Page 34 of The Heart’s Choice (Cotton Cops Mysteries #1)
Chapter 33
Buffet
W hen Bea leaned forward to sign her name to the register in the vestry, Roger twirled his finger into one of the tendrils of her hair. “I’ve been itching to do this since I saw you walking down the aisle,” he whispered, lest the vicar overhear.
She smiled coyly, her mind obviously on the same things as his. He put his arm round her waist while Philippa signed as a witness. He was surprised when Miles made his mark instead of signing his name. It had never occurred to him his overseer was illiterate. In fact, he was certain Smethurst could read his orders. It seemed his literacy competency didn’t extend to signing his own name on an important document. Clearly, there was much work to be done in terms of education.
But that was for the future. He offered his arm to his blushing bride and escorted her back into the church. Her father hugged her and shook Roger’s hand. Lucinda kissed Beatrice on each cheek and hugged Roger, who then escorted his bride down the aisle and out of the church. The long train of her gown made for slow going. Outside, they were pelted with rice on their way to the carriage. Sweating when he finally managed to stuff the voluminous train into the carriage, he climbed aboard and joined his giggling wife. “Don’t blame me,” she said between hiccups. “The train was your mother’s idea.”
“I just hope it’s easier to remove entirely,” he replied, grateful for her steadying hand when the carriage lurched forward.
In their cozy nest of white satin, they indulged in toe-curling kisses and intimate touching. “Let’s forego the reception my mother has arranged and go straight to my bedroom,” he said.
“I’d love nothing better,” she replied, “but Lucinda would come and drag us out of bed.”
“True,” he conceded, grinning like a youth in the first flush of sexual awareness. “Let’s hope the speeches are short.”
* * *
Upon their arrival at Sandiford Manor, Roger was ushered into the dining room. Meanwhile, maids whisked Bea upstairs into a guest bedroom where the seamstresses deftly unpicked the stitches that attached the long train to the gown. She resented spending even one minute apart from her new husband, but it was a relief to be free of the weight and sit down for a brief respite. A maid thrust a glass of champagne into her hands. She closed her eyes and took a gulp, instantly regretting the impulse when bubbles stole up her nose and made her cough. “I’m not used to spirits,” she told the worried maid, preferring not to mention she’d never drunk alcohol in her life.
A breathless Glenda arrived and fussed with her hair. “Leave a few tendrils loose,” she told her maid, who simply nodded knowingly.
“Guests have started to arrive,” Lucinda announced when she entered the room. “We must organize the receiving line.”
Several minutes later, guests began to file through the line, showering congratulations on the happy couple, the parents, and Roger’s sister and her husband. “I’m astonished to see your brother-in-law does actually know how to smile,” she whispered to Roger during a brief lull.
He meshed his fingers with hers and raised her hand to his lips. It was a thrilling gesture that was becoming familiar. “I don’t see Philippa enduring Josiah for much longer,” he replied, bending his head to whisper in her ear.
Bea pitied Philippa then, trapped in a loveless marriage. “We’re so lucky,” she said.
He merely nodded when another guest claimed his attention, but she knew he understood.
The formalities taken care of, the newlyweds took their places at the head table and the guests heeded Lucinda’s invitation to be seated.
* * *
Lucinda Sandiford’s lavish dinner parties were famous among Bolton’s well-to-do. Also aware of her reputation for impatience, the hundred or so guests were quickly seated, every expectant face turned toward Roger’s mother, who stood with arms folded at the front of the room.
The mayor of Bolton, town councilors, mill owners, dignitaries from the local constabulary, judges, barristers, bank managers—they and their wives all waited politely for Lucinda to begin the festivities.
Even the servants carrying platters from the kitchen to the groaning board were careful not to make a sound.
“I’m pleased to see the Barton brothers in attendance with their spouses,” Roger whispered to Beatrice, earning a reproving glare from his mother.
His wife’s naughty grin didn’t temper his urge to burst out laughing.
“Welcome one and all,” Lucinda began when complete silence reigned. “I’d ask the Reverend to say Grace, after which the head table will proceed to the buffet. The word buffet comes from the French for the side table where feasts were set out in medieval times. Guests will be informed by a footman when it is their table’s turn to partake.”
The vicar who had married them dutifully led the gathering in Grace. His mother then took her place at the head table and nodded to Roger. “Does your father know what he’s in for?’ he asked Beatrice, as he led her by the hand to the buffet table.
“He probably does now,” she replied.
* * *
Bea acknowledged it was a forlorn hope, but she wished more than one of her husband’s employees had been invited. Only Miles Smethurst was there, and Roger had confided his mother wasn’t too pleased with his choice of the overseer as his best man. Even Glenda had been forbidden to attend the banquet.
“Meg’s eyes would pop out of her head if she saw all this food,” she said to Roger.
“I told my mother to spare no expense,” he confessed, as he heaped slices of roast beef on both their plates. “I see she took me at my word.”
“I think we’d be having a much rowdier celebration if you’d invited some of the workers.”
“True,” he agreed. “We can arrange something less formal with them in a day or two.”
It gladdened her heart that he understood how she felt. “I don’t feel at home with this crowd.”
“Neither do I,” he confessed. “However, it’s expected, and if anyone can impress Bolton’s well-to-do, it’s my mother.”
* * *
Anxious to take Beatrice to bed, Roger prayed the speeches would be mercifully short. Like many Lancashire mill workers, Miles was a man of few words. However, the mayor had been known to waffle on, mainly extolling his own contributions to the town’s wellbeing. Roger had gritted his teeth when informed by his mother that Roderick Hampson had requested an opportunity to say a few words.
In the event, it was Miles who rambled on about Roger’s success as Master of Broadclough Mill, and how his compassion and good works had earned the esteem of his workers. Roger noted Hampson’s face getting redder and redder. He was one of the few who didn’t raise his glass when Miles finally proposed a toast to the newlyweds.
The mayor spoke briefly about the ridiculous American Civil War that had transformed Lancashire cotton workers from the most prosperous in the country to the most impoverished. He touted his own efforts to spearhead public works projects such as cleaning rivers, landscaping parks, and surfacing roads which would employ destitute cotton workers.
To Roger’s amazement, Hampson acknowledged Roger’s relief projects had inspired many of his fellow mill owners.
Arthur Parker was called upon to toast the bride. His voice filled with love and pride, he told the guests how proud Beatrice’s mother would be of her daughter.
Tears trickled down Beatrice’s cheeks as the guests drank to her health and happiness.
Roger was taken aback when his mother rose from her seat and raised her glass. He steeled himself for caustic remarks, probably at his expense, but Lucinda surprised him. “Now,” she announced. “I’m certain you’ll all understand if my son whisks his bride off to bed.”
Roger grinned as he lifted a blushing Beatrice and carried her out of the dining room to loud applause.
* * *