Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.
Chapter Fifty One
The young vicar arrived promptly at one o'clock and was shown, by Andrew, to the drawing room where the family were assembled, waiting for the lunch bell to sound. Andrew announced him as,
'The Reverend Mr James Rutledge.'
Mycroft took matters in hand, rose to greet him and shook his hand.
'James, how lovely to see you. Have you met everyone?'
He then went around the room, introducing everyone by name and was about to invite the guest to sit down when the bell rang and everyone rose to go to the dining room.
Over lunch, the conversation was broad and general. Molly's mood seemed much improved by her nap but she gave Sherlock a few meaningful glances. He chose to concentrate on Freddie, cutting up his food and helping him to master the fine art of stabbing morsels with a fork and transferring them to the mouth without poking one's self in the eye. The presence of three toddlers at the table ensured that lunch was a fairly lively affair.
When it was over, Arthur and the nannies took the three little ones off to the nursery for their afternoon nap and Mycroft invited William to join him in the library, to look at the huge Victorian atlas that was his favourite book of the moment. He was fascinated by the fact that everything coloured pink was part of the British Empire – and there were vast swathes of pink on every continent.
Sherlock and Molly invited Mr Rutledge back to the drawing room, where Andrew served coffee.
Molly opened the discussion.
'As you may have guessed, Mr Rutledge, we would like to get married in the village church.'
James Rutledge beamed at both parties.
'I had thought as much and so I took the precaution of bringing along my appointments diary,' he said, grinning and fishing a smart phone from his jacket pocket.
'When did you have in mind? A spring wedding, summer? May is very popular,' he went on, flicking though the months on his electronic calendar.
'We were hoping for a little sooner,' Sherlock interjected.
'Oh,' said the cleric. 'How much sooner?'
'When is your earliest available date?'
The man swiped back through the months.
'Well, I do have one date available but it is only seven weeks away.'
'Christmas Eve,' Sherlock stated, after a lightning-quick calculation. He looked at Molly.
'Yes, Mr Holmes, Christmas Eve. I'm conducting Midnight Mass in the next village, at eleven thirty p.m., but prior to that, I'm free all day and so is the church. But seven weeks is not a long time to plan and prepare for a wedding. Most people take months – years, even.'
Sherlock was about to point out that they were not 'most people' but he caught Molly's warning look and thought better of it.
'We only want a small, quiet wedding, Mr Rutledge,' Molly explained, 'so seven weeks should not be a problem.'
'Alright, then,' the young man smiled, broadly. 'Normally, of course, when a young couple come to me to talk about getting married, we have a little chat about the meaning of a wedding, the sanctity of the estate of marriage and its purpose as an environment in which to bring children into the world but, obviously…'
He spotted the hardening quality of Sherlock's gaze and left the sentence unfinsihed, saying instead,
'I have a leaflet about charges – the hiring of the church, my own fee, the cost of an organist and choristers, if you would like the choir.' He reached into his inside jacket pocket and brought out an A5 two-leaf document, handing it to Molly, as the safer bet. 'Would you like to think about it some more - or shall I just book you in?'
'What do you think, Molly,' Sherlock asked.
'I think a Christmas Eve wedding would be lovely,' she replied, smiling.
The vicar looked relieved and his finger hovered over the face of his phone.
'Morning or afternoon?' he asked.
'Afternoon,' said Sherlock, looking only at Molly.
'Fine,' said the Reverend. 'Any particular time?'
Sherlock still looked at Molly.
'Three o'clock,' she murmured, with a dreamy glaze to her eye, as though she were already seeing herself walking down the aisle of that lovely little church.
'Excellent!' chirped the vicar, tapping the time and the details into his phone.
'OK, there's just the matter of the banns,' he said, looking from one to the other.
Sherlock gave him a tolerant look, inviting him to continue.
'The banns must be read out on at least three separate Sundays – usually consecutive Sundays – not only in the church where you intend to marry but also in the parish church where either the bride or the groom reside, if it is different to the venue of the actual wedding. You don't have to be present for the reading of the banns but most couples like to attend at least one reading and some invite their friends and family to attend, too. It can be quite lovely,' he concluded.
'We will probably attend at least one of the readings,' Molly advised him. 'Do we need to do anything else? Provide evidence of our status or anything?' she asked.
