Misleading Engagement. Marjorie Lewty
not this time, she thought with a wry grin as she unlocked it, threw in the holdall and jacket and set out to drive to the Brent residence, a few miles away, where the reception was to be held.
She did not turn into the drive, but found a place to leave her car further along the lane beside the high wall which surrounded the grounds, and walked back to where a large marquee had been put up on the lawn of the impressive mansion of Sir William Brent.
It was hot inside, with an overpowering smell of flowers and cut grass. Two long trestle-tables indicated that the meal was to be a buffet, and maids from a catering firm were bustling about with plates and glasses. The food would no doubt be brought from the house at the last minute.
Anne enquired of an older woman who seemed to be in charge of the proceedings where the wedding cake would be placed, so that she could position herself out of the way but at the best angle to record the cutting of the cake and the speeches. She found a corner to place the microphone and waited for the next stage of the proceedings. She was beginning to feel tired and very hot. She would be thankful when it was all over.
The parents were the first to arrive, followed by the bride and groom, and a line was formed to welcome the guests. Last lap! Anne told herself.
Soon the marquee was full of people, and the smell of expensive perfume mingled with that of flowers and the delectable goodies on trays which the maids were carrying in and laying out on the tables. Champagne followed in buckets of ice, and lastly the cake, a glorious pyramid of dazzling whiteness. The sound of talk and laughter rose and fell and finally rose in a crescendo as the bride pretended that she had to be helped by her husband to cut the cake.
Anne was working mechanically when it came to the speeches, and as soon as they were over she parked her camera and tripod with her holdall and jacket in a comer of the marquee and found her way out into the cool air. There was a garden seat under a clump of trees quite close and she sank down onto it, closed her eyes and lifted her face to the refreshing breeze.
She wasn’t aware of a tall figure approaching across the grass. ‘Hello, Miss Grey.’
Anne’s eyes flew open to see the best man standing before her, a plate in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other. He held the glass out to her. ‘A peace offering,’ he said.
Her earlier resentment had faded, the memory of it erased by the moment when his eyes had looked into hers so closely—so intimately, it had seemed—through the lens of her camera.
‘Oh! Oh, thank you,’ she murmured weakly. She felt absurdly shy and lowered her face over the glass as she took a long drink of the blessedly cold champagne. ‘That’s lovely.’
He sat down beside her. ‘I thought you looked as if you needed it. I’d no idea that recording a wedding involved such hard work.’ He still wasn’t smiling but his tone was friendly now. ‘And I did my best to make things more difficult for you,’ he added wryly. ‘Please have some cake as an indication of your forgiveness.’ He put the plate on the seat between them.
Anne tried to think of something concise and witty to say in reply, but the words didn’t come. Instead she smiled at him through her large glasses and took a bite of the delicious wedding cake.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now all debts are settled.’ He leaned back in the wooden seat. ‘Have you finished your labours yet?’
This was easier. She chased a crumb of cake round the plate and said, ‘Not quite. I still have to wait for the bridal couple to leave for their honeymoon. Then I can pack up and go home. But there will be at least twelve more hours to spend on editing the tapes. I’ll wait for tomorrow to tackle that.’
He nodded. ‘You’d better keep an eye on the goings-on inside. I don’t suppose Andrew and Liz will hang about long; they’ve got to drive to Dorset. Andrew has a cottage and a boat there. They plan to spend their honeymoon cruising round the Greek Islands and I think they want to make a start today.’
Anne drank the last drops of her champagne and put the glass down on the empty plate between them. ‘What a lovely idea.’ She stood up. ‘Thank you for the sustenance and the kind thought, Mr...’
‘Rayne,’ he said. ‘Mark Rayne.’
As he rose she smiled up at him. He was very tall; if only he would smile he would be really handsome, she thought. She knew he could smile. The photograph in the newspaper had shown him smiling beatifically at his lovely fiancé. Perhaps it was because she wasn’t here with him that he looked so gloomy.
‘Well, thank you again, Mr Rayne,’ she said, turning to go.
‘It was the least I could do,’ he replied gravely.
There was a spring in Anne’s step as she hurried back into the marquee. She hated to be on bad terms with anyone, and Mark Rayne had apologised very handsomely even if he couldn’t manage a smile.
The bridal couple were no longer in the marquee; they must have gone into the house to change before leaving. Anne collected her camera and tripod and made her way round to the front of Sir William Brent’s impressive Neo-Gothic mansion. At the foot of a long flight of steps an open car, a Mercedes, was pulled up. Other expensive-looking cars lined the forecourt and the overflow was parked diagonally down the wide drive. She set up her tripod in a spot beside the long, shiny bonnet of the car and hoped for the best.
Very soon the guests began to drift out of the marquee and stand around the car and up the steps, but they were all too polite to push in front of her. It seemed a long wait, but at last the chatter died down and bags of confetti were produced as the small party from the house came down the steps. Anne swivelled her camera round and got a marvellous view of the bride, dressed now in a honey-coloured suit that matched her hair, which hung round her pretty face like a golden halo as it caught the sunlight. Her husband, in a lightweight suit, was beside her, and next to him the best man, Mark Rayne, with the parents and close relatives.
Anne felt rather absurdly conscious of him as he took his place on the bottom step, almost by her side. He looked down at her as she lifted her head for a moment and nodded. She would have liked to move away, but of course that wasn’t possible.
Confetti was falling like rain all over the car now. People were calling out, kissing, laughing, but at last the bridegroom helped his bride into the passenger seat of the car and climbed in behind the wheel. Anne kept her eyes glued to the camera. That was a most beautiful shot of the bride. She looked so blissfully happy as she lifted her face towards her new husband. Already Anne was composing the end of the video in her mind.
Then—suddenly—something hit her on the head, and she looked up, startled, and saw what had happened. The bride had thrown her bouquet high in the air and it had landed on—of all people—the woman taking the video. Anne clutched it, her cheeks scarlet, as everyone laughed. She caught a whiff of the lilies of the valley as she threw it back into the crowd.
She felt a touch on her arm and heard Mark Rayne murmur, close to her ear, ‘I noticed you were wearing a ring. That should speed matters up.’
She was disturbingly conscious of the feeling of his hand on her bare arm. He had beautiful hands, she noticed, the fingers strong and sensitive. She gave him a tremulous little smile before she turned back to her camera, and although he still wasn’t smiling she thought she detected a wicked glint in his dark eyes.
The car drew away to cheers and calls of good wishes and showers of confetti. Anne made her way hastily back to the marquee and packed her gear into the holdall. By the time the guests began to filter back, ready for more food and drink and socialising, she was on her way down the drive, making quickly for her car—and home.
She drove slowly along the country lanes. After a large wedding like this her head seemed full of moving pictures, and it took her a while to return to the real world. One picture kept coming back again and again—the face of Mark Rayne, the enigmatic best man. She would never see him again, except on video, when she edited the tapes, but it wasn’t a face she would easily forget.
CHAPTER