The Windsor Knot (5 page)

Elizabeth nodded.

“But you’re getting married
where?”

“Chandler Grove, Georgia.”

“You’re not from Georgia.”

“Used to be,” said Elizabeth. “My parents moved away when I was in high school, so I don’t really have any friends in the town where they live.”

“Why not here at the university where your friends are?”

“No. I couldn’t possibly manage all the arrangements by myself. Besides, if I were here, I’d be distracted by work in the department.”

“That seems unlikely,” said Jake, nodding toward the pile of books on the royal family. “But why not get married in Scotland?”

“Would
you
know where to find a caterer in Scotland? No? Well, neither would I. Believe me, my aunt Amanda is the only person in the world who could stage a formal wedding on such short notice, and
she’s
in Chandler Grove. Besides, I’d trust Georgia’s weather over Scotland’s any day.”

“Okay. Never mind that’s it a six-hour drive for all of
us
. We’ll carpool. Just don’t expect us to wear morning coats.”

“Kilts will do.” Elizabeth grinned.

“About that ceremonial headdress …”

“Business suits will be fine, Jake.”

“So that’s settled. As I see it, you have just one more problem.” Jake looked grave. “Have you told the Big Zee about all this?”

“No,” said Elizabeth faintly. “I had forgotten all about him.”

“Lucky you,” said Jake.

The Big Zee, as department chairman Ziffel was known to his staff, was a man of little imagination and less humor. He would not be amused—or even civil—about Elizabeth’s proposed defection from her duties as an instructor for the summer term. “And remember that you’ve got to face him for your orals this fall,” Jake added ominously. “You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t pass
your
skull around the room for analysis.”

Elizabeth looked close to tears. “It’s only one
morning course,” she said piteously. “Eight
A.M.
Any of us could teach it.”

“Yeah, but Mary Clare is gone for the summer, and I’ve agreed to play racquetball every morning with Laura Williams—oh, no. Don’t look at me like that. I need this exercise, and besides, Laura Williams—” He sighed. “All right. I’ll teach the damned course for you. But
you’re
going to have to tell Ziffel.”

Elizabeth nodded. “That’s nothing,” she said. “I’m going to have to tell Milo.”

Jake patted her shoulder. “Oh, yes. The old boyfriend. Don’t worry, kid. He’ll get over it. How do
you
feel?”

“Very much like Cinderella,” said Elizabeth. “I have a lot of messy jobs to do before I can go to the ball.”

I
T HAD NOW
been several days since Cameron Dawson had become a groom-to-be, and he was beginning to feel comfortable with the idea. Upon reflection, he decided that he rather liked the fact that Elizabeth cared so passionately about things. Enthusiasm was something he generally lacked, having always been a bit of a plodder. He found it intoxicating to be with someone whose emotions came in primary colors, rather than in his own muted shades of prudence, moderation, and practicality.

He could imagine Elizabeth rushing about to learn everything she could about the royal family (just as she had
done
the Brontës, harp seals, and Clan Chattan in previous binges). She would be enjoying herself hugely. And of course the wedding would be her own Broadway production. Cameron was relieved to be on the quiet side of the Atlantic while plans for
that
got under way.

He looked out at the steady drizzle of an Edinburgh summer afternoon. Where Elizabeth was, in Virginia, it would be blazing hot under a shimmering blue sky. He wondered if climate influenced human personalities, or if it only seemed so in this case.

Cameron had put on his gray lambswool sweater. (Elizabeth went into peals of laughter once when
he’d called it a
jumper
. Apparently, in America a jumper was some sort of dress.) He hadn’t wanted to put on the heat in the sitting room, for fear of complaints that he was being spoiled by living abroad.
Heat?
they would say.
In June?

He was sitting at his mother’s pigeonhole desk with her address book for Christmas cards, trying to decide whom to invite to the wedding. Not that he thought anyone would actually fly to the United States to see him star in a ten-minute ceremony, but he supposed that some folks would feel left out if he didn’t notify them of the occasion.

