“What are they doing?” Gabriel asked, pointing at the three men carrying the urn.
“The old tradition is you feed the earth with the best of last year’s season. Food from every kitchen. Milk, or cream if you have it, will be poured on the earth to show we know there is more milk to come. Centuries past, they used to bury food too, but not now. They just bring it to the table and feed everyone. We only bury what’s left uneaten at the end.”
“I feel disrespectful eating when I’ve not contributed anything,” Gabriel said to the man.
“You’re a stranger and not expected to have your own kitchen. No one pays a tithe that hasn’t had a larder for at least a full year.”
Pierre turned to tell Gabriel that Cook had in fact sent food from the house. His eyes, however, were fixed on the clearing as he unslung his camera from his shoulder. She followed his gaze. The three men walking with absolute solemnity, lifted the huge urn and slowly poured milk into a prepared spot where grass had been cleared. On and on they poured; Gabriel took pictures as white milk soaked into the dark soil.
When it was finished, the man standing next to them continued, “But stranger or local, you must eat. A taste of everything to show respect.”
They were certainly big on respect here. And over the next hour she and Gabriel paid their respects to the roast goose, the game pie, the grilled sausages, the roasted corn cobs, and especially the sugared chestnuts.
“I think I’m too full to respect anything else,” she said when he offered her half the cake someone had passed him. “Have you taken enough photos?”
“For now.” He screwed the cap back on his lens and returned the camera to its case.
“How about we go and respect the dancing a little to work off some of the calories,” she urged him.
“You’re having a giraffe.” His eyes widened in mock horror.
“I’m not. Besides people who are not actual Londoners are not allowed to use rhyming slang like having a giraffe.”
“I’m still an Englishman, and wild horses wouldn’t drag me into this kind of dancing.”
Firelight shone on his dark curls, and it brought out copper highlights in his trim beard as the flames danced in the depths of his eyes. Surely, he could manage to dance a little, an athletic man with a nice figure like him.
“It looks like fun,” she encouraged.
“It does.” He took his camera out again. “You go and twirl with the islanders and I’ll take some more pics of you. I do have a challenge to meet.”
In answer to her confused look, his mouth pulled to the side with an amused half smile. “Don’t you remember? You asked me to take a picture of the real you.”
“I’m not sure my dancing is the real me.”
He nudged her with his shoulder. “Stop talking and go.”
She had been nattering rather a lot. Too verbal. That was her.
“I’m not going alone.”
Before he could answer, a smiling Doris came up to them. She was more flushed than ever. “Emmet, do you want to dance with me?”
There was a moment of silence as he looked around then back at Doris’s excited face. “Of course. It’ll be my pleasure.” He packed away his camera and offered her his arm. A moment later when she swayed a little too much, he caught her round the waist and helped her walk to the dancing area.
Someone took Pierre’s arm and before she knew it, she was dragged into a foursome doing a version of a reel. The guy who’d taken her arm, a red-haired youth in a fisherman’s sweater, twirled her around so many times, it was impossible to keep her eye on Doris and Gabriel.
When the tune was over, they swapped partners and Pierre found herself dancing with someone else. Opposite them, before her partner turned her away, she saw Gabriel, his arm around Doris, walking away from the dancing. Doris had her head on his shoulder, and she pointed towards the trees.
Pierre’s partner spun her around again and other couples blocked her view. When she could look again, she couldn’t see Gabriel and Doris anymore.
Another dance started, followed by several more, seamlessly blending one into the next. By the time the musicians stopped for a drink, her face was flushed and hot and her latest partner escorted her to the drinks table. The woman who’d been serving cider was nowhere but there were several full jugs. Pierre shook her head and opted for a large glass of water as she looked around for Gabriel.
All around her the women were separating from the men and lining up on one side of the clearing. She moved aside to watch.
“Ladies. Ladies,” Michael called. “As you know, this is the time for the new moonrise.” He paused and all the young women started giggling. “All you single girls, line up there.”
The red-haired young man who’d danced with her earlier waved for her to join the rest of the single women. She shook her head, but a middle-aged lady put a firm hand in the middle of her back and pushed her gently. “Come on, now, Missy. No point in bein’ coy.”
