Christopher's Medal (10 page)

The sudden burst of
The Wedding March
was an unpleasant intrusion into Grace’s musings. Everyone stood and waited as the bridesmaids began to file in, resplendent in kingfisher-blue taffeta. The bride followed, swathed in cream silk and lace. Her red hair gleamed softly in the morning light that fell through the high, arched windows of the chapel. When Emma reached the altar, Paddy and the vicar, everyone sat down.

Grace glanced at the order of service, thankful that it seemed considerably shorter than the dinner that had preceded it. While the vicar began the service, Grace looked for Christopher once more. The vicar’s words faded to a dull hum marked by the rhythm of the service, the ancient ritual of marriage older than the tiny chapel.

Christopher stared past the vicar, past the altar, to the stained glass window. The angel’s wings were outspread, its hands clasped together in prayer. Bored with the service, he thought of Grace. They had made love all night, between brief forays into sleep. He wondered how it was that he never tired of her, that he could never get enough of her. When she’d walked out of the bathroom in that dress, a floaty thing the color of willow leaves, he’d fought with a longing he could never hope to put into words. She’d pinned her hair up with an absurd little concoction of feathers. On any other woman it would’ve looked silly, on Grace, it looked right. He’d loved the way her eyes widened when she looked at him. He’d loved the scent of her when she’d bent to sort out his cufflinks. All Christopher had wanted to do was kiss the back of her neck, feel the silk of her skin beneath his lips. He would’ve happily locked the bedroom door and made love to her all day.

The string quartet sprang to life once more with a spirited introduction to
All Things Bright and Beautiful
. Behind Christopher, the congregation rose with a rustle of hymn sheets. The words of the old hymn filled the chapel, a ragged chorus of voices, some loud and out of tune, others hesitant and stumbling. One or two sang beautifully and in tune—it always seemed the same at any Church service, whether it was a wedding, a thanksgiving or a funeral. Christopher ventured a glance over his shoulder and sought Grace. She held the hymn sheet in both hands, her mouth formed the words and he wished he could hear her voice. Her bare shoulders were pale gold and he ached for a moment when he remembered how her skin felt beneath his fingers.

Everyone sat when the hymn was finished. The vicar found his voice once more.

“…my beloved spake and said unto me, Rise up my love, my fair one and come away. For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone…”

It always surprised him that there were beautiful snatches of poetry in the Bible, hidden away between turgid recitations of ‘begats’, battles and prophecies. For once, Christopher listened to the words and understood why the vicar used them. He was almost sorry when the recitation was over and the string quartet launched into the opening bars of
Morning Has Broken
. He wondered if the service was nearly over. He wanted to get back to Grace. He wanted the photographs and fuss and reception to be over. He wanted nothing more than to be alone with her again.

* * * *

It was a relief to be out in the sun once more. Grace followed Mark and his chair through the gossiping knots of guests to a space at the edge of the trees. The photographer held the wedding party hostage, working his way through every possible combination of people—the groomsmen standing together, all grins and sabers, the bride and her attendants clutching their bouquets of delphiniums and gypsophila, the beaming parents. The combinations seemed endless. Grace wasn’t particularly crazy about the photograph where a smirking Pippa leaned on Christopher. She watched his face carefully and was comforted by the awkwardness of his stance and thin smile.

Finally, the photographer released the wedding party and set about wandering through the guests taking random pictures. Grace watched Christopher stride toward her with a grin on his face.

“Thank Christ that’s over.” He took her hand and kissed her. “I swear if that bloody photographer comes anywhere near me again I’ll—”

“You’ll keep your temper.” Grace kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll run him over.” Mark pulled up beside them. “This bloody chair is good for some things.”

“That would be worth seeing.” Christopher tugged at his bow tie. “Let’s get this bloody reception over and done with. I’m stuck at the bloody top table.”

“I figured as much,” Grace sighed. She’d forgotten about the horrors of assigned seats. “I hate to think what yahoos I’ll be stuck with.”

