What about paint cans? #2
In a particularly clamorous swell of organ music, Miss Eugenia appeared at last at the head of the aisle on the arm of her stout little father.
He kept mopping his brow with his handkerchief, obviously uncomfortable with the scrutiny of Society.
Miss Eugenia, by contrast, looked oddly grim.
The guests rose in respect for the bride as Mr. Lambert led her decorously down the aisle.
Nigel glanced at the Duke of Woolfwood, who stood at the altar, smiling so hugely it was beginning to look more like a grimace. Was the man actively in pain?
Miss Eugenia made it to the altar at last. The duke offered his hand, but she ignored it. She merely allowed her father a brief kiss on her cheek through her veils, then took her place solemnly, gripping her bouquet with both hands like a broadsword.
The organ swelled to a dramatic crescendo that nearly popped Nigel’s eardrums. Luna actually covered her ears and squeezed her eyes shut.
Then suddenly, it was all over. A dreadful silence settled over the enormous chamber.
The bishop stepped forward, resplendent in gold-threaded robes.
She raised her arms, long sleeves sweeping to the floor, and declared in appropriately hallowed tones, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of the Green Mother and all the brother and sister gods to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is an honorable estate wherein—”
“I object!”
Nigel’s gaze shot to the far end of the aisle where the figure of Tom Doorhandler appeared suddenly in all his ragged handsomeness.
To an explosion of murmurs and gasps, which echoed up to the domed ceiling, he strode partway down the aisle and struck a pose worthy of cinema.
A bridesmaid swooned. Mrs. Lambert leapt to her feet and shrieked, “No! Don’t stop now! There is no objection!”
But Tom Doorhandler was not about to be thwarted in his purpose. “There ruddy well is an objection!” he cried. “See here, you can’t go interrupting a chap in the middle of his objecting. Can she?” he appealed to the bishop.
The bishop blinked, looking rather out of her element. “Well, I don’t know—”
“Carry on with the ceremony!” the Duke of Woolfwood commanded in a distinctly nasal tone.
“Your grace,” the bishop protested, “tradition would dictate—”
“Bother tradition!”
“Bother you, sir!” roared Tom Doorhandler. Which didn’t sound nearly as impressive as he probably wanted it to, and he seemed to realize it. He paused, his mouth gaping awkwardly.
“Oh, go on,” Luna whispered, leaning out over the rail. “Duel. Duel. Come on, please, duel.”
“Miss Talbot,” Nigel murmured, “since when did you become so bloodthirsty?”
She looked up at him, all shining eyes. “It’s just like one of Auntie Arabella’s darning-basket novels come to life!”
Not for the first time, Nigel found himself wondering about the contents of these oft-mentioned darning-basket novels.
Shaking his head, he returned his attention to the floor below, where the duke even now strode toward Tom Doorhandler, all puffing chest and flaring nostrils.
Those flaring nostrils were particularly impressive on his proud snout.
Nigel half-expected brimstone to issue forth in black streams.
“You will not dishonor my bride on her wedding day!” the duke declared.
“It is not I who dishonor her, but you!” Tom replied.
“How do you figure?”
“You’re not marrying her for love!”
“Oh, I’m not, am I?”
“No, indeed! You’re nothing but a mincing toff without a drop of passion in your blood, whereas I—”
“At least I don’t manufacture door handles!”
“THEY’RE CAN OPENERS!” Tom threw up his hands. “Why does everyone get that wrong? Those two things are nothing alike!”
At this point, it really looked as though Doorhandler and the duke were about to come to blows.
Luna grabbed hold of Nigel’s arm with excitement, and he didn’t even care how her fingers pinched painfully to the bone.
Looking down into her eager face, he smiled softly, despite every effort to repress it.
What a delightfully ridiculous creature she was, to be so wrapped up in this drama.
It was at this juncture that Miss Lambert spoke at last. “Actually,” she said, her mousy little voice very thin in that large space, “I don’t think I shall be marrying anyone today.”
