Higgins slouched down in the pew with a long suffering sigh. A morning wasted, when he could have finished reading The Philological Society’s meeting report from Cambridge. Or if it was a tad quieter, he might have been able to resume napping. But that was impossible. As expected, guests were being assaulted with thirty minutes of bagpiping before the ceremony.
Eliza frowned at the kilted man who stood to the right of the altar. “I’d like the bagpipes more if they weren’t so loud.”
“More like deafening.” Higgins tried not to cringe at the ear splitting wail. He shot a sympathetic look at the organist who sat motionless over his silent instrument. If the piper ever lost his breath, the poor chap might be allowed to play a few notes.
Late arriving wedding guests surged past to fill up the remaining church pews. Even without the bagpiper, there was no mistaking this for anything but a Scottish wedding. Small bouquets of purple heather and thistle looped across each pew’s wooden post, while swags of Clan Darroch tartan were draped over doorways, the organ bench, even beneath the white altar cloth. Higgins doubted if even Robert the Bruce had been as proud of his Scots heritage as Minerva. It was amazing that none of her three husbands had been of Scots origin.
“Why are weeds decorating the pews?” Eliza sneezed into her handkerchief.
“Thistle is Scotland’s national flower, and heather is a symbol of good luck. The Duchess is inundating us with Scottish customs today. Including the bridal cog.”
“What’s a bridal cog?”
“An alcoholic drink served in what looks like a wooden bucket with handles. The bridal couple drink from the cog before they pass it around to guests.” He looked at Eliza in surprise. “Didn’t you notice it sitting on that table in the church vestibule? We walked right past it.”
“I was too busy paying attention to the fishing basket out there.”
“Another Scottish wedding tradition,” his mother explained. “That one is called ‘creeling’. When the bride and groom are about to leave the church, two people bar their way by holding a fishing basket tied with a ribbon. The newlyweds cut the ribbon, allowing the basket to fall.” She shrugged. “It’s meant to being good luck. Although I have no idea why.”
“We should be thankful the Duchess isn’t going completely Scottish on us,” Higgins said. “Only Minerva and Farrow will drink the cog today, which means we shall be spared.”
“It has a most vile taste.” Higgins’s mother shuddered.
“I agree,” he said. “Usually she has the cog brought to the altar before the ceremony ends, and the couple drink it there. Wonder how Farrow will react to his first sip. Can’t imagine he’s looking forward to a warm brew of whiskey, ale, gin, and brandy. Egg, too.”
“What’s this about gin and brandy?” Farther down the pew, Rose Doolittle leaned over her husband. “I’d kill for a spot of gin right now. I’m sweating like a ditch digger.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Higgins. Professor.” A thin, middle-aged man wearing a disagreeable expression stood at the end of their pew. “Beastly hot day for a wedding. And I could have done without all this silly Scottish folderol.”
Not for the first time Higgins wished his niece Beatrice had found someone other than Clyde Winterbottom to marry. Then again, Beatrice was a plain featured woman of twenty-seven. It was common knowledge in the family that she feared spinsterhood far more than a dismal marriage. A pity she had not chosen someone more agreeable than this pompous museum curator. Higgins’s spirits sank at the prospect of attending their wedding later this month.
Higgins scanned the church. “Where’s Beatrice? Since you’re a friend of Ambrose Farrow, I assumed you’d be invited to the wedding. I expected to see my niece as well.”
He sniffed. “I am Mr. Farrow’s professional colleague, not his friend. And Beatrice had an appointment with the caterers at the Hotel Café Royal. She and her mother have more than enough to do preparing for our own wedding. No need to subject her to this nonsense.” He winced as the bagpiper let out an especially loud squeal. “If you’ll excuse me.”
As a guest of the groom, Winterbottom took his seat across the aisle. Higgins was grateful for that. He had no desire to spend any time in the fellow’s company.
Their chauffeur, Luther, suddenly appeared in the aisle. “Excuse me, miss, but you forgot this in the car.” He held out a delicate pink fan.
“Thank you so much.” Eliza accepted it from the driver with a grateful smile.
