Though the event was held on the grounds of Bedford Priory, the ladies of the committee met at the vicarage. The vicar’s wife, Mrs. Elaine Busby, was confined to a wheelchair after a dreadful automobile accident that had injured her and claimed the life of her daughter fifteen years before. She moved about quite easily in her chair, but Lady Alma thought it best that we meet at the vicarage and had tactfully argued that it was in a more central location than the Priory.
We had managed to get most of the planning done at prior meetings, and this was our final gathering before the festival. For most of the meeting, we simply enjoyed tea and idle chatter, drawing around to business matters only after the last of the biscuits had been consumed.
“The vendors are settled, and all of the food has been taken care of, I think?” Lady Alma looked at Mrs. Busby, who was overseeing that aspect of the planning.
She nodded. “It’s all settled. We’ll have the usual tea tent, which will serve refreshments periodically, as well as the various vendors who have chosen to set up booths with items for sale. I’ve spoken to everyone again this week. And then, of course, there will be tea following the races.”
They talked for a few minutes then about what sorts of food would be available—cakes; sausage; puddings; tarts; apple, cherry, and pear jellies and jams from local orchards—and my mind wandered. Truth be told, I was glad to be little more than a nominal member of the committee this year. Now that my pregnancy was nearing its end, it seemed that the strain of every task was multiplied.
“There are several new locals with wares for sale this year,” Mrs. Unger said as the conversation drifted to the other festival events.
“I know several ladies have spoken of entering the pickling competition,” Mrs. Norris put in.
“My husband will be offering pony rides to the children,” Mrs. Hampton reminded us. “And I believe Mabel will be telling fortunes.”
The door to the sitting room opened just then, and a young woman stepped into the doorway. It was Marena Hodges, one of the village girls. Her shoulder-length dark hair was windblown, and her cheeks were flushed from the cool breeze. Even the thick woolen jumper and mud-flecked leather boots she wore did nothing to diminish her prettiness and the elegance of her bearing.
“Oh, excuse me,” she said, casting her amber-colored eyes over the assembled guests before settling them on Mrs. Busby. “I didn’t realize that you had company, Aunt Elaine.”
“It’s quite all right, dear. You’re welcome to join us, if you like. We’re discussing the festival.”
A smile flickered across the girl’s face, and there was some mixture of amusement and complacency in it. Her eyes, though they moved about the room, had a faraway look in them, as though her mind were elsewhere.
“That’s kind of you, but, if you ladies will excuse me,” she said, “I’ve a few things to attend to. You know I shall be only too glad to help you on the day of the festival, of course.”
“I suppose I should be going as well,” Lady Alma said, rising from her chair with her habitual swiftness. I was reminded rather of one of her geldings clearing a hedge. “I like to visit my darlings before dinner.”
This was the committee’s cue to adjourn. One by one, the assembled women took their leave, until it was just Mrs. Busby and me alone in the little sitting room. For some reason, I felt disinclined to go. Perhaps it was only that rising from chairs was getting more difficult with each passing day.
But it was also true that there was something comforting about the warm little parlor. For as long as I could remember, I had always felt at peace when visiting the vicarage. I supposed it had as much to do with the Busbys themselves as with the homely atmosphere of this room. Mrs. Busby, with her silvery hair, warm brown eyes, and gentle spirit, was the picture of a grandmother any child would be glad to have.
“You look tired, Mrs. Ames,” she said as I worked to summon the effort to begin to rise from my chair. “Would you care for another cup of tea?”
I was prepared to refuse but thought better of it. I wouldn’t mind a few more minutes of company. After all, it was a good distraction from all the thoughts swirling through my head.
“That would be lovely. Thank you.”
Mrs. Busby refilled my teacup. Despite the limitations of her chair, she moved easily and with natural grace.
“I suppose you’ll be glad when the baby has arrived,” she said, stirring sugar into her own cup of tea. “I know the last month or two is always a great strain.”
I nodded, my hand straying to my stomach. “Though I must say, I shall miss feeling him so close to me.”
“Yes, that is a special time.” She looked wistful for a moment, and I felt a little as though I had made a faux pas. The Busbys had lost their only child, a daughter called Sara, in the accident that had confined Mrs. Busby to her wheelchair. Though I had not known them then, people often spoke of the way in which the vicar and his wife had borne the tragedy with strength and dignity. Their lives had changed immensely since the accident, but I had never known them to be discouraged. Nevertheless, I had noticed the way Mrs. Busby smiled, with just the faintest hint of sadness, when she interacted with the children of the village.
The sound of music filtered into the room, a rousing jazz piece. Marena had apparently turned on the radio in the room above us.
“I’m not sure if you’ve heard that Marena has been staying with us for the past few months?” Mrs. Busby asked.
“I heard something to that effect,” I answered honestly. Though I tried very hard not to participate in village gossip, it was nearly impossible not to glean bits and pieces of news.
Though she called her “Aunt Elaine,” Marena was not really Mrs. Busby’s niece. Marena’s mother, Mrs. Jane Hodges, was a rather grim local woman who lived in a cottage isolated from the village and had always seemed a good deal more concerned with the bees she kept than with her daughter.
In consequence, Marena had spent a good deal of time at the vicarage in her younger days and had been great friends with Sara. She had, in fact, been in the automobile with Mrs. Busby and Sara on the day of the accident.
After Sara’s death, Marena and the Busbys had remained very close, and Marena often spent time at the vicarage, doing her best to help Mrs. Busby adjust to life in a wheelchair.
“She and her mother have had another falling out.” She sighed. “I don’t know what to think of that woman. She doesn’t realize that the harder she pushes Marena, the farther away she’s going to drive her. It all started with Marena’s young man, Bertie. I knew that the more Mrs. Hodges objected, the stronger Marena’s attachment would be. That’s the way with young people, isn’t it? She should have just let the matter run its course.”
I wondered if that was why Marena had seemed so starry-eyed. She had been walking out as of late with Bertie Phipps, a young man who lived not far from Thornecrest. He’d often helped both Milo and Lady Alma at their stables, and I thought he seemed intelligent and keen to make something of himself. Perhaps the two of them had been building castles in the air together. Marena had always been a dreamy sort of girl.
“Well,” Mrs. Busby said brightly. “I just hope that the festival goes well. Mrs. Hodges will be there selling her honey, so perhaps she and Marena will be able to sort out some of their differences.”