want.”

What with one thing and another, they didn’t get to the kitchen until close on eight o’clock, by which time Sir Caradoc was on the scene and the birthday in full swing. Madoc’s parents had already been for a short stroll; Lady Rhys had stuck a daisy in her hair and another in her husband’s buttonhole.

“We walked up to the big barn,” she reported, plucking Dorothy out of Madoc’s arms for a morning hug. “Huw and Elen and the lot of them are buzzing around up there like a swarm of bees. Nobody’s dressed for the party yet—they’re planning to change before the guests start arriving.”

“Which means the vicar and his wife will catch them running around barefoot and pantless.” Sir Emlyn helped himself complacently to strawberries. “I personally am as dressed as I’m going to get.”

“So am I,” said Sir Caradoc. “How do you like my birthday scarf, Jenny?”

“You both look just lovely.”

The handsome but not too handsome silk scarves were exactly right, Lady Rhys must have picked them out. And tied them, too. She’d had so much experience improvising haberdashery for orchestra and chorus members who’d mislaid their luggage or run short of clean linen that she’d become a dab hand as a dresser.

“Is it a boiled egg you would like to eat this morning, Mrs. Madoc?” Betty was determined that nobody should go hungry.

“That would be nice. I’ll cut some more bread for toast, shall I? Madoc, you want berries, don’t you?”

Madoc wanted berries. Dorothy had a boiled egg like her mother’s, she shared it with Betty’s cat.

“Bartholomew,” Betty fussed, “will you not be making a pest of yourself?”

Madoc wasn’t hearing a word against the old malkin. “Let him alone, Betty, he’s only trying to help. What the moggy catches on the way down, the floor doesn’t.”

This made excellent sense to everybody, especially Bartholomew. Things were going swimmingly when Bob and Mary appeared, in that order. The brother and sister were already dressed for the festivities, they could hardly have been more so.

Bob’s usual, about which Janet had wondered a bit, turned out to be a black skullcap, a starched ruff, and a long-sleeved black robe of fine wool that hung down over his shoetops. Over the robe he wore a loose, short black surcoat with its full sleeves turned back. He was going to fry in that getup by noontime, Janet thought. He’d have looked much like a pig’s head on a platter sitting atop a tar barrel, if it hadn’t been for the beard. Today, instead of the coquettish fan, he had his chin whiskers combed down into a point, for some reason he’d no doubt be telling them all about before they could turn him off.

The sister was in traditional Welsh garb: a black steeple hat worn over a white mobcap, full red flannel skirt, fitted black waistcoat, white blouse with a hand-crocheted lace collar, black shoes and stockings, and a rather handsome shawl woven in red and black checks. The ruffled cap hid her lank hair and softened her face, the tall hat relieved her dumpiness, the colorful skirt and shawl did far more for her sallow complexion than her customary muddy grays and browns. Janet felt Mary deserved a compliment, and was happy to give it.

That meant she had to say something nice to Bob also. She could hardly allude to the pig on the platter and couldn’t quite bring herself to an outright lie, so she compromised on “What an interesting costume.”

Bob smoothed his restructured facial adornment and rewarded her with a complacent nod. “This garb is indeed of great interest and also of much historical significance. Even you, from your savage land of howling wolves and eternal snow, will have realized that I am thus honoring the memory of the illustrious John Dee.”

Actually Janet hadn’t realized, but knew better than to say so. Bob was getting nicely wound up.

“You, in your benighted ignorance of Welsh history and lifelong exposure to English propaganda, will perhaps not be aware that this unparalled mathematician, cosmographer, astrologer, and some say necromancer; whom Queen Elizabeth the First called her philosopher, who himself had calculated by his art the most auspicious day for her coronation, who schooled her in the esoteric interpretation of his works, notably the
Protopaedeumata aphoristica
and the
Monas hieroglyphica;
who assisted her in claiming for her realm those far lands that were being discovered by her subjects, was himself, though born in London, by blood a Welshman.”

