Cam had said to her father-in-law when he remarked upon the coming rain, “I have never doubted umbrellas were invented in England, sir. Surely we must have the stoutest in the world.”
Vereker laughed even as he tucked his umbrella under one arm and Cam’s hand in the crook of the other. Blakeney had told her the earl himself had designed new stronger shafts and ribs to keep them from furling up in high winds, and Riker had seen the improvements done to every umbrella in King’s Head. They were heavier to carry, but no one cared. When their neighbors and St. Lucy Head villagers heard about the new improved umbrellas, there were so many requests Vereker hired three local lads, set them up, and put them to work, no charge to the villagers for the new andimproved umbrellas. Only one reason, Blakeney had told her, everyone loved the earl. And now it appeared his precious son, Graham, had his father’s talents. Cam agreed, naturally. She wondered if Simon had lived if he’d have the same interests as his older brother and father. Had Simon also had his mother’s incredible wild blue eyes, Graham’s kindness, his wit? She thought of herself and Eliza. Had Simon been as different from Graham as Cam was from Eliza?
The Hepburns filed into the magnificent eleventh-century church, nodding to villagers and neighbors as they walked briskly from the nave down the long aisle to the altar to the sound of Mrs. Finch’s beautifully performed processional song “Jerusalem.” Cam heard whispered conversations, knew she was being studied and would wager they deemed Graham the magnificent peacock, not her. She was the passable little peahen.
They seated themselves in the family pew. The old, hard oak bench was covered with thick goose-down cushions for their exalted bottoms dating from the late seventeenth century and replaced every ten years or so when they were sufficiently flattened by said exalted bottoms, paid for by the current Earl St. Lucy.
King’s Head servants filed into the pew behind them, all dressed in their Sunday best. She felt Cilly’s light hand gently tug on a curl over her ear, and raised a hand to give her a little wave of thanks.
Tallyrand sat next to Cam, Graham on her other side, her gloved hand tucked into his, resting on his thigh. Tallyrand was a handsome man, tall, muscular and surely very strong since he chopped his own logs and had built his own cottage. There were only a few gray strands threading through his dark brown hair. His eyes were a vibrant green, an odd color, sort of the shade of the Green Stream bordering the sheep’s field in front of King’s Head. If his beautifully tailored morning coat was out of date, no one remarked upon it sinceMaster Tallyrand had no wife to see to him. All knew he chose to live by himself in the middle of the eastern woods because he’d been severely mentally afflicted by the long-ago Battle of Waterloo and the death of so many soldiers, many his friends. Even though he kept to himself, he readily offered his help to any who asked him. He was well liked, the men giving him respectful bows, the ladies smiling and nodding. She wondered if he was aware that many of the ladies were attempting to gain his attention.
When her father-in-law had introduced them in the entry hall of King’s Head that morning, Tallyrand had smiled at her, lightly kissed her wrist. “Please call me Uncle Tally since you are now my niece.” Did she see a faint resemblance between Graham and his uncle? She wasn’t sure. Tallyrand had arrived at King’s Head to ride with the family the three miles to church. He’d remarked to Cam in the carriage, “I usually walk, but I feared it will rain today and indeed it has, and wet wool tends to smell, not a pleasant thing in church. Even one of my brother’s sturdy umbrellas wouldn’t spare me from mud puddles.”
Vereker had mentioned to Cam that perhaps Tally would now have dinner with the family more than once a month since her arrival at King’s Head.
Tally leaned close, whispered to her, “Riker sang your praises.”
Cam wondered what Riker could have said since he’d been the one doing all the talking. She whispered back, “Mr. Riker met us at the station yesterday, told me about the people I would meet at King’s Head. It made everything easier for me. And now it appears I’m on parade for all the local populace.”
Tally nodded. “I doubt not they’ll believe you a fine wife for Graham. And your glasses chain, quite innovative, my brother pointed them out to me, told me how smart you were. As for Riker, he brings me his wife’s stews, a very finedish indeed, and Blakeney brings me fresh scones right out of Cook’s oven. I believe Riker wants to speak to my brother about starting an umbrella business in Canterbury.” He laughed quietly. “If I know my brother, he’ll think it an excellent idea and provide everything Riker needs to make it happen.”
Graham leaned over and whispered in her ear, “You’re hearing about the great Umbrella Project?”
“I think it’s grand.”
Graham had told her he’d only visited his uncle Tally once, and he admitted he’d prayed he’d recognize him, but Tally had been a perfect stranger, like everyone and everything else.
Cam was very aware of her husband, felt ripples of remembered pleasure and wasn’t that a fine thing? Seated next to Graham was his father, of course, then Eugenie and Donner next to him, the two of them whispering. About purchasing their own house, perhaps?
