Then Comes Murder

Within the Orchard (part one)

It was a lovely ceremony. So lovely, in fact, any whispers about the Duke's toast the previous evening had been replaced with happy wishes for the bride and groom and amazed commentary on the ceremony.

Nora had tried to speak with Caroline after the dinner from Hell. The dowager countess had told her lady's maid to close the door with a shriek that escaped into the hall, leaving Nora to relive the night without knowing Caroline's perspective. Or even knowing that her cousin was well—or at least as well as could be expected—after such an evening.

Instead, Nora shared a room with Margaret who had more mind to speculate on what secrets an aging, reclusive duke might know about each and every of the wedding guests.

"The man is a menace," she'd said, brushing her hair. "It's not as if he's in the midst of the social season. He's hardly been to a supper party in years. How would he know anything about anyone?" With a frown, Margaret had attempted to draw Nora into a speculative conversation regarding which hidden truths they didn't already know. "George's gambling is no secret," she'd started, but her voice trailed away at Nora's lack of engagement.

Margaret had fallen asleep. Nora tossed and turned. Worried that her cousin was entering a den of wolves, she debated slipping into that bridal suite and whispering a plan for escape. Love be damned, she would say, and they might leave this awful place behind them. Better disgraced and unwed than face a lifetime of words like knives and poisonous sentiment. How anyone could survive living with a man like that, Nora could not fathom. Christ, she'd realized while watching the shadows play on the ceiling, and Jacob grew up here.

Caught between worry for her cousin and pity for the man who taken to haunting her thoughts, Nora wrestled with her thoughts until dawn broke into the room, and the servants footsteps through the manor made the floorboards sigh in protest. The flurry and bustle of final wedding day preparations sent the house into a whirlwind, and by then, any plans of escape were far too late.

Solemn and simple, the church in Whitehill had been draped in pale foxgloves, delicate lavender, and white roses to match the petite bouquet Caroline carried. Nora's father walked with her down the aisle of pews. Without her own father to give her away, Doctor Fane had been honored to stand in his stead. Smiling and proud, the old surgeon cried as he kissed her hand. George accepted her at the altar, his ruddy face solemn, with Lord Grey smiling at his side.

But that was where tradition ended.

Instead of the intimate family affair most of their peers enjoyed, the tiny chapel was packed with the guests staying at Leverett Hall and townspeople and well-wishers. The archbishop of Canterbury had replaced the village vicar, and, if rumor was to be believed, had accepted a handsome donation to officiate in such a locale.

The effect of it all was almost ethereal. Though the morning was gray with the promise of rain, a soft light set specks of dust aglow. When Caroline entered, dressed in an ivory and rose gown embroidered with the same blooms she carried, the congregation sighed. It was a dress far too grand for the country chapel, but the soft smile that she wore as accessory outshined any crown. The train snagged on the splinters of the old pew, but Caroline only laughed serenely and paused to untangle it.

The archbishop, wearing a ceremonial mantle that glittered with golden thread, read from the Book of Common Prayer in a stiff, practiced manner. His nasal voice held a pompous solemnity that would have been appropriate, perhaps, for the royal family, but seemed perfectly absurd in the over-crowded chapel. Caroline caught Nora's eyes and, as if they shared that same wicked though, smiled so beautifully that the congregation sighed again. George did not share the same light humor that set his bride aglow, but his voice was sure as he spoke, his hands were steady as he placed the ring at her finger.