The Beekeeper's Promise (Page 51)
Thankfully, though, as I hurry up the hill from the mill house early on Christiane’s wedding morning, the sky is a perfect, clear blue and the soft veil of mist is already lifting from the surface of the river. If I had the time, I’d linger for a few moments by the willow tree, watching the water gather itself in the dark pool above the weir where the last swallows of summer flit and skim before the river launches itself joyously over the lip of the weir and abandons itself to the onward journey. But I definitely don’t have time this morning. I need to get up to the château to help Sara and Karen with the final preparations. We’re far more involved in this wedding day than we have been with the others in the season. Usually on the day itself an army of caterers, florists, hairdressers, beauticians and musicians arrive to conduct the proceedings, but this time it’s a local, family affair and we’re all going to be hard at work.
The kitchen is quiet when I arrive and Sara hands me a cup of coffee. ‘Better drink this now – we may not get a chance to have another one later on,’ she says with a smile.
And she’s right. The château is soon buzzing with activity and Sara, Karen and I are directing a small army of helpers.
In the kitchen, Karen leads a battalion of local ladies who are making roses out of radishes and coronets out of cucumbers to garnish the platters of charcuterie that the butcher’s wife and daughters have prepared, which will be handed round with flutes of champagne while photos are being taken after the service.
The pâtisserie delivers a dozen pear and frangipane tarts, gleaming with a rich, golden glaze, which are put on a trestle table in the library for safekeeping.
On a corner of the lawn beyond the marquee, on the down-wind side of the ridge, a shallow pit has been dug by Thomas and Jean-Marc and a huge fire is being lit for the méchoui. The tall heap of applewood branches blazes brightly at first but it will continue to burn all day, subsiding into a glowing bed of embers that will cook a whole lamb suspended on a spit above it to succulent perfection. Thomas comes in search of a tarpaulin so that they can rig up an awning over it once the fire’s burned down enough, just in case the weather does turn.
I’ve been assigned to direct table-setting operations in the marquee, at the head of a troop of my own. We spread crisp, lavender-scented cloths over the tables to match the white chair covers, which are tied with jaunty bows – so that the tent takes on the appearance of being filled with a bevy of butterflies. We fold laundered linen napkins into elegant fleur-de-lis shapes and tuck them into the wine glasses at each place; the glasses sparkle and wink like diamonds where the sunlight catches the glass, vying for attention with the glinting of each item of thoroughly polished cutlery.
One of Christiane’s aunts consults a carefully considered table plan and she and her daughter set out all the name-cards, which one of the bridesmaids has handwritten in flowing calligraphy. Little net pouches of silver and gold sugared almonds, tied with gold ribbons, are set beside each name as gifts for the guests.
And on a side table we set the wedding cake in pride of place. It is delivered by another aunt, who was up until two o’clock this morning icing it so that it would set in time. Once the cake is safely in place, she carefully ices the final, finishing touches on to the stacked triple tiers, and Sara brings her a length of sweet-scented honeysuckle to arrange around it.
Swags of foliage and flowers, bound with more trailing ribbons of the honeysuckle, have been pinned up behind the top table and now Sara and her band of helpers are arranging posies of roses, lavender, and delicate white gaura flowers, which float like still more tiny butterflies in the centre of each table. And I know – because I couldn’t resist taking a peek when I was hurrying past with a pile of tablecloths – that the chapel is bedecked with yet more swags of greenery, and that vast glass vases, loaned by the florist, have been set at the entrance and on the altar, crammed with spectacular, sweet-scented starbursts of every white lily that it’s been possible to lay hands on between here and Bordeaux.