“If worse comes to worse, we’ll do some card-swapping.” Mark wheeled ahead of them. “Come on, you two.”

“Is he behaving himself?” Christopher wound his fingers through hers. “He can be a bit of a handful.”

“He’s fine. He’s good company.”

“Don’t get too fond of him, Gracey. Mark may be stuck in that chair, but he can still turn on the charm when he wants to.”

“He can turn on the charm all he likes, it won’t work.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“What happened to him?”

“Landmine.” Christopher’s voice was a sigh. “We were on patrol and he stepped on a mine. I don’t know whether he was lucky he wasn’t killed or not. I’m not sure he thinks he was lucky. He used to be a hell of a rugby player. Now he can’t even bear to watch it. War sucks, Gracey.”

“Jesus.” Grace glanced ahead. Mark waited for them on the lawn. Someone was talking to him. A woman with a big hat, bent over with her hands between her knees, in the same posture a person would use when addressing a child. She supposed he had to put up with that all the time. He might have lost his legs, but Grace was certain he hadn’t lost his brains.

“He had a fiancé. She left him not long after he came back. Nothing like kicking a man when he’s down.”

“Bloody hell.”

“But, whatever you do, don’t feel sorry for him. Mark wouldn’t want that. He’s tired of people tip-toeing around him or patronizing him.”

“I can imagine.”

“Christ, you two don’t half dawdle.” Mark dismissed the woman by leaving her standing, slightly bewildered, on the lawn. “Let’s find this bloody marquee.”

A large, striped tent dominated the lawn. The front flap had been rolled up to take advantage of the warm day. Guests lingered on the grass, drinking and chatting while the caterers carried food on trays. A huge easel by the entrance held the seating arrangement.

“Well, that’s something, Miss Grace Webb.” Mark pointed at the lower left-hand corner of the painstakingly drawn chart. “We get to sit together.”

Grace peered over his shoulder. The top table was on the other side of the marquee. “Wow, talking about seating us below the salt.” She glanced at the arrangement of names at the top table. “I think I can guess who helped the bride draw this up.”

“Fucking hell, she didn’t did she?” Christopher’s hand tightened on her shoulder. His sigh ruffled her hair. “Bloody Pippa.”

“It looks to me like ‘Bloody Pippa’ wants you back.”

“Bloody Pippa isn’t going to get me back. She’s only changed her mind because I’ve risen in the ranks.”

“She’s that shallow?”

Mark laughed. “Oh yes, Miss Philippa Hawksworth-Marsters is that shallow.”

Guests filed past them into the marquee. A DJ, setting up in the corner, paused to tap on his mic before passing it to Emma’s father.

“Ladies and gentlemen, lunch is served.”

“Bugger.” Christopher sighed. “Let’s hope there aren’t seven bloody courses again.” His lips brushed hers. “I promise I’ll make it up to you, darling.”

The regret in his eyes was almost enough. “Yes, you will.”

* * * *

“You were certainly right about us being below the salt.” Mark picked the olives out of his salad.

Grace glanced around the table, which they shared with Paddy’s old nanny, Emma’s former ballet teacher and a confused old man who appeared to have been someone’s riding instructor.

“Yes. It appears that Pippa is a cow.” She glared across the marquee at the top table. Next to Christopher, Pippa was doing a reasonable impression of a coquette, complete with fluttering eyelashes and little pawing touches.

“Don’t let her get to you.” Mark murmured in Grace’s ear. “She’s doing all of this because she’s jealous. I bet as soon as she heard about you and Chris, she set her little scheme in motion.”

“Why?” Grace picked at her salad. “Why would she do that?”

“Well, apart from Chris being a captain, she’s probably put out that he’s seeing someone she feels isn’t ‘suitable’.”

“You mean someone from the lower classes.”

“Yeah.” He sipped his water. “Plus, now that she’s seen the two of you together, she’s not at all happy.”

