Chapter Two

“You’ll never guess!” exclaimed a slightly out-of-breath Mrs. Lloyd a few days later. She set down two bags of shopping on the work top of the sunny kitchen of the two-storey grey stone house on Rosemary Lane that she shared with Florence Semble. Florence peered into one of the bags.

“No, I probably won’t guess,” Florence said, although she suspected what was coming. “So you’d better tell me.”

“Emyr Gruffydd is giving a dinner party!” Mrs. Lloyd announced with a hint of triumph in her voice. “It must be, oh, nine or ten years since there’s been a dinner party up at the Hall. Of course he’s not around nearly as much as he used to be, but still.” She rubbed her hands together with glee. “A dinner party! It’ll be the good old days all over again.”

“Oh, good, you remembered the lemon.” Florence pulled a lemon out of the shopping bag, rubbed her hand along its dimpled skin, and then set it aside. “I’ll need that later for my shortbread.” She returned her attention to the contents of the bag, then casually asked, “How do you know about the dinner party?”

“I hear things.”

“Of course you do. But where did you hear about the dinner party?”

“Someone behind me in the queue at the Co-op mentioned it. Apparently she works at the Red Dragon Hotel, and she said some of the staff had been asked if they wanted to earn a bit of extra money by working at a fancy do that’s going to be held up at Ty Brith Hall on the Remembrance Day weekend. And then the person ahead of me finished up and it was my turn to be served, so I didn’t get to hear any more.”

When Florence did not reply, Mrs. Lloyd gave her a piercing look. “You’re very quiet, Florence. Did you already know about this dinner party?”

“I might have done.”

“Well, why on earth didn’t you tell me? Really, that’s almost like a betrayal of our friendship. Now stop fussing with the shopping and sit down and tell me everything you know.”

Florence sighed. The minute Penny had approached her about taking charge of the cooking for the dinner party, she’d known Mrs. Lloyd would be a handful. She’d insist on knowing every detail, and even worse, seeing herself as she did as the centre of what passes for high society in Llanelen, she would expect an invitation. And if she didn’t get one, well, she’d be bitterly disappointed, things might get a bit tense in the charcoal-grey house on Rosemary Lane, and it was Florence who had to live with her.

The two women had met several years ago, and Mrs. Lloyd had invited Florence to come and live with her as her companion. Florence, who was eking out a grim retirement on a small pension in Liverpool at the time, had leapt at the chance to live in a tastefully decorated home with a spacious, well-equipped kitchen where she could indulge in her great love of cooking and baking. Florence adapted quickly to town life in Llanelen, making friends and teaching an old-fashioned cookery class to young mothers. She had been quietly appalled that many of them, raised on crisps and ready meals, barely recognized a vegetable, never mind knowing how to peel a potato or slice a carrot. But she was touched by their eagerness to learn how to prepare healthy, nutritious meals on a tight budget so they could do better for their own children than their mothers had done for them.

Florence poured hot water into the teapot to warm it, gave it a gentle swish, then tipped the water into the sink. She dropped two tea bags into the pot, poured hot water over it, replaced the lid, and set the pot on the table along with two cups on matching saucers and a plate of her homemade biscuits. As the minutes passed while they waited for the tea to steep, she ignored Mrs. Lloyd’s watching her through slightly narrowed eyes. A heavy silence hung over them until Florence finally gave the tea a brisk stir, removed the tea bags, and then poured it. Mrs. Lloyd added a splash of milk to her cup, then settled back in her chair and crossed her arms.

“Well, Florence, I’m waiting. Let’s hear it.”

“I knew you’d want to know every last detail, Evelyn, but I was asked not to mention the dinner, and I do respect confidences.”

“But surely they didn’t mean you weren’t to tell me!” That’s exactly who they meant I wasn’t to tell, thought Florence, smiling to herself. “And exactly who asked you not to mention the dinner party? And why were you told about it in the first place?” She emphasized the word you. “Well?” demanded Mrs. Lloyd. She unfolded her arms, laced her fingers together, and rested them on the table. “Well?” she repeated.

“Apparently Emyr’s giving this dinner party, and Penny asked me if I’d look after the food part of it. I’ll create the menu and cook some of it, with help from the hotel kitchen staff. For the preparation and plating and so on.”