Janet did her best to look thunderstruck, hoping Bob had run out of subordinate clauses. She might have known he was only warming up for the smashing grand finale.

“And, look you, Mrs. Madoc, what is to me of the most immediate import is this.” He leaned so far forward that the end of his beard narrowly missed a dunking in his teacup. “John Dee was my ancestor!”

“And mine!” Mary was not about to let her brother hog all the glory. “Through our mother,” she added complacently, scoring a point for the distaff side and letting the Rhyses know they needn’t think they could muscle in on the Dees.

“I had no idea.”

That was the plain truth. Janet wasn’t very well up on astrologers and necromancers, although she had known an alchemist of sorts back in Pitcherville. That one had been able to transform tubfuls of potato peelings and rotten turnips, plus a little burnt sugar and whatever other odds and ends might be lying around, into an implausible but far from feeble imitation of rye whiskey; until Madoc and the town marshal had found out what he was up to and made him stop. She didn’t think Bob would be interested in hearing about the Pitcherville alchemist, she might as well finish her tea and go tend to her flowers.

“Come on, Dorothy, let’s get you fixed and take you for a little walk.”

“Where are you off to, men?” Mary was already half out of her chair.

“To the loo” would be rude. Janet merely smiled, wiped Dorothy’s face with her napkin dipped in water and took off the eggy bib. A change of diaper—nappy rather; when in Britain one must change as the Brits changed—was probably indicated.

“Want me to take her, Jenny?”

Madoc was ready to oblige. So was Lady Rhys, but Janet was getting to feel she’d just as soon keep her baby to herself once in a while.

“Thanks, I’ll manage. Say thank you to Betty, Dorothy. No, don’t kiss her till you’ve had your face washed. All right, kiss the kitty if you want, I don’t suppose he’ll mind.”

“It is unsanitary to kiss cats.” Bob was miffed with Mrs. Madoc, most likely not so much because she was letting her daughter do what any reasonable child would naturally do as because she wouldn’t stick around and listen to him yammer on about John Dee.

“No it isn’t,” Janet replied unfeelingly. “I’ve kissed cats myself, and never died of it yet.”

She let Dorothy rub noses with Bartholomew a couple more times, then picked her up and headed for the bathroom. When she came back, Mary was still demanding to know where she intended to walk; it would be childish not to tell. “I’m just going to borrow Aunt Elen’s watering pot and freshen up the flowers in the chapel.”

“What kind of flowers? Why didn’t you ask me? I would have done them. I shall go with you.”

“Don’t you want to finish your breakfast?”

Mary had taken a generous plateful of everything going, but had barely touched her food. Not that it would go to waste—Bob was already casting a lustful eye at his sister’s sausages even though he hadn’t yet finished his own. Nevertheless, Janet wished the woman would stay in the kitchen.

Night before last, Mary had been silly and tedious about her leaping. Last night, examining the great emerald, she’d been still a bore but something of a personage. Today she was almost manic, dancing about like a skittish racehorse at the post, straining to be off and running. Was it because tonight she was going to leap the Beltane fire?

Well, why not? If a woman had reached middle age and only got her crotch warmed once a year—Janet flushed and administered a silent rebuke to her wayward mind. That was the sort of vulgar, sexist remark her brother’s hired man might get away with down at the Owls’ Hall, but hardly the thing for a respectable married woman to be thinking in the presence of her inlaws, not to mention her own baby daughter.

Speaking of whom, if Janet thought she was going to monopolize Dorothy all morning, it was clear she’d have to think again. Sir Emlyn was letting it be known with a smile and a nod that he had a lap ready and waiting. Lady Rhys was more outspoken.

“Oh, look at that smile! Come, precious, don’t you want to stay with Granny and Grandda and pat the pussy while Mam does her flowers? Jenny, you can’t carry Dorothy and the watering pot both, wouldn’t you like us to mind her for you? You’ll be coming back soon to change for the party.”