Chapter Fourteen: On Chaos, and Its Reduction Down into the Best of Worlds
The euphoria – that is, that state of perfect happiness, with Camille's hands in his and her eyes burning through the veil at him and Father Darnell going on about the sanctity and responsibility of marriage – that bliss lasted all the way through the stuff about being willing, then loving and honoring, and even children, right up to the bit where the Father announced that Richard and Camille would now say their own vows.
Poole hoped, later, that the choking sound he had made then had not disrupted the service, much. Vows?!
His mind now completely blank, all he could do was goggle at his bride, with the sounds of Catherine's sniffling the only noise in the chapel . . . maybe that was why she was crying? She was getting such a prat as a son-in-law?
Fidel threw a startled look at Juliet, who had the hand not clutching the bouquet over her mouth in shock. She vaguely remembered the bridesmaids discussing how lovely it would be for the couple to write their own vows, but as far as she knew it had never gone beyond that. How had it reached Father Darnell?
Dwayne began sidling over to his chief, prepared with a spiel that had no doubt worked its magic on many a one-night stand, but Fidel caught him in time. Camille had gently freed one hand from Poole's desperate grasp and was removing something small and white from the linen waistband of her abused gown.
"Richard," she said, and daintily shook out his handkerchief, the one he had given her five days ago in another age, "I promised to be your true knight, and to bear your favor into battle." Tenderly, she began working the cotton square into their clasped hands, her familiar, sly smile beginning to blossom beneath the veil. "Now, my king, is the quest complete? Non, for my heart is yours forever, and faith and earthly worship I will bear unto thee for all my days, until death shall take me."
She'd garbled it, but she'd gotten the gist of the ancient fealty oath. Poole stood staring at her in wonder until that nudge traveled through their joined hands and up his arms to his brain. Oh, gosh, his turn.
"Ummm . . ." He was intensely aware of the hushed crowd, the presence of the priest, his parents and the horribly inappropriate red of his waistcoat, and inspiration struck.
"A-actually, I, um, I wrote mine down."
He pulled out the book from the place he'd secreted it and gave it to her. Camille took it with an amused little huff, and flicked through. The last five days unfolded before her; page after page of to-do lists, most of them crossed out, with only the things most concerned with her ticked off: picking out the perfect rings; choosing flowers for her bouquet; altering his old black tie because Camille wanted him to wear it; securing the villa for the honeymoon; looking at a house in Honoré . . . all ending in a tattered last page with the biggest tick mark of all, next to the words 'Love Camille Forever'.
"Sorry," Poole was murmuring, shame-faced. "I'm not really romantic, you know, but, I hope this says what – what you wanted –?"
Camille folded the little book away. "Thank you, mon amour," she whispered, her voice thick with tears and her hands seeking out his. "Father, we are ready now."
...
Rings in place, with the Father's blessing on their heads and the groom's shoes in his right fist, Mr and Mrs Poole made their way down the aisle toward the church hall across the road, with every other female they passed offering the bride the shoes from her own feet. In the end, Jennifer was the lucky one, being able to swap out her cream-colored low wedge sandals for a pair of flip-flops she just happened to have in her capacious tote.
In fact, people in general seemed to be wanting to go without shoes. The church hall reception line was a showcase for bare feet, especially in the region of the happy couple, both now respectably shod. Poole in particular was feeling overwhelmed by the sheer numbers. How had he acquired so many friends, all wanting to shake his hand? And all of them without knowledge of the Health and Safety Act, 2005?
Which did not matter all that much, as dinner morphed into a picnic-style buffet, with most of the uninvited guests having brought their own supplies in baskets, and sharing out became the order of the evening. Even Catherine's three-tier rum and brandy fruit cake, lapped in white royal icing and smothered in orchids and birds-of-paradise, had already been cut into by the time Poole led his bride to it.
But it was all good, because it turned out that the best thing there was available to eat, according to an unadventurous English stomach, was black cake with royal frosting, as served up by a delighted three-year-old.
"Is that all he will eat?" Catherine clucked as she watched Rosie press sweet handfuls of the stuff on the resigned groom.
"Don't worry, maman," Camille told her through a mouthful of tiny crab. "Reechard will be needing all the calories he can get now, very soon!"
...
Down in the pavilion, Anton was the hero of the hour. He was eighty-six years old and still made his living as a courier on his antique Daimler Reitwagen, but had he not discovered the bride of the century stranded on the beach a good half-mile north of St Ursula's, and had he not delivered her, safe and sound, to her wedding with the crazy Engelsman? The story would keep him in free beer for years.
Come to think, he wasn't doing so badly now, in his seat of honor, making sure that Riley was not getting even more sloshed as he took shot after shot of the cheese wedding cake, festooned with herbs and waiting in lonely splendor in one corner of the tent.
Camille was dancing on her second borrowed pair of sandals, her white dress a spot of brilliance amid the otherwise black, dark red, bittersweet, orange and off-white pavilion, finally in the arms of her husband. Selwyn Patterson was squiring Jennifer Poole around the floor, in her cream-colored off-shoulder wraparound gown and flip-flops. Fidel had dutifully danced with each of the bridesmaids in turn and was now letting Rosie toddle around the floor atop his own feet, even though she was drooping with fatigue.
Dwayne, meanwhile, was inspecting the cheese tower with Maurice, while Perceval and Alphonz looked on skeptically. "Baking takes all the good stuff out of liquor, you know what I mean?" Dwayne was saying. "But cheese, now – cheese just might soak it up, and not let it go."
"Naww," Maurice told him, moving that much closer to the tower. "You think?"
"Don't try the Black Bomber," a gruff voice advised them.
Graham Poole had appeared behind them, using the same ninja skill set their own Commissioner seemed to have. "You lads want the other ones that match the tent: the Drewi-sant, soaked in mead – that's fermented honey."
Maurice's eyes widened, and Alphonz stopped fingering his formal wear gold chains and stepped nearer.
"No?" Graham went on. "Then try the red-coated one, Ruby Mist; brandy and port. Nature's Nectar in the orange, that's rum with figs. Mine's Amber Mist." He sliced into it as he spoke. "Whisky."
By now Perceval had elbowed Alphonz aside. Graham handed over the knife and stood back as the cousins descended.
...
"You will ruin your socks," Camille told him.
"I don't care," Poole said forthrightly, and then paused. He did, actually.
It was the work of a moment to pull them off, stuff them in the toes of the shoes and roll up the trouser legs. Then with the shoes in his left hand, he gave his right to Camille and they set off along the sand.
After Camille had tossed her bouquet, and Poole had watched the random distribution of flowers in action (Sylvie caught it, to her glee), he had found himself being pulled toward the street entrance, and out of it, and down the few yards that separated Edouard's from the beach. The sea was continuing its everlasting psalm, each wavelet illuminated now in the light of a gloriously full moon, high in a zenith of worshipping stars.
Poole paused, gazing up at it and wondering if, just for this evening, there could be one more small miracle granted him. Here he was, in this gentle, good place, hand-in-hand with that most marvelous of all creations; Mrs Camille Poole.
"Camille, I . . ."
He trailed off, but she stepped around to face him, resting her hands on his shoulders and herself against him, softly prompting. "I love