'No, Miss Hooper. I just need evidence of your dates of birth and your current address. You could bring that when you come to hear the banns being read. The purpose of the banns is to announce your intension to marry and to provide an opportunity for any objections to be raised. If anyone knows of a reason or reasons why you should not wed, they can voice those, then.'
'Well, can we discuss the fine details and get back to you?' Molly asked. 'We will definitely want the organ but I'm not sure about the choristers. We'll talk it over and let you know.'
Noting that the discussion seemed to be ended, the vicar rose and Sherlock and Molly did, too. The young man reached into his pocket again and took out a calling card.
'If you think of anything else you need to ask or when you decide about the choir, you can reach me by phone, text or email. All the details are there,' he explained, handing the card to Sherlock, this time, and shaking hands with both of them. They walked him to the front door and said goodbye, then returned to the drawing room.
'Seven weeks isn't long so we need to hit the ground running,' Molly observed.
'If you say so,' Sherlock replied, having no idea what so ever what might be involved in planning a wedding. It was not something he had ever given any thought to. 'Where do we begin?'
'We need to draw up a guest list, so we know how many people we're catering for. You need a Best Man and I need someone to give me away. I need a dress, you need a suit. I need a bouquet, you need a button hole – in fact all the wedding party need a button hole. We need to choose hymns and readings, and choose people to do the readings. We need ushers. And we need to plan our Reception.'
Sherlock just listened as she reeled off all these things they needed. She noticed he wasn't saying anything – not even nodding or shaking his head.
'Is there a problem?' she asked.
'Should there be?' he asked back.
'Well, you're not saying anything,' she retorted.
'You seem to have it all in hand,' he replied.
'I can't do it all on my own,' she protested, beginning to look annoyed again.
He pursed his lips, stood up, crossed to the sofa and sat down next to her, taking her hand in his.
'Molly, we are getting married. We are doing this thing together. It's going to be the happiest day of our lives.' He kissed her hand.
'I've never planned a wedding. I haven't the first idea what is required but,' and he stressed that word, 'John and Mary have been there, done that and I am sure they will both want to help us sort this out.'
She looked at him and her eyes began to fill with tears, again.
'I am sorry,' she choked. 'I am turning into Bridezilla, aren't I?'
He brushed the tears from her cheeks with his thumb then drew her into a hug.
'I just need to calm down and stop panicking,' she told herself and him. He, wisely, refrained from comment.
'Seven weeks is plenty of time. We can do this,' she said. He nodded then tucked her head under his chin and settled back on the sofa, stroking her cheek with his hand. Everything was happening so quickly. Twenty four hours ago, they weren't even engaged and now they had a date and a venue.
'Who will you ask to be your Best Man?' she asked, suddenly, breaking into his thoughts.
'John, of course.'
'Not Mycroft?'
'No. He wouldn't expect me to ask him. He would know I would ask John.'
'Do you think he would give me away?'
'Who, John?'
'No, Mycroft,' she tutted.
'Oh! Erm, yes, I'm sure he'd be honoured to give you away. But, why him?'
Molly withdrew her head from under his chin and looked at him.
'While you were away, Mycroft was very good to me and William. He really looked after us, like a true friend. Like a father. I don't have any living male relatives and, even if I did, I can't think of anyone I would rather walk me down the aisle than Mycroft.'
'Then you should ask him.'
She leaned against him again and slipped her head back under his chin, where it felt safe and secure.
'I don't want any bride's maids but I will ask Mary to help me plan the wedding. She will know all the little details, all the pitfalls that will need attending to.'
Then she suddenly sat up again, looking askance.
'Oh, good god! I'm going to have to tell my mother!'
'She'll be pleased, won't she? She's the one who's made such a palaver about you 'living in sin',' he pointed out.
'Yes, but she will want to call the shots! And, she will want to invite the world and his wife!'
'You'll just have to tell her it's your wedding, not hers, and you will do it how you want it and invite who you want to invite,' he replied.
She looked at him as though he were a little deranged.
'You know my mother, Sherlock. She won't take no for an answer…...'
He placed a finger on her lips, then replaced the finger with his own lips and silenced her protests.
'Just leave her to me,' he murmured then wrapped both arms around her and kissed her more deeply, pulling her into his lap and losing them both to the moment.
ooOoo
