Leonid and Izaak, with matching frothy blooms in their lapels, and Mrs Crocombe with Bovis by her side, filled the front pews.
Bella and Finan stood behind them, a little flustered after all the work that had gone into readying their inn for its first paying guests in months. The freshly decorated bridal suite was ready and waiting for the happy couple, and the wedding breakfast all prepared and waiting for the whole party.
Tom Bickleigh took his spot at the back with the newspaper reporter, Lou, who’d become a familiar face around Clove Lore in the days after the disaster and even more so now the pair were officially dating.
His brother Monty stood alone beside them, uncomfortable in his suit. Weddings weren’t for him. He’d far rather be back in his chef’s whites down at the pub’s gleaming new chrome kitchen, where he had everything to a professional standard and shipshape. Yet, he still had the look of a man wishing he had a date by his side.
All of the builders and engineers, landscapers and decorators arrived (Minty had persuaded them to down tools for the afternoon in return for the buffet at the Siren’s Tail) and the whole party stood in their rows looking up in wonder at the clear blue sky.
‘Quietest Clove Lore’s been in months,’ someone said, and another agreed that without the noise of the machinery you could really hear the birds singing.
It really was a fine June day. The waves shushed gently against the sea wall far below the estate gardens, and the music of the shore mixed in the cool early-summer breeze with the music of the violin quartet stationed on the parterre above the camellia grove.
Magnús and Alex arrived last, having waited as long as they could for the first delivery of stock to arrive at the bookshop and, concluding the driver must be stuck on some narrow B-road above the village, they’d set off running in their smartest clothes, not easy for Alex in her high heels – the sight of which had made Magnús want to take her straight to bed and miss the wedding altogether.
The freshly stripped and varnished shelves stood ready to be stocked down at the Borrow-A-Bookshop, almost the last stage in the refurbishment, and the signal that it was coming close to the time for the pair to leave the bookshop they’d lovingly restored. They took their positions at the back of the crowd, Alex holding Magnús’s hand tightly and leaning in to kiss him.
The vicar made his way down the aisle towards Elliot, giving him a friendly nod. ‘They’re on their way down now,’ he said, clutching his order of service.
Everyone fell silent and listened to the music, the whole congregation taking a deep breath of summer and thinking how it seemed like forever since they’d last stood still with the sun on their faces with nothing whatsoever to do for a whole day but celebrate and unwind.
Emerging from the open doors and onto the parterre came Jude in a long floaty dress in sweet shades of peach. Even from this distance Elliot’s heart swelled at the sight of the woman he loved. Jude had been so frantically busy all of the previous day putting the finishing touches to the wedding cake, but that was forgotten now. The fiancés smiled and waved to one another across the gardens.
Jowan was the next to step out of the house and into the sunshine. Mrs Crocombe, turning in her pew, told everyone, ‘Here’s the groom now!’
All heads turned to watch Jowan walk across the lawns, groomed and tailored into the very vision of a handsome husband. At his feet skipped Aldous in a bowtie to match his master’s, only just having forgiven him for this morning’s bath and brush because of the Double Gloucester chunks Elliot had fed to him throughout his ordeal. Elliot had taken his duties as best man very seriously indeed.
The two men shook hands at the altar and turned to face the Big House with expectant eyes. Aldous watched for his mistress too, his tail whipping against the old tiled floor.
Jowan was already smiling, his heart full, when Minty stepped carefully out over the threshold ready to receive her bouquet from Jude, her maid of honour.
Everyone heard Jowan’s shaky breath as the quartet struck up a breezy wedding march and the congregation turned to watch.
Even though the chapel walls and roof were gone, it didn’t matter. What better ceiling than a blue sky, and for stained glass, the glittering blue Atlantic?
Mrs Crocombe was already weeping. She had been tasked with inventing a new ice cream especially for the wedding breakfast and she’d found a willing taste tester in Bovis, who had helped her perfect her clotted cream confetti sorbet. He snuffled a little now too at the sight of his mistress advancing towards them. Mrs C. handed him a handkerchief which he took with a brave smile.
Minty swept down through the rhododendron valley, now alive with honey bees and hoverflies, and onto the gentle lawns bordered with sparse young camellias, short and waxy, putting down strong roots in fresh soil and promising a heavenly first bloom next spring.
Minty’s vintage silk gown (her mother’s) and strings of antique pearls (her grandmother’s) looked utterly perfect against the backdrop of her beloved Big House.
Jowan’s heart sang along with the music at the sight of her. Jude and Izaak had convinced Minty it was time to bring in another kind of renovations expert and that morning she’d said goodbye to her brassy blonde bob and embraced a wavy thirties style in softest platinum.
Her bouquet was all Leonid’s work: simple greenery from the estate grounds, including fresh mistletoe right at its heart. Everyone admired his work as the bride arrived at the entrance to the open-air chapel.
The music ceased. Jowan reached out his hand and Minty swept towards him in a sudden rush. They met with a kiss, clasping each other tightly.
Aldous turned in circles at his master’s feet, yapping and dancing, and the whole party applauded and dabbed at their eyes while the vicar raised his hands up into the blue and gathered the wedding party to speak their vows.
Chapter Thirty-Three
August in Reykjavík
Magnús’s mum and dad peered around Alex as she gave them the tour.
‘And this is where the bedroom will be, en suite. Um, what’s that in Icelandic? You know, the bathroom will be through there too.’ She kept forgetting they were fluent English-speakers, like everyone else here.
‘And over here they will have a place to sit and read at night,’ Magnús added enthusiastically.