Tipping his hat, Luther walked back up the aisle. “Blimey, I’m glad the fellow has such a keen eye.” She fanned herself vigorously. “It’s so hot in here, we could roast chestnuts.”
Alfred Doolittle mopped his damp forehead. “If that piper plays ‘Flow Gently, Sweet Afton’ one more time, I’ll break his blowpipe in two like a stick of kindling.”
“There will be an improvement soon.” Mrs. Higgins gestured to the tall bearded man with auburn hair who sat on the organ bench. “Thaddeus Smith is much in demand this season at all the society weddings. He also plays occasionally at Chelsea Old Church for Sunday service.”
Higgins feared Smith’s talents would be lost here. St. Cuthbert’s acoustics were appalling. Still, the organist gazed approvingly at the large metal organ pipes set into a stone bay above the altar, as well as the smaller ones arrayed above the actual instrument. Now and then, Smith checked the stops, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing.
Pickering leaned forward from his seat on the other side of Mrs. Higgins. “I wasn’t aware Lady Winifred Ossler would be in attendance. And with a couple from India, too.”
They looked up to see a finely dressed woman walk down the aisle. In her peacock blue gown, feathered hat, and silver necklace boasting a sinuous bejeweled medallion, she seemed as stylish as Eliza. Trailing after her were an attractive couple who clearly hailed from India. The coffee-skinned man was garbed in a bronze satin coat with a matching turban atop his head; the young woman walking beside him boasted similar coloring. Her exotic beauty and pumpkin-hued sari drew numerous stares, as did the gleaming gold jewelry adorning her.
When she passed their pew, Lady Winifred caught sight of Pickering and seemed startled. He nodded, and she lifted a gloved hand in greeting before entering a pew on the groom’s side of the aisle. The Indian couple followed suit.
Eliza watched them with obvious delight. “I’ve never seen people dressed so gorgeously. The young man and woman look like royalty.”
“They must be friends of Lady Winifred,” Pickering replied. “Her husband is Sir Ian Ossler, a baronet and Lieutenant General in His Majesty’s Army. He’s been stationed with the Bombay regiment for thirteen years. When Lord Curzon was Viceroy, Ossler became one of his most trusted aides. Before that, he was posted to South Africa. Both he and Winifred were in Mafeking during the siege and have hair-raising stories to tell about their experience there.”
“They sound like an interesting pair,” Higgins said.
“I’ve been to their home in Bombay many times. They set an excellent table, and the dinner conversation is first-rate.”
Higgins chuckled. “That means they spend a lot of time talking about Sanskrit.”
“Indeed they do. And there are few people in the Colony who have such an appreciation for art and antiquities.” Pickering looked over at Lady Winifred. “I’d heard she returned to England this past year, only our paths haven’t crossed. Now I’m glad my Sanskrit conference in Bristol was canceled this weekend. We’ll be able to catch up at the wedding reception.” He looked up. “Here now. What’s this?”
A young boy and girl dressed in red and green tartan began to march down the aisle. They held the wooden bridal cog between them. From their anxious expressions, Higgins suspected the children were worried they might drop it. The sexton waiting for them at the altar seemed just as nervous and took charge of it as soon as they reached him. Mercifully, the bagpiping ceased. The silence was exquisite.
“The wedding cog,” the sexton announced in a booming voice and raised it high.
“Where’s he going with it?” Eliza asked when he disappeared through a side door.
“Probably taking it to the vestry,” Higgins said.
“At Her Grace’s second wedding, the best man accidentally knocked it over during the vows,” Mrs. Higgins said. “Minerva wants it safely out of the way until the end.”
The organist unleashed a sweeping melodic phrase. Even with the poor acoustics, the fellow managed to produce a most harmonious sound.
“Thank heaven all that bagpiping is over,” Rose Doolittle muttered.
Higgins enjoyed the ‘Air’ from Handel’s ‘Water Music,’ and almost crowed in delight when Thaddeus Smith segued into Bach’s ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.’ One of Higgins’s favorites, he approved of the masterful rendering by the organist.
Eliza leaned across Mrs. Higgins. “Could you introduce me to the Indian couple, Colonel? If they’re friends of Lady Winifred, she’s certain to include them in your conversation. I’d love a closer look at the Indian woman’s jewelry. She even has a gold pin in her nose.”