Vereker said quietly to Graham, “I’ve never seen the church so packed, some people I’ve never seen before, and some are even leaning against the walls. It appears everyone has heard you’d brought home a bride and wanted to see both of you.” He paused, added, “My valet, Terrance, told me Mrs. Mince couldn’t stop smiling after meeting your wife. Camilla—no, Cam—a lighthearted nickname and it suits her—has already impressed our people. Blakeney remarked that all stopped and listened when you laughed. I myself have noticed a lighter tone in the house, and Cam’s been here only a day.”
The organist laid down an impressive last chord, the echo rippling through the church. Whispered conversations faded away. There were a few stray coughs and clearing throats as the congregation settled in.
Vicar Piercebridge, in a knee-length white robe over black trousers and white shirt, stepped up the six well-worn steps to the dark mahogany pulpit, replaced in the last decade of the sixteenth century and embellished with elaboratecarvings of saints and Christ. He nodded to Vereker, gave a big smile to Cam and Graham. He looked out over the gathered congregation. When he spoke, his deep baritone rang out to the farthest corner of the church. “On this blessed day in our Lord’s house, let us give praise not only for Graham Hepburn’s blessed return but also the wonderful addition of his new bride, Lady Camilla.” He raised his arms. “Everyone rise. We will raise our voices in thanks to our loving God and sing ‘Rock of Ages.’”
Vicar Piercebridge turned to nod to the organist when there was suddenly a huge crack of thunder, a white streak of lightning speared through the windows. The vicar smiled, again nodded to the organist, who played through a verse of “Rock of Ages,” then a multitude of deep, rich voices soared above the successive claps of thunder, filling the ancient stone church. It was much loved, this old hymn, well known to the smallest child. Cam felt the familiar warmth and sense of rightness as she sang. Then, suddenly, she felt something else, something just out of her vision, something dark, frightening, blacker now and thick, and it was coming closer. She thought of the statue at Ventnor and wanted to grab Graham and run, maybe to Scotland or Boston, to her brother. What she felt, was it a portent? Was danger just on the horizon? No, no, she was being dramatic. It was Sunday, she was singing one of her favorite hymns. Everything was fine. But deep inside, she knew it wasn’t.
She concentrated on Graham’s rich baritone. It warmed her to her bones, but the chill remained deep inside her.
After a lovely homily extolling the goodness and love of the Lord, Vicar Piercebridge blessed the congregation and the organist played a solemn hymn unfamiliar to Cam. The Hepburns followed the vicar down the nave, umbrellas at the ready, out of the church and stood stock-still. There was no frigid rain beating down, no black clouds anywhere in the sky. There was only bright sunlight, the once-sharp wind hadmellowed into a gentle warm breeze off the Channel. White billowy clouds lazed across a blue sky.
People were openmouthed, they left the church to walk outside and bask in this unforeseen miracle.
Mr. Kurtz, the local cooper, announced loudly, “Behold a Sunday miracle, no need for Lord Vereker’s umbrellas!”
Given it was England, all agreed it was indeed a miracle. All looked toward Cam and Graham as they relished the incredible day and there were whispers behind hands. Graham said to Cam, “I think many in the congregation believe you and I are the cause of the now glorious weather.”
Cam said in all seriousness, “How could you think differently?” and she poked him in the side with her furled umbrella.
Vicar Piercebridge introduced Cam and reintroduced Graham to every man, woman and child standing in a long line. She shook hands and nodded, smiling all the while, as did Graham. So many names, so many well wishes, so many welcome homes to Graham. And to her. It was gratifying. Well, they’d brought the sun, hadn’t they?
Everyone was surprised when Uncle Tally accompanied them back to King’s Head for luncheon, the first time in many years. Vereker felt blessed beyond measure. He couldn’t stop smiling.
CHAPTER 56
King’s Head
Cam wanted nothing more than to nab Graham, currently drinking coffee with his father in the library, grab his hand and pull him outdoors on this beautiful sunny morning. She wanted her promised tour of King’s Head, especially the eastern forest where Uncle Tally lived. Then there were the old Augustinian ruins some one hundred yards behind King’s Head to explore. She wanted to pet the sheep always grazing in the large front swatch of land bordering the Green Stream. She wanted to look deep, see what she could see. Graham had laughed at her, said you couldn’t see below the green surface of the water and one of the rams, King Henry by name, might try to shove her into the water. She especially wanted to meet all their farmers, maybe drink some of their particularly powerful ale and then—She had to be patient. First she had to eat her breakfast. She was wearing a new riding habit, a lovely dark green wool jacket cinched at the waist and a form-fitting skirt and her favorite black boots picked out for her by Lady Tremaine. Her high crown riding hat had ajaunty narrow brim and a narrow blue ribbon. She wore her hair in a thick braid down her back, something Cilly deemed unusual but clever, maybe Cam would bring in a new style.
