Chapter Fifteen
Walking up to Mistingham Manor with Dexter on one side of her, Lucy and Artichoke on the other, Imogen felt unbearably nervous and also like an imposter.
They were getting there early because they had roles in the wedding party, but Fiona and Ermin were just ahead of them, with their mini schnauzer Poppet, and Imogen thought that, actually, most of the village residents were part of the inner circle.
Maybe Mistingham didn’t have an outer circle? Maybe it was one big family.
‘I recognize this handiwork.’ Dexter pointed to one of the mistletoe bunches hanging from the trees on either side of the long driveway.
It was a cold, bright day, the sky a pale, perfect blue, the best you could hope for in the last weekend of November.
‘This is you two, isn’t it? The extra stuff you put up the last couple of days? ’
‘You recognize the ribbon, Dad.’ Lucy said it in the weary tone she adopted when she thought an adult was being particularly obtuse. ‘Anyway, they’re not a crafting miracle, just twigs tied up with ribbon.’
‘Hey!’ Imogen laughed. ‘We worked hard on those. Don’t downplay our achievements.’
‘OK.’ Lucy peered around Imogen and said, ‘It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, Dad. I hope you appreciate it. I should probably get some sort of reward.’
Dexter laughed and bumped his shoulder against Imogen’s. ‘We’re never going to win.’
‘I don’t think we’re meant to.’
‘You look lovely, by the way,’ he said quietly.
‘Thank you.’ She had ordered her dress and jacket online.
The dress was purple, a shade darker than lavender, with a straight bodice and an A-line skirt, delicate lace trim along the neckline and hem.
The jacket was short, a simple cream with large, pearly buttons, though she’d left it open.
She had forgotten to buy new shoes, but her wedding shoes were cream silk, low-heeled, and most of the mud from her original journey had dried, so she’d been able to brush it off.
She had manoeuvred her dark brown, shoulder-length hair into a partial up-do, and framed her dark blue eyes with several coats of black mascara.
‘So do you,’ she said to Dexter, which was a criminal-level understatement.
He was in a navy suit, crisp white shirt and silver-blue silk tie. He wasn’t entirely clean-shaven, but his stubble was shorter, neater, and his curls had been tamed slightly with some kind of wax. He looked incendiary.
‘Oooh!’ Lucy squealed as they reached the manor.
Harry was standing in front of the double doors, which had been flung open, a Christmas wreath made up of mistletoe, holly and glittering white pine cones hanging on the inside to greet visitors.
Next to Harry, Felix was wearing a deep purple jumper with one large red heart on the side.
They waited for Ermin and Fiona to greet Harry and head inside, then walked up to him.
‘Dex.’ He sounded nervous. ‘Lucy, Imogen, Artichoke. You all look brilliant.’
‘You do too,’ Imogen said. Harry’s outfit was the same as Dexter’s, the navy suit looking great on his tall frame. ‘You match.’
‘Dexter’s my best man. Didn’t he tell you?’
Imogen turned to Dexter.
He shrugged. ‘I thought everyone knew.’
‘Everyone does know,’ Lucy said.
‘I didn’t,’ Imogen replied. ‘But then I am newish.’
‘And you’ve got …’ Lucy started, then clamped her lips shut.
Imogen suppressed her laughter. She was amazed that Lucy hadn’t blurted out her secret before now. She gave her a discreet thumbs-up, her hand down by her side.
‘You’ve got what?’ Harry asked, running his fingers through his hair.
‘A lot going on,’ Imogen said. ‘You know.’
‘I’m so glad you could come today.’
‘Me, too. Thank you for inviting me. It looks beautiful.’ She gestured to the manor, the long sweep of lawn that ran down to the sea in the distance, mature oaks and birches framing the view. ‘But I suppose it always looks like this.’
‘We didn’t change a whole lot apart from the mistletoe,’
Harry admitted.
‘Sophie and May inside?’ Dexter slapped Harry on the back.
‘Yup,’ Harry said, and Imogen saw him swallow. ‘Hopefully, anyway.’
Dexter laughed. ‘I don’t think Sophie’s going to run away from your wedding, do you?’
His words were followed by an uncomfortable silence, then Lucy hissed, ‘Dad!’
‘Two runaway brides in a matter of weeks is statistically pretty unlikely,’ Imogen said, because she didn’t want anyone to feel awkward. ‘I think you’re safe.’
Dexter looked mortified. ‘Imogen, I’m so sorry.’
‘You don’t need to be.’ She squeezed his arm, relishing the feel of muscle beneath the fabric of his jacket. ‘I’m not offended.’
‘Crap.’ He rubbed his jaw.