Pickering smiled. “That’s a symbol of a bride’s purity. And the pendant she’s wearing on her forehead is placed over a chakra, one of seven, signifying knowledge and perception.”
“I’ve never seen such a pretty dress and veil.”
“The dress is called a sari,” he told her. “All women in India wear one.”
Mrs. Higgins snapped open her fan. “Colonel, if I’d known you were so well acquainted with Lady Winifred, I would have invited you both to tea months ago. She’s the person responsible for introducing Beatrice to Mr. Winterbottom.”
Higgins snorted. “She deserves to be punished for that. Why have I never heard of her?”
"Why should you? Being an Army wife, she’s lived abroad for many years. I know Winifred through her father. He and my brother were quite good friends. A pity she and Sir Ian never had children. They always seemed a most agreeable couple.”
“I’d no idea she introduced your niece to Mr. Winterbottom,” Pickering said. “Then again, on the subcontinent she’s known as ‘The Matchmaker.’ Second and third daughters of good families are often eager to wed officers serving in India. Winifred has enjoyed remarkable success introducing the right woman to a suitable young man.”
Mrs. Higgins nodded. “Her matchmaking efforts have borne fruit here as well. And not just with Beatrice and Mr. Winterbottom. Minerva told me that Lady Winifred introduced Mr. Farrow to her shortly after he arrived from America.”
“Don’t know how good a matchmaker she is, but the lady seems up to date on the Paris fashions,” Eliza said. “The lace on her cuffs and collar look to be Chantilly, and authentic, too.”
Higgins raised his eyes to the stone-and-timber arched ceiling. “Enough. All weddings are dull affairs. But talking about fashion will make this one even duller.”
“Hush, Henry,” his mother said. “The groom has appeared.”
Ambrose Farrow now emerged from the vestry area to the right of the altar, accompanied by a plump, dark-haired man. Both looked uncomfortable in their morning coats. Higgins didn’t blame them, especially in this summer heat. Fiddling with the sprig of heather pinned to his lapel, Farrow glanced at the door several times. Higgins wondered if he was anxious for a first glimpse of his bride – or an unwelcome appearance by his mistress.
The parish vicar, a balding man with gold-rimmed spectacles clamped to the bridge of his nose, adjusted the tippet over his white surplice. He joined Ambrose Farrow and his best man as the opening notes of Wagner’s ‘Wedding March’ boomed from the organ pipes.
“Mr. Farrow looks quite dashing,” Eliza murmured. “Only he seems as nervous as a cat ready to jump off a tall fence.”
Higgins shrugged. “Aren’t all grooms nervous?”
“His best man seems calm,” Mrs. Higgins said. “Who is he?”
“No idea. Probably another art gallery owner in London.”
A stir in the church signaled the bride had made her first appearance. The entire congregation rose to their feet.
The Duchess of Carbrey started down the aisle with a huge smile on her face. Minerva seemed as radiant as a bride of nineteen. One would never guess this was the sixty-year-old matron’s third marriage. She looked at least ten years younger, with only a few strands of gray in her ash-brown hair. And her corseted figure was still slim but womanly. Given her age and marital history, the Duchess had eschewed a white bridal gown and instead wore a forest green dress adorned with a Clan Darroch tartan sash and matching hat. Clasped in her hands was a lush bouquet of white lilies mixed with tufts of purple heather.
Before her walked the matron of honor, whom Higgins recognized as the Duchess’s daughter Mary. Her buxom figure encased in navy silk, Mary appeared somber. A small bouquet of heather shook between her gloved hands. He suspected she was less than pleased to see her mother wed yet again, especially to a much younger man. No doubt the Duchess’s two sons felt the same way; neither was in attendance. It could explain why a doddering white-haired and kilted Scotsman escorted the bride down the aisle. Probably an uncle or a brother.
To accommodate her elderly escort, the Duchess walked at such a sedate pace, they almost came to a standstill. Higgins glanced at the groom during this interminable march. The fellow seemed so restless, he wouldn’t have been surprised to see Farrow break into a jig.
