Directly opposite her, two large double doors stood open and it was from within this room that the music, tinkling of glasses, and hum of conversation was coming. From her vantage point, she could also see that the room was full of people dressed in fine suits and dresses.
Charlie swallowed. It seemed it wasn’t just a party, but if the posh gowns and suits were anything to go by, a wedding reception or something equally formal. Bloody hell! She’d only wanted to escape the rain and now she was going to end up being a wedding crasher!
She spotted a man wearing some kind of livery standing by the big doors, peering at a long piece of paper. Guessing he must be a master of ceremonies hired by the bride and groom, Charlie stepped out of her hiding place, quietly closed the door behind her, and hurried across the hall, her shoes clicking on the polished tiles.
“Excuse me. I’m really sorry, but how do I get out? I got locked in the shop next door and then found a door that led in here and—”
“Oh!” said the man in a booming voice, turning to face her. He had a pointed nose and drooping jowls like a bloodhound. “My apologies, my lady, I didnae see ye there! Can I take a name?”
Charlie blinked. “My name? Charlotte. Charlotte Douglas.”
The man glanced at the ledger in his hand, running his finger along it.
“Ah! There ye are. Lady Charlotte Dougrie! Her ladyship will be most pleased ye have arrived. This way, please.”
“What?” Charlie said, aghast. “That’s not my name. I said Douglas, not Dougrie, and I’m not a lady or even a guest. If you’ll just show me the way out—”
But the man wasn’t listening. He strode to the door, cleared his throat, and announced in a voice that was only slightly quieter than a foghorn, “Lady Charlotte Dougrie, Countess of Argyle!”
Charlie goggled. Countess of what now? “Wait a minute, you’ve made a mistake. That’s not me—”
But her protests were drowned out as the guests turned and broke into a round of applause. The master of ceremonies held out his arm and placed her arm through it, then swept her through the door and into the room beyond before she could utter any kind of protest.
His work done, he gave her a small bow, then turned and left to resume his place in the hall outside. Charlie just stood there, frozen to the spot, hoping the ground would open up and swallow her. How was she going to talk her way out of this?
Many of the guests either bowed or curtsied to her—which was one of the strangest things she’d ever seen—but then went back to whatever they’d been doing: dancing, talking, eating or drinking.
“Would ye care for a drink, my lady?”
“What?” Charlie turned to see a brown-haired youth dressed in the same livery as the master of ceremonies, standing by her side. He was carrying a silver tray filled with goblets.
A drink? You bet she needed a drink.
“Thanks,” she murmured, snagging one of the drinks from the tray. “Listen, can you point out who is the bookshop owner? Or even better, can you show me the way out—”
But the youth had already moved away and was soon lost in the crowd. With an annoyed grunt, Charlie set the goblet to her lips and tipped her head back, downing the liquid in one. The next second, she broke into a fit of coughing as her throat and stomach lit on fire. Far from being the sherry she’d expected, the cup had been full of whisky! Bloody Scots and their bloody obsession with the stuff! What was wrong with a nice glass of wine?
Luckily, with the hubbub and the music, nobody seemed to have noticed her coughing fit, so when it subsided, she wove her way through the crowd to the edge of the room where there was a bit more space.
The guests were done out in elegant finery. Some of the men wore dapper-looking suits with ruffled collars and long coats, whilst others wore the traditional plaid and kilts of their clan. The women wore elegant dresses with tight bodices and skirts that were bunched up at the back and flared from the hips, falling to the ground in frothy waves.
Even the cups and crockery were of the finest make. They all looked antique. Seventeenth or eighteenth century, Charlie guessed, andveryexpensive. She smiled wryly to herself.
See, Uncle Stephen?she thought sardonically.You were wrong. My ceramics degreeisn’ta total waste after all. At least I can identify antique pottery at a wedding. How useful.
Looking at the decorations, the clothing, the crockery, she guessed this must be a themed wedding. Huh. What a waste of money. Who was to say the bride and groom would even be together in a year’s time? They would be better served putting the money towards their mortgage or a new car. Or, in fact, anything else.
There you go again, Charlie, she thought.Cynical.
Not cynical, she answered herself.Just a realist.
At least, she reflected, as she picked up another cup from a side table and began sipping the whisky, she didn’t look completely out of place. She was wearing a long yellow summer dress and whilst it was nowhere near as fine as the dresses the women here were wearing, it was infinitely better than the jeans and sweater she had almost opted for. If she was going to gate crash a wedding, it was best to blend in.
She craned her head over the crowd, trying to work out who was the bride and groom. She didn’t see anyone in a wedding dress, but much of the crowd’s attention seemed to be focused on an older woman seated on the other side of the hall and a man wearing traditional tartan who was standing with her. They didn’t look like newly-weds to Charlie—the woman was much older than him with blonde ringlets piled atop her head and the man she was talking to—good-looking in an austere kind of way—was standing stiffly, as if uncomfortable with the conversation.
Charlie drew a long breath and began making her way towards the couple, hoping they could direct her to where she actually needed to be—outside and far away from this invite-only party to which she most definitely wasnotinvited.
As she moved closer, she could hear the man in tartan speaking with a thick Scottish accent that was difficult to understand. She caught words like “honor” and “clan” scattered about.