‘No craps,’ she said. ‘You’re on best man duty; you need to be calming Harry’s nerves.’
‘Yes, Dex,’ Harry said with a grin. ‘No time to ramp up your own anxiety levels. Today is all about mine.’
Dexter gave Imogen a grateful smile. ‘Right, let’s go and find our places. I can show you that I absolutely, definitely, have probably not forgotten the rings.’
Harry’s laugh turned into a growl, and the two men walked inside, looking almost unbearably handsome.
‘I nearly gave away your secret,’ Lucy said, when they’d gone. ‘But then Dad properly put his foot in it, so I think we’re even.’
‘You compete with each other on how many mistakes you can make?’ Imogen laughed.
‘It’s about being human, Dad says. You can say the wrong thing and make mistakes, and it’s OK and people will still love you.’
‘Oh.’ Emotion welled up inside her. ‘That’s pretty smart. And I am fine with you almost announcing my reading to Harry, and with Dexter making a runaway bride joke. I still …’ she stopped herself, because she couldn’t possibly love them, but her affection for them both was already quite deep.
‘There!’ Lucy bounced on her toes. She was wearing a silver-blue dress, which Imogen belatedly realized was the same colour as Dexter and Harry’s ties. ‘You almost said the wrong thing too, and I still love you.’ She said it completely guilelessly, and Imogen’s brain stuttered.
‘Hug it out,’ she said after a second, and she and Lucy shared a perfume-scented hug, Artichoke in his little bluebowed harness beside them. ‘Shall we go inside and work out what we’re supposed to be doing?’
‘Yes!’ Lucy took Imogen’s hand as they walked into the manor, and Imogen didn’t have the heart to let go.
The inside of Mistingham Manor was even more beautiful than the outside.
The hall was wide and spacious, welcoming them in, with cream walls and polished floorboards, a sleek staircase and a large fireplace that was lit but crackling gently.
A grandfather clock stood proudly in the corner, its tick audible above the sound of the flames.
There were modern touches too, flashes of colour amongst the natural tones and the solidity of the building which spoke of centuries rather than decades.
Blue and white garlands were strung through the banisters, and there was mistletoe everywhere. Most of it was natural, with ribbons providing the colour, but there were a few of the shimmering bunches they’d worked on in the village hall.
Lucy led Imogen into a large room at the back of the house, with windows on two sides looking out on wintry trees, fragments of blue between the trunks, letting in the soft winter sunshine.
There was another fireplace here, a pale grey carpet, several seascapes on the walls.
If Imogen had to guess, she would have said this was the living room – though about five times the size of the one in her London flat – but today the sofas were pushed back against the walls, and rows of chairs lined up to face the back of the room, a narrow aisle between them.
The chairs were quickly filling up with guests, some that Imogen recognized from her walks around the village, people she’d said hello to in the bakery queue.
Classical music played gently beneath the excited chatter, and Harry and Dexter were standing at the front of the chairs, next to a low stage, talking to a woman with wild grey hair and a kind, worn-in face.
‘That’s Winnie,’ Lucy said. ‘She runs the hotel with her sister, and she’s … Dad said the word, it’s …’
‘A celebrant?’ Imogen suggested.
‘Yes! That one. She’s marrying Sophie and Harry.’
‘Great.’ Imogen’s palms were sweaty. It didn’t look like the ceremony itself would be huge, and she was used to performing, whether planned or impromptu, but there was something about being here, in this grand setting with these people, that was heightening her nerves.
‘I have to sit at the back, so me and Artichoke can walk in after Sophie. You need to go and sit near the front, to look after Dad.’
‘Of course.’ Imogen didn’t point out that, when Lucy had entreated her to make sure Dexter wasn’t on his own, she had failed to mention that he was Harry’s best man, and would be pretty busy himself. ‘You’ll be great.’ She squeezed Lucy’s shoulder.
‘I know we will,’ Lucy said, with the confidence of a ten-year-old.
When she’d gone to find a seat, Imogen went to sit in the row behind Harry and Dexter, then worried she was taking up a space reserved for family.
She leaned forward, her chin centimetres from Dexter’s suit-clad shoulder. He smelled of sandalwood and the bakery, and Imogen loved that it was part of him, inescapable even when he was away from it. ‘Is this OK?’ she asked. ‘I can move if—’
‘You’re good there,’ Dexter murmured, leaning back but not turning around, so Imogen’s nose was close to the shell of his ear. ‘I like having you there.’
‘Oh.’
‘And I’m really sorry about the runaway bride comment.’
‘Please don’t worry. It would have been weirder if nobody had mentioned it.’
‘OK.’