At long last the couple reached the altar. “Thank you, Uncle Angus,” the Duchess said loudly before kissing his wrinkled cheek. “You can sit down now, dearest.”
The old gentleman cautiously lowered himself on the first pew to the left, as if grateful he’d made it that far without keeling over on the stone floor. The matron of honor watched Uncle Angus in concern. Higgins wondered if the family expected the old fellow to up and die during the ceremony. Exactly how old was Uncle Angus?
Once the organ’s echoing notes faded away, the vicar cleared his throat. “Welcome to St. Cuthbert’s. I am Reverend Robert Macpherson. As second cousin to Her Grace, I have been asked to preside over the wedding. We are gathered here today to honor the sanctity of marriage. A holy institution, one not lightly entered into...”
As the vicar droned on about the virtues of marriage, Higgins stopped listening. Instead his attention focused on the bridegroom, who grew more agitated by the minute. While the bride gazed at the vicar, Farrow kept throwing glances over his shoulder. Maybe Pearl Palmer would make a surprise appearance after all.
“I think he’s shaking,” Eliza whispered.
She was right. Every so often, Farrow rubbed nervously at his cheek. When he did, his hand visibly trembled. At last Reverend Macpherson turned his attention on the groom.
“Do you, Ambrose Earl Farrow, take this woman, Lady Minerva, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
The Duchess looked at her intended groom with frank adoration. Farrow stared back at her, his mouth open as if to speak. Nothing came out. Instead he stepped back. His best man gently pushed him forward once again.. The vicar started to repeat the words, but Farrow interrupted.
“No, I’m—I—I cannot do this,” he stuttered. “Forgive me, Minerva. I’m sorry.”
“What—what are you saying?” Her rosy cheeks lost all color.
He took a deep breath. “I cannot in good conscience marry you.”
Gasps arose from the wedding guests as the Duchess’s daughter dropped her bouquet.
“It’s not that I don’t love and adore you, of course.” His voice cracked, and he tried to steady himself. “Our difference in age—it’s too much. I can’t do it.”
His bride stared at him. “Have you lost your mind? This is madness!”
“I can’t marry you.” His voice rose to a shout. “It wouldn’t be fair to either of us!”
“Bloody hell,” Higgins muttered. He glanced at his companions in the pew. Both Eliza and his mother looked stunned. Pickering shook his head in disbelief.
For a long excruciating moment, the Duchess regarded her groom in obvious horror and shock. “You aren’t serious. You can’t be!”
Farrow now ran both hands through his thick hair. Higgins suspected he might start tearing it out by the roots. “Forgive me, Minerva. But it would be wrong for us to marry. Surely you see that.”
With a despairing cry, the Duchess struck him across the face with her bridal bouquet. Ambrose Farrow stumbled backwards, but there was no escape from his enraged bride.
“Scoundrel! Blackguard! Deceitful bastard!” The Duchess screamed at her cowering groom, beating him about the head until her bouquet was nothing but shredded leaves and bare stems. No one in the bridal party – or the church – dared get in the way.
“I guess I was wrong,” Higgins said. “Not all weddings are dull affairs.”
The church erupted into noise and confusion. Higgins, Eliza, his mother, and Pickering rushed up the aisle to help her. But Eliza doubted anything they said would comfort the distraught bride. If only Ambrose Farrow had broken the news privately to her before the ceremony. Foolish man. Eliza thought he deserved all the verbal and floral abuse he’d gotten from the Duchess. Of course, the poor woman’s rage didn’t last long. Once her bouquet lay in pieces, the Duchess had taken refuge in her daughter’s arms and wept uncontrollably.
Uncle Angus, who’d inexplicably napped during the excitement, awoke in time to see his niece being comforted by her daughter and an obviously unsettled vicar. The white-haired Scotsman struggled to his feet. “Eh? Is she nae wed then?”
When the Duchess saw him, she fell into his embrace next and left her daughter to seek comfort from the vicar. For some reason, the bagpiper decided to play again, which only added to the din. No doubt irritated that the piper had taken center stage, Thaddeus Smith gathered up his organ music and stormed out of the church.