“And what’s Penny got to do with it, I’d like to know.”

“Well, she’s planning it.”

“Penny’s planning a dinner party up at the Hall? Go on, pull the other one!”

“Well, yes, apparently she is. Emyr asked her if she’d organize the dinner party.”

“Well, look, Florence, we can do this the hard way or the easy way. You might as well go ahead and tell me everything you know.”

“Well, you’re going to hear all about it sooner or later,” admitted Florence. “Word will get out.”

“This is Llanelen, Florence,” said Mrs. Lloyd with an exasperated sigh. “The word is always out.”

And who helps it get out, I’d like to know, thought Florence. But she let that pass, and merely said, “I don’t know all that much about it myself, mind. I only know what I’ve been told.”

“Well, go on then. Tell me what you do know. I’m all ears. And don’t leave anything out.” Mrs. Lloyd leaned forward eagerly, hoping Florence knew more than she thought she did.

“Well, it sounds to me like they’re planning one of those fancy evenings at a country house like you see on telly. There’s meant to be an exhibit of World War 1 artefacts, including a special chair, and Victoria’s going to give a performance on her harp, and of course, there’s the dinner. But the menu hasn’t even been approved yet, and besides that, there’s really not much more I can tell you.”

“But you haven’t told me the most important thing!” Mrs. Lloyd exclaimed.

“What’s that?”

“Who’s invited?”

“Well, I don’t know, do I? I haven’t been told how many guests will be invited, so even if the menu had been approved and I knew what type of food to order, I wouldn’t know how much. The invitations will go out sometime in October, and after that, when the RSVPs come in and we know how many are coming, we’ll finalize the dinner details. I’ve been thinking they’ll want both beef and lamb, and probably a fish course. Or maybe not. They don’t do big, lavish dinners like they used to. How those Edwardian women managed to eat all that food and fit into those dresses with the tiny waists, I have no idea.” Her teacup made a little chinking sound as she replaced it in its saucer. “And now that you know as much as I do, I’d like to make a start on my baking, if that’s all right with you.”

“If you’re sure you’ve told me everything, then yes, by all means.” Mrs. Lloyd picked up her teacup and took a thoughtful sip. “I would say, though, Florence, that Emyr won’t have to worry too much about the RSVPs. Anyone lucky enough to be invited will most certainly be there. This dinner is going to be the highlight of the Llanelen social calendar, and everyone will want an invitation.”

Especially you, thought Florence.

*   *   *

By early October, Mrs. Lloyd was eagerly awaiting the arrival of each day’s post. At the sound of the letter slot in the front door snapping shut, she called out, “I’ll go,” and bustled to the hall to scoop up the envelopes scattered across the carpet. She riffled through them, tsking at the sight of an advertisement or a bill and setting them aside to deal with later.

“Something must have happened to my invitation,” she moaned to Florence after a few days of this morning ritual. “I know they’ve gone out, because I asked Bronwen and she told me that she and Thomas have received theirs. Could mine be lost in the post, do you think? Things do go missing in the post, you know. Every now and then you read in the newspaper about a letter posted from Margate or someplace like that in 1976 that finally got delivered. Lord only knows where it’s been all this time.” She peered anxiously at her friend. “Do you suppose that’s what happened to my invitation? That it somehow got lost in the post?”

“I’m sorry, Evelyn, but I really don’t know. I wouldn’t think so, though. The post office is very reliable these days, what with postal codes and automatic sorting machines and the like.” Florence hoped her response was tactful and kind without raising false hopes.

“I can think of one person who might know something about the invitations.” Mrs. Lloyd gave Florence a look involving a deeply furrowed forehead that came across as sly and pleading at the same time. “Do you suppose you could ask Penny, the next time you see her, if she knows whether I’ve been invited?”

“I’m not sure if Penny has anything to do with the actual sending out of the invitations,” Florence replied. “Someone in the estate office probably took care of that. And I very much doubt Penny has any say on the guest list. That would have been down to Emyr himself.”

Mrs. Lloyd sighed, and over the next few days her response to the arrival of the post slowed down, until finally she stopped checking altogether and it was left to Florence to once again collect the envelopes from the hall carpet.