The front door slammed. That would be Ian. While he was off from the university he was working part-time as a clerk and general dogsbody for an estate agent a few streets away. “It’s pissing down out there!” he called from the hallway. “Have you brought the cat in?”

“What?” said Cameron, who was concentrating on postal codes. “No. I haven’t seen him.”

Ian appeared in the doorway in a shabby green mac, dripping pellets of rain on the carpet. “Well, he’s getting quite old and Mother doesn’t want him out when it’s cold and wet.”

The Dawson family cat was a dignified sealpoint Siamese nearly twenty years old. He had been given to Ian as a third birthday present by their American neighbors, the Carsons, whose own cat had unexpectedly presented them with a litter during their yearlong stay in Edinburgh. Dr. Carson, who was guest-lecturing in American history at the university at the time, had called the kitten Traveller Lee, after the horse of his favorite Confederate general, Robert E. Lee. For years kitty Traveller had slept in Ian’s room in a doll bed donated by one of the Carson’s daughters, but now the old Siamese was
arthritic and frail, and he preferred to curl up near a radiator, if denied the warmth of Ian’s lap.

“I haven’t seen him,” said Cameron. “Are you sure he isn’t up in your room?”

“I’ll check.” Ian clumped up the stairs, yelling for the cat, and came down again seconds later. “Nope. He’s out, and probably narky about it as well. I’ll have a look in the garden.”

Cameron went back to his list. That was the trouble with foreign brides, he thought. If she mailed the invitations to Scotland, the postage would cost a fortune, but it would spare him several hours of drudgery. As it was, she was sending him a package of printed invitations to do with as he wished, which would mean hours of folding and addressing, not to mention the chore of figuring out whom to ask in the first place. Adam McIver’s name was next on the list.
Serve him right
, thought Cameron, copying out his address.

Another door slammed, the back one this time, and presently Ian appeared carrying a towel from which Traveller’s little black face peered anxiously. “Found him,” said Ian. “He was under the forsythia bush, and he was in an awful bate about being cast out into the storm. Turn on the heat, won’t you, while I dry him off.”

He knelt on the hearth and rubbed the tea-colored fur while Traveller licked a paw and cleaned his whiskers.

“He’s a marvel for his age,” said Cameron affectionately.

“Which is more than we can say for you,” said Ian. “You’d left one of your magazines out in the garden.”

“Sorry, I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

Ian folded up the towel and left Traveller attending to his toilette on the hearth rug. “That’s odd,”
he murmured, going to the window that faced onto the garden.

“What’s odd?” asked Cameron, still scribbling.

“I knew something was the matter,” announced Ian, peering through the rain-flecked window at the green expanse of lawn. “But I couldn’t place what it was while I was out there. I was too busy getting wet. But I’ve realized it just now. Have you noticed that our garden gnome is missing?”

Cameron was still contemplating his list of prospective wedding guests. What about former roommates? Should you invite them? “I’m sorry. What did you say?” he murmured.

“The bloody
garden gnome!”
said Ian impatiently. “You know, the plaster one in the little red hat that used to stand over there next to the rowan tree. About three feet high and damned heavy, too. Well, he’s gone missing.”

Cameron went over to the window and looked out, but there was no sign of a plaster lawn ornament anywhere in the garden. “I hadn’t noticed. Perhaps he’s in the garage.”

“No, I put my bike in there when I came home just now, and he isn’t there.”

“Well, perhaps he’s been shifted to some other part of the lawn and you can’t see him from here.”

“I haven’t moved him, and Mother certainly wouldn’t, because he’s too heavy for her to lift. Have you done something with him?”

“No, of course not,” said Cameron. “I barely noticed the thing. It’s vandals, I expect. Report it to the police or something, if you’re that incensed about it.”

“I certainly am,” said Ian. “It’s a violation of property. At the estate agents where I work they take that sort of thing very seriously. They’re always cautioning me to look around the grounds
when I show a house, to see if anything has been tampered with. Sometimes so-called pranks like that indicate that vandals have noticed the place. It’s sort of a test, and if no action is taken over a small incident, they may come back and do much worse. We could be burgled.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Cameron. “I think you ought to phone the authorities.”