Eliza noticed one of the ushers sipping from a silver flask. She wouldn’t have minded a drink herself. Certainly the groom needed one. Cradling his head in his hands, Farrow sat on the altar steps as one guest after the other harangued him. Meanwhile Higgins, his mother, Pickering, and Eliza kept the agitated guests away from the bridal couple. That included Eliza’s father, who was spoiling for a fight.
Alfred tried to punch the groom. “How dare you insult the Duchess!”
Eliza grabbed him by the collar and held him back. “Don’t make things worse,” she hissed. “We don’t want to turn this into a blooming brawl.”
“C’mon, Alfie, let’s go.” Rose yanked him away from Eliza. “If there’s no wedding, there ain’t no breakfast neither. Which is a bleeding shame, seeing we had to pay for all that petrol to drive out here.”
“All right then.” Doolittle straightened his collar. “But if I ever sees that Farrow bloke again, I’ll smash his pretty face. And I don’t know why I shouldn’t give him one good kick in the arse before I take my leave.”
Like a white-haired angel, Colonel Pickering came to the rescue. “Please restrain yourself, Alfred. We don’t want to upset Her Grace more than she already is.”
They glanced at the Duchess, now being comforted by Higgins and his mother. Accompanied by the wailing strains of the bagpipe, the Colonel quickly escorted Alfred and Rose out of the crowded church.
Just as Eliza breathed a sigh of relief, the best man came to stand beside her. “Dreadful mess, isn’t it?” he said.
“Never imagined a wedding could turn out so awful.” She gave the man a penetrating look. “Did you know Mr. Farrow planned to jilt his bride?”
“Good grief, no. I never would have entered the church if I’d known. It was beastly, standing at the altar while Her Grace was humiliated. I’m mortified to have played any part in this at all. That’s what I get for agreeing to be best man for a fellow I barely know.”
“You and Mr. Farrow aren’t friends?”
“No more than acquaintances. I own the antiquarian bookstore next to Ambrose’s gallery in Mayfair. We’ve shared a meal a time or two, and sometimes visited each other’s businesses. To be honest, I was surprised he asked me to be his best man. Then he explained that most of his friends lived in America, and it seemed unkind to turn him down.” He blushed. “Forgive me, I should have introduced myself. I am Milton Ellery York.”
“Eliza Doolittle. Friend of the bride, although I’ve met Mr. Farrow a few times. I rather liked him before today. I only wish he’d acted on his misgivings earlier.”
“Yes. Waiting for the vicar to speak the vows is cutting it too close.”
The aforementioned vicar tapped Mr. York on the shoulder. He gestured towards the groom, still hunched over on the altar steps. “Best get him out of here. I’m afraid one of the guests may attack him. Three have already tried.”
York went to kneel beside Farrow. “Ambrose, I think it’s wise to leave. I’d hate to see you hurt by one of Her Grace’s friends or relatives.”
“Leave me alone!”
“You did what you thought was right,” he continued. “At least you had the courage to be honest. But most people here are rather angry.”
Farrow groaned. “I don’t blame them. I’ve made a damned mess of everything.”
The Duchess suddenly noticed Ambrose hadn’t left. She stabbed a finger at him. “Why is that cad still here? How dare he breathe the same air? Get him out! I can’t bear the sight of such a scoundrel!”
Higgins threw Eliza a helpless look as he patted the Duchess on the shoulder.
Most of the wedding guests still milled about the church. Some of them wore dangerous expressions and stood too close to the altar. “Reverend Macpherson, is there anywhere in the church where Mr. Farrow can stay until the guests have left?” Eliza asked. “If he goes near the front door, there might be an unpleasant scene.” She paused. “Or a lynching.”
The vicar gazed at the excitable throng. “I fear you’re right, miss.” He turned to Farrow and his best man. “Take Mr. Farrow to the vestry and stand guard at the door. I shall do my best to disperse the congregation.”
Farrow finally got to his feet, although his legs seemed shaky. He looked as miserable as the Duchess. “I can’t take any more of this wedding. And it’s unspeakably warm. I would kill right now for a drink. I want to leave!”
“Soon, Ambrose.” York led the groom to the vestry just off the altar. Once Farrow closed the vestry door behind him, his best man blocked the entrance and kept a nervous eye on the commotion in the church.
