What bird-witted goosecap would find Marcus unworthy?
She was about to interrogate further but The Unicorn inn came into view.
Two lines of guests stretched out from the ribbon-strewn door and waited for the bridal couple who’d been obliged to tarry in the church and sign the registry.
Amongst the babble and excitement, she and Marcus joined a line.
Everyone wore their Sunday best: velvet bonnets and beaver hats, finest woollen skirts and worsted waistcoats, although many a sturdy boot could be spied beneath an elegant petticoat trim as the roads were icy.
The duke’s attire was pristine, of course. Top boots were shined to a mirror, fawn buckskins held not a crease, and his cravat was white as frost.
Cheers and applause erupted as the happy couple at last arrived on a hay cart. Soft heather and glossy laurel were tied to the wooden slats and even the stout workhorse had green ribbons twined in his mane.
The groom with his boyish looks descended, cheeks ruddy as he held forth slender arms for his bride.
With brown pretty curls and bright-blue eyes, Kitty tumbled into them with a laugh and a kiss.
Whoops abounded, along with some rather ribald suggestions from the farmhands, so the bride drew away with a blush, keeping a death grip upon her new husband’s hand.
One could tell her dress and coat were patched but the fresh ribbons that curled her hair, the white lace at her cuffs and the sheer jubilation that shone in her eyes meant it mattered not a jot.
The morn sky was a hoary grey but all were in high spirits as the wedded couple embarked down the corridor of beaming well-wishers and old women casting herbs for luck, to arrive at the decorated door, applause heralding their entrance to the inn. Guests followed suit, a lengthy line of stamping feet and empty stomachs.
“I should not be here,” growled the duke. The plank of wood was no longer quite such a plank but more akin to a wind-blown oak as he leaned near. “This is for the townsfolk.”
“There are other gentry here,” assured Charlotte, “and I told townspeople to tell other townspeople to all ignore you. We are merely here to bear witness to the wedded couple’s happiness.”
Removing his hat, he scowled but dipped his head to pass beneath the inn’s lintel before a barmaid showed them to a finely laid table.
“This is not ignoring me,” he groused, as although the wedded couple and family were seated at tables, most of the townsfolk had to make do and stand.
More guests piled in and soon it was chock-full: lads perching on the stairs, Dinah and her friends giggling in the corner, the handful of local gentry discussing horseflesh at the bar.
This inn was said to be the oldest in town, and acorns together with horseshoes to gather luck had been added to the usual dried hops hanging from the low beams.
At the clang of a pan lid by the beaming but exhausted-looking landlady, a host of kitchen lads brought forth the food: game pies with golden crusts curled in perfection; a roast of the local Herdwick Hogget sheep – somewhere between tender lamb and strong-flavoured mutton; a vast curled sausage spiced with pepper and nutmeg; Windermere char fish; thin oat clap-breads; and roasted chestnuts.
A sizeable game pie was placed upon their table, along with roast potatoes and bread sauce.
Charlotte nigh slavered at the sight but felt a nudge to her side.
“The guests are dropping coin into a pot on the newly-weds’ table. What’s that about?”
She frowned. “As in the old Lakes tradition, the couple have asked for money not presents.”
“Hah,” the plank muttered. “And you claimed that glossy guineas mattered not.”
“Don’t be preposterous, Marcus. I meant they should not be…not be what defines us.”
“Well, I say it’s not right of them to take money from relatives and townsfolk and then spend it on hell knows what. Even poor Blind Will has put coin in.”
Charlotte blinked.
Surely he knew?
MARCUS HELPEDhimself to the Ambleside baker’s magnificent game pie that had never been matched by his London chef, despite the additions ofmangetoutandherbes de Provence.
Maybe those additions were where he was going awry.