Ian reddened. “I’d feel like an utter twit ringing up to report the theft of a garden gnome. They might think I actually liked the wretched statue.”

“No, it’s the principle of the thing. A poor gnome, but mine own,” said Cameron with all the solemnity he could muster. “Besides, Mother likes it, doesn’t she?”

Ian considered the matter. “She wouldn’t get rid of it,” he said at last. “It was a gift to her from Auntie Barbara. They used to go completely mad every spring planning the garden, remember? Always putting in cabbage roses, or some other improbable plant, and thinking up projects that required
us
to dig. The gnome was from their Tolkien period:
fairies at the bottom of the garden.”

“True,” said Cameron, smiling. “That makes the thing a family heirloom. I think you’d better notify the police.”

“Why don’t you call them? You’re older.”

“But you discovered the theft.”

In the outer hall the telephone began to ring.

“Tell you what,” said Cameron, moving toward the doorway. “Whoever the phone is for has to call the police when he’s finished talking.”

“That’s hardly fair. You’re only visiting, but I have dozens of friends who—oh, all right. It’s a deal.”

“Good. I thought it was your job to call anyhow.”
Cameron picked up the phone. “Dawson residence.”

“Hello,” said Elizabeth. “Did the invitations arrive yet?”

Cameron swore.

“Is anything the matter?” asked Elizabeth. “Why is someone laughing in the background?”

“Oh, never mind. No, the invitations have not arrived, but I’m working on my list.”

“Good. I have finished sending out all the ones over here. All that’s left is to plan the ceremony itself, but that will have to wait until I get to Chandler Grove. Meanwhile I’ve been reading royal biographies—you know, to get some ideas.”

Cameron groaned.

“What did you say?”

“Oh, nothing. Reading royal biographies, are you?”

“Yes. They had such interesting lives. Did you know that Queen Mary—Princess May of Teck, she was then—was actually engaged to the older brother of George V, and when he died, she married George instead!”

“I’ll have to mention that to Ian,” said Cameron.
That will frighten him
, he finished silently.

“And, of course, I’m doing what I can to make preliminary plans for the wedding. At the moment I’m trying to decide what everybody is going to wear. Military dress uniforms would be wonderful, of course.”

“I don’t think they’d suit you, dear.”

Elizabeth giggled. “You are in a temper, aren’t you? Anyway, I don’t suppose that you and Ian own kilts.”

“Yes. I believe they’re upstairs in a trunk in the box room. We had our pictures taken in them when we were nine and three respectively.”

In the sitting room, Ian, who was eavesdropping, had turned a strangled red in his efforts to keep quiet.
No kilts
, he mouthed soundlessly to his brother.

“I think we’ll just wear suits, Elizabeth,” said Cameron firmly. “Ian doesn’t seem terribly taken with the idea of donning a kilt.”

The brisk tone of Cameron’s voice finally registered with his fiancée. “Is anything the matter, Cameron?” she asked. “You seem awfully strange.”

Cameron sighed. “Oh, nothing major. I just have to ring up the police in a moment.”

“The police!” cried Elizabeth. “What’s wrong!”

“Nothing like
last
time you were in Edinburgh,” Cameron assured her, remembering the evening that had ended with a murder in Tanner’s Close. “Just a kidnapping this time. Someone has gone and stolen our garden gnome.”

“Your what?”

“A plaster statue of a dwarf that used to stand in the garden in lieu of anything actually ornamental. Someone has taken it, apparently. Ugly thing. Our first impulse was to dash off a thank-you note to the thief, but Mother is actually fond of the thing, and Ian-the-Estate-Agent-Extraordinaire seems rather annoyed by the principle of the thing. Violation of property and all that. I suppose he’s right. Next time it could be something valuable that is stolen. So I said I’d report it.”