The vicar halted any angry guests who approached. “Leave him be. It’s over now, go on.”
This whole thing reminded Eliza of a suffragette rally that had gotten out of hand. But with Ambrose Farrow gone, the crowd’s anger lost its focus. Muttering complaints, the guests exited the church. Eliza walked over to the distraught Duchess.
“Someone should take Her Grace home,” Eliza murmured to Higgins’s mother.
For the first time since she had known her, Mrs. Higgins’s habitual calm was shaken. “How ghastly. That awful man.”
As though she had heard Higgins’s mother, the Duchess cried out, “If I had my riding crop with me, I’d thrash the pig until he begged for mercy!”
Higgins wore a familiar stubborn expression. Eliza knew he was about to take action. “Send for Her Grace’s car. I’m taking her back to Rowan Hall.”
“Let me retrieve my parasol,” Eliza said. “I left it in the pew.”
He shook his head. “Best if you stay here while we leave. I need you to make certain Mr. Farrow does not show his face until I’ve gotten the Duchess into her car.”
Mrs. Higgins touched Eliza on the arm. “He’s right, dear. We’ll go back with Minerva. You can follow in our chauffeured car.”
With a heavy heart, she watched their departure. The remaining guests trailed after them. In only a few moments, no one was left in the church save Eliza, the vicar, the piper, the best man guarding the vestry door, and Uncle Angus. The old man had somehow nodded off again in the front pew, despite the blooming bagpiper still wailing away.
“Could you get the piper to stop, Reverend?”
“I’ll try. But I may have to puncture his bag.”
Eliza examined the remains of what should have been a joyous wedding. Church programs lay tossed on the stone floor while several thistle swags had fallen off the posts. A sad end for such a promising morning. She sank down on a pew. She couldn’t imagine being rejected at the altar by her bridegroom. If Freddy pulled something like that, Eliza would punch him in the jaw. Then she’d let her dad finish him off. Maybe it wasn’t so surprising, however. Ambrose was a handsome fellow in his early thirties, and the Duchess of Carbrey a woman nearly twice his age. Ambrose also had a young mistress who begged him not to marry only an hour before.
With the bagpiper silenced, Eliza could finally hear how quiet it had grown, both inside and outside the church. Best follow Higgins’s advice and send Ambrose Farrow on his way. She signaled the vicar. Both of them walked to the vestry door, still guarded by the best man.
“Time to set our nuptial prisoner free.” Reverend Macpherson opened the door.
The vicar stepped back to let Eliza enter the vestry first. Once inside the small room, she noticed several vestments draped over a wooden chest, along with a polished table holding a collection plate and communion vessels. But there was no sign of the reluctant groom.
“Mr. Farrow?” she called. Was there another way in or out? If so, she didn’t see one. Then again, the vestry windows were small and made of stained glass. Given the cloudiness of the day, little light shone through. “Are you here, Mr. Farrow?”
“Good Lord!” The vicar pointed to a crumpled shape half hidden by the wooden chest. The best man gasped in shock.
Ambrose Farrow lay face down on the floor.
Eliza rushed to kneel beside the groom, who hadn’t moved or made a sound since they entered. “He must have fainted. The stress of the wedding was too much.”
“What’s this?” York picked up a wooden object from the floor.
“The bridal cog,” she said. “It held some sort of ale mixture.”
“He said he was thirsty.” The vicar sniffed the cog. “Given the potent contents, he may have imbibed a bit too much. He probably passed out drunk. We’ll turn him over and sit him up. He’ll soon recover.”
But Eliza felt a wave of fear. She’d seen her father drunk and unconscious many times. He never looked like this. As if frozen, Farrow lay on the cold stone floor, one shoulder twisted, his right arm at an unnatural angle. York and Reverend Macpherson rolled Farrow onto his back.
“He’s dead.” She was barely able to get the words out.
“Impossible!” York shook the unresponsive Farrow while the vicar crossed himself. The best man turned to Eliza. “What happened? I don’t understand. How did he die?”
However, it seemed obvious to Eliza. Someone poisoned the Scottish wedding drink.