The older women bustled off, their hard-soled shoes ringing against the pine plank floors.
“Go, join your guests,” Damian said, waving a tea towel. “Alicia will finish tidying the dining room any minute. She can help me clean up in here.”
“Thanks. I guess I’d better see what they’re all up to.” I gave Damian a wink. “And keep an eye on the open bar, even if it is just wine and beer.”
“Good idea.” Damian turned back to the sink. “Pete was hitting the sauce pretty hard at dinner, along with that Delamont guy. You might need to supervise those two.”
Stepping out the back door, I had to admit that my guests’ colorful costumes created a fabulous tableau. Of course, up close most of the costumes gave off a high-school-drama-club vibe, but the flickering tongues of light cast by the lawn torches lent their outfits an uncanny air of verisimilitude. Standing at the edge of the flagstone patio, I could imagine gazing across the stone plaza of a fifteenth-century English castle, observing festivities at court. The illusion was broken only when I glanced up at the lights twinkling above my head. They weren’t stars—only tiny white Christmas lights threaded through the slats of the pergola.
I lifted my heavy skirts and headed for the outdoor bar at one edge of the patio. Fortunately, this party was beer and wine only, although I’d also included some bottled mead. I’d informed the guests that this was in keeping with the party’s theme, but of course it was also a cost-saving measure—one I couldn’t get away with when I hosted events based on twentieth-century authors and books.
I nodded at Todd and Kelly Rowley, who’d obviously spared no expense on their costumes. Todd was dressed like a medieval scholar, complete with robes that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a ceremony at one of England’s finer universities. Kelly wore a lovely gown that appeared to be a reproduction of one of the few images of Anne Neville, wife of Richard the Third. Her rose-pink gown was trimmed with fake fur mimicking theermine depicted in the illustration, and she wore a cloak of deep rose, also edged in the fake fur. I’d discovered the same illustration in the Rous Roll—an illustrated chronicle created by fifteenth-century historian and priest John Rous—and was impressed by Kelly’s devotion to period accuracy. From my own research, I’d learned that Anne Neville had probably commissioned the chronicle, making her Rous Roll portrait the one most likely to reflect an accurate image of Richard the Third’s queen.
When I reached the bar, I was greeted by Pete Nelson. A local man in his mid-fifties, he’d embraced his rotund figure and dressed as a medieval monk. Lifting a tankard of ale, he saluted me.
“Great party, as always. Although some of those dishes …”
“I know,” I said. “You already told me you weren’t too thrilled with a few things.”
“The pike still had bones,” said Pete’s wife, Sandra, a petite middle-aged woman swallowed up by the sapphire-blue velvet folds of her Renaissance-inspired gown. Sandra had eschewed the tall headdresses worn by the Sandberg sisters for a black velveteen beret-style hat decorated with drooping white feathers.
“As it would have back in the time of Richard the Third,” I replied. I should have known, as Damian had alluded to earlier, that the Nelsons would have an opinion on the food. They ran a café called the Dancing Dolphin. Open for breakfast and lunch and featuring farm-to-table cuisine, it was popular with both locals and tourists. “We gave you verisimilitude, Sandy.”
“I could’ve done with a little less of that,” Sandy said. “But it’s fun, nevertheless.”
“As I mentioned, I did like the boar,” Pete said, before downing another swig of ale. “But I need to talk to that chef of yoursabout his heavy hand with spices. I almost choked over those vegetables.”
I adjusted my own headdress, which was a simple starched linen coif. “Please don’t blame Damian for that. He was following the recipes I gave him.”
“A chef should taste his food and adjust,” Pete said.
“I’m sure Damian sampled all his dishes.” I glanced over the café owner’s shoulder and noticed Tara Delamont following Jennifer into the back garden. By the teen’s furious gesticulations, I suspected the mother and daughter were embroiled in some sort of argument. “Excuse me,” I said, clutching several folds of my velvet skirt with one hand. “I need to check on something.”
I raised the hem of my gown above my sturdy walking shoes and hurried over to the white picket fence that enclosed the garden. It looked like trouble was brewing between Tara and her mother, and I wanted to stem any argument that might spill over onto the rest of the party. Staying behind the fence, I slid in close to a large lilac bush and peered into the shadowy garden. Yes, I was eavesdropping, but if I could head off a major incident that might ruin my carefully orchestrated event, I didn’t care.
“You never listen to me,” Tara wailed, plucking at the glass baubles decorating the neckline of her amber velvet gown. Tara had proudly informed everyone at dinner that she’d made her own costume, which had impressed me. The teen’s gown was elegant and historically appropriate, although the fake gems she’d hot-glued to the black satin trim were too gaudy to appear real. In keeping with her age, Tara had left her hair uncovered, but she’d skillfully woven her dark locks into tiny braids looped back in a style I recognized from a few da Vinci portraits.
“That’s not true.” Jennifer fiddled with the edge of the white linen scarf she’d tied around her head to form a simple coif. She’d allowed some of her dark curly hair to peek out from beneath the scarf, which actually flattered her round face. Unfortunately, her dark-gray wool gown and its corded belt made her plump figure appear as dumpy as a sack of flour.
She’s obviously dressed as a servant or peasant woman.Pondering this choice, I couldn’t help but wonder if Jennifer Delamont was sending a pointed message of some kind. Perhaps to spite her husband, who looked every inch the medieval king. His costume, based on a portrait of Henry the Seventh, the Tudor king who’d defeated Richard the Third at the Battle of Bosworth Field, was a resplendent ensemble of black velvet trimmed with amber brocade.
“Oh right, because constantly telling me Dad won’t approve is listening?” Tara tapped her ballet-slippered foot against a garden path paver. “You’re destroying my life and you just don’t care.”
“No one is ruining your life,” Jennifer replied, more gently than I thought I could’ve managed in the situation. “You can still study voice, and perform professionally someday, but those TV shows are out.”
“But you watch them!” Tara placed her balled fists on her slender hips.
“Yes, and if it was up to me, maybe …” Jennifer shook her head. “But that’s a moot point. Your father will never approve.”
“Dad is such a jerk.” Tara spun around so fast that her heavy skirts swung like a bell. “I wish he were dead!”
I shrank back deeper into the shadows as Tara stormed out of the garden. Jennifer Delamont sighed deeply before following her daughter.
After they’d passed me, I strolled over to the other edge of the yard. When I reached the row of hollies that created a natural fence between the patio and the carriage house, the sound of voices halted my progress.
Perhaps Scott was entertaining a guest. I stepped back, not wishing to intrude. But when I recognized the voices, I sucked in a breath. Lincoln Delamont was engaged in an animated conversation with Julie. Assuming they were talking about books, I considered joining their discussion until I heard words that stopped me in my tracks.
“And apparently you’re married, not separated.” Julie’s normally pleasant tone was edged with anger.