“Because she’d have to get through me to get to Chris?”

“No, because she now knows she hasn’t a chance.” Mark grinned.

Grace hoped he was right. Her confidence wasn’t helped by Pippa’s constant invasion of Christopher’s space. There were still two more courses and the speeches to get through before they could decently escape. She tried to think beyond the reception, to home and peace and quiet. “I’m still finding it hard to believe they were ever an item.”

“It was a long time ago. You can’t tell me you haven’t done things you regret in your past.”

Grace thought of the dreadful, unsuitable boyfriends. The Cirencester College Estate Management graduates who’d be better off with the likes of Pippa. “I’ve made a few cock-ups.”

“I hope that pun was unintentional.” Mark smirked into his beer.

She laughed, earning a sharp glance from Paddy’s former nanny. Someone came and took the salad bowls away and someone else handed round plates of chilled salmon, tiny new potatoes and asparagus. Grace found herself wondering about the catering bill. The confused old man demanded tomato sauce while everyone else made do with the dill and lemon mayonnaise.

“Cheer up, Grace, at least the grub is good.”

She picked up an asparagus spear and nibbled at it. “It is, but I’d murder for pie and chips or a nice, spicy tikka masala and I bet Chris would like nothing more than a steak and a big pot of French mustard.”

“He’s still addicted to the stuff, eh?”

“Yes he is.” She watched Christopher push the potatoes around his plate while Pippa tried to make eating asparagus look seductive, tilting her head back slightly while she lowered it into her mouth.

Oh, please.

The toasts seemed interminable, especially to Grace who’d heard them all at the dinner table the night before. When the speeches were over, Emma’s father nodded toward the DJ.

“Christ, not the bridal dance.” Grace glanced at the top table, at Pippa who was already taking Christopher’s arm when Emma and Paddy took to the dance floor. “I don’t think I want to watch this.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll soon be over. You can both escape and never have to see Pippa again.”

“I’m sorry, Mark. I think I’m just letting my temper get the better of me, or the green-eyed monster.” Grace couldn’t help looking.

Pippa draped her arms around Christopher’s neck and rested her head against his shoulder.

“Poor lad,” Mark chuckled. “Just look at his face. He looks like he’s found a viper in his pocket.”

“That’s not a bad description.” Grace’s fingernails bit into her palms. “She’s about as subtle as a charging rhino.” She watched Pippa’s hand, watched her fingers tickle the back of Christopher’s neck. “What a bitch.”

He said something to her. Grace couldn’t read his lips, but his expression was enough. His eyes snapped with annoyance. Pippa laughed and her fingers stilled. The dance seemed to last an age and Grace shook with relief when it was over. The DJ immediately started with another song, another slow one. Christopher said something else to Pippa and left the dance floor.

“There, it’s over. You can unclench your fists now. He’s headed this way.”

Grace remained in her seat and watched Christopher weave his way between the tables toward her. His cheeks were flushed and his mouth was set in a grim line. Only when he bypassed the final table did his expression soften. Grace uncurled her fingers and managed a smile.

“Miss Webb, would you do me the honor of this one dance, before we get out of here?”

She rose. “I’d be delighted.” The warmth of his hand around hers was almost worth the annoyance of the meal when he led her back through the tables.

“God, I’ve missed you, Gracey.” Christopher’s arms settled around her waist when they reached the dance floor. “That was the longest fucking meal of my life.”

“Mine too.” Grace rested her head on his shoulder.

“This feels right.” He sighed into her hair. “This is how it should be.”

She hoped Pippa was watching. “Yes.” She let her fingers drift to the nape of his neck.

“Ah, Gracey. As soon as this dance is over, we’re getting out of here. If that’s all right with you. I just want to be alone with you.”

“I’d like that.”

Christopher’s lips were soft on her earlobe. “Can we get a takeaway and lock the door until Monday morning?”

“Yes, and I have a surprise for you.”