Another collective gasp rippled through the spectators, more profound even than the gasp uttered at Tom Doorhandler’s appearance. Luna gasped as well, and her fingers pinched even harder into Nigel’s arm. “Oh, come on, Eugenia!” she whispered. “You can do it!”
Though far more invested in watching Luna’s reactions than in whatever took place below, Nigel reluctantly turned his gaze back to Miss Eugenia at the altar. She gripped her bouquet with both hands so hard, it trembled. But her plain face was oddly serene behind her veil.
“Actually,” she said again, “I think I’m going on a little trip.”
Mrs. Lambert exploded out from her pew in a flurry of purple satin. “Eugenia!” she cried. “Shut your mouth, child, and let the duke handle matters for you!”
The girl flinched a little. “Don’t back down now!” Luna released Nigel’s arm and grabbed the balcony rail, leaning out rather precipitously. “Come on!” she urged.
Nigel took hold of her shoulders, just to be safe.
Eugenia strode back up the aisle in a cloud of wafting tulle. She stripped the veil from her head as she went, bundled it up, and tossed it, along with the bouquet, to Mrs. Lambert. “These are you for you, Mother,” she said. “You marry the duke, if you’re so keen on it!”
In response to this shocking speech, the beauteous bridesmaid from the lineup actually uttered a little, “Eeeep!” of surprise.
But Eugenia rustled in her tulle cloud to the middle of the aisle, where the two men stood on the verge of battle.
Both turned to gape at her, slack-jawed. The duke’s proud nostrils quivered.
“Bertrum,” Eugenia said, addressing herself to her would-be groom, “I hope you will enjoy that lovely chocolate cake at the reception. Have a piece for me—no point in it going to waste.” She turned then and made a sweeping gesture with one arm, as though to take in the crowd of staring-eyed guests.
“In fact, I invite you all to go enjoy your lunch at The King’s Crown this afternoon.
Call it a . . . a Declaration of Liberty Luncheon. ”
“Eugenia!” Mrs. Lambert bleated.
Miss Lambert turned to her mother once more, but it was her father she addressed next.
“Dad,” she said, looking at him over his wife’s well-padded shoulder, “I think you should have the front hall painted in poppy red if you want it painted in poppy red. Live a little!” With this enigmatic statement, she turned to the boys once more.
“I’m off to Kosmaoca. To see the cairns.
And the ancient queen’s jewels. I don’t know when I’ll be back. ” She shrugged. “Maybe never.”
“You . . . you’re going on our honeymoon? Alone?” the duke cried.
At this, Eugenia smiled. And for the first time since Nigel had known her, she almost looked pretty. “No,” she said. “I’m taking Sutton with me.” With that, she cupped a hand around her mouth and called out, “Yoohoo! Sutton!”
Her maid appeared, a silent apparition in the nave doorway.
“Are our bags all packed?”
Sutton inclined her head.
“Loaded in the limo?”
Another nod.
“Well, in that case . . .”
And Miss Eugenia gathered up her bountiful skirts, bundling them to the knee, and burst into a run.
All the guests not already on their feet surged upright.
Tom Doorhandler and the duke, in their haste to pursue the object of their affections, crashed into one another, tripped, and fell in a tangle of limbs.
Nigel caught a last glimpse of Sutton, following her mistress out from the chapel.
Was that a smile creasing her stern visage?
The nave doors slammed. This seemed to be taken as some sort of cue by the ancient organist, who applied her withered hands to the keys with gusto, blaring out the traditional, “There Goes the Bride,” which the choir boys immediately took up in four-part harmony, accompanied by some less-than-traditional but enthusiastic whoops.
Mrs. Lambert screamed. Miss Tuttlemouse fainted conveniently into the arms of the nearest groomsman, and . . .
Nigel turned to Luna, catching her disappointed expression. “No duel,” he said.
“No.” She blustered a sigh between her lips. “Another dream thwarted.” But her eyes twinkled with delight. “Do you think it’ll work? Do you think she’ll make a clean getaway?”
“I don’t know.” Nigel slipped his hands into his pockets. “What did her teacup tell you?”
Luna grinned. “That she’s about to embark on a tremendous adventure!”