By lunchtime everything has been set up and the army of helpers disappears to go and get themselves ready for the ceremony and the party. Sara, Karen and I grab a makeshift lunch of bread and cheese around the kitchen table and Sara runs through her lists, ticking off the jobs that we’ve completed. ‘We’re nearly there, I think.’ She pauses to consult the weather forecast on her phone yet again and grimaces. ‘Still uncertain for later.’ She leans back in her chair to see beyond the kitchen door. Some high wisps of cloud are starting to gather, dappling the sky like the markings of the silvered fish that swim in the pool below the weir. ‘Hopefully we’ll be okay for everyone arriving and then, if it does rain, it will only be once they’re all in the marquee. It’s going to be touch and go, though. Abi, can you ask Jean-Marc to put the umbrellas out in the barn in case they’re needed at the end of the night?’ Experience has taught Sara and Thomas to be prepared, whatever the weather, and they have a collection of large, clear plastic brollies at guests’ disposal, which are big enough to protect even the most sophisticated hair-dos and the largest of hats.
Thomas comes in, whistling cheerfully and smelling faintly of wood smoke from the fire. He pauses, in passing, to plant a kiss on top of Sara’s head and she turns to smile at him. ‘There’s a bit of lunch if you and Jean-Marc want?’ she offers.
He takes two bottles of beer from the fridge and gathers the remains of the baguette into the crook of his arm, then scoops up a chunk of dried saucisson. ‘Thanks, this will do us fine. We’re just about to get the meat on – the fire’s perfect.’
‘Well you’d better make sure you leave enough time for a shower before you get changed – we can’t have the DJ smelling like a roast dinner!’
The wedding party assemble at two o’clock so that they can dress here. Sara and Thomas have made Château Bellevue available to them for the night, so the bedrooms have been prepared and Sara has set out welcoming posies of wildflowers and a bottle of champagne on ice in the master suite to fortify the bride and her attendants.
Christiane looks radiant on her wedding day – although there is a fragility just beneath the surface, which shows in the shadows beneath her eyes and in the sharp definition of her collarbones. Her family and her bevy of bridesmaids flutter around her anxiously, but she bats them away, laughing. ‘I’m fine, Maman, don’t worry. I slept so well last night. Oh, Sara, everything looks so perfect. Thank you for helping us to do this. I know how much extra work it must have been for everyone.’
Sara tells me that Christiane’s wedding dress was bought at a bridal shop in Bordeaux a few weeks ago. It’s needed some adjusting as she’s put on a little weight following her treatment – a good sign – and Mireille herself, our local Parisian couturier extraordinaire, has insisted on overseeing the alterations that have been needed to make it fit perfectly. While her knotted hands and her fading eyesight don’t allow her to do fine needlework anymore these days, Mireille has closely supervised the pinning and the sewing done by one of her daughters-in-law. They delivered the dress yesterday and Sara has hung it in the tall wardrobe in the master suite, draped in a clean cotton sheet for safekeeping.
In the event it’s perfect: the elegant high neckline and long sleeves are in an ivory lace that flows in soft folds over a slim-fitting bodice and underskirt, emphasising Christiane’s figure. Her dark hair is short, as it’s only now growing back, but the gamine style suits her dress well.
From the chapel, music drifts across the courtyard as the guests arrive. Four of Philippe and Christiane’s friends have got together in the past week to form an impromptu string quartet; they are performing in the chapel and will play while the drinks are being served after the ceremony. Once everyone has taken their seats, apart from the soft strains of the music, there is an air of hushed anticipation. There always is at this stage in the proceedings of any wedding, but today it seems to be laden with so much more significance: this is not just a marriage; it’s an affirmation of life and hope, of courage and quiet strength, of the defiant joy that exists alongside the sadness and the fear.
I’ve volunteered to keep an eye on things while the service is under way, so that we can have everything ready for the party immediately afterwards, so I watch from the kitchen door as Sara and Thomas – looking as elegant as any of the other guests now that they’ve had a chance to shower and change – pause outside the chapel and he gathers her in his arms and kisses her. She smiles at him, and then glances back and gives me a little wave. I give her the thumbs-up sign before making a shooing motion that she should get into the chapel and not worry about anything; I’ve got this. And suddenly I realise that I feel confident and strong, more certain of myself than I have ever done. I know that I’ve earned my place as a respected member of Sara and Thomas’ team and I see myself, now, through their eyes and realise how capable and resilient I really can be.
I stand and watch, smiling, as the bridesmaids come down the front steps and cross the courtyard to the chapel doorway. And then the bride appears.
Her beauty, in that moment, is simply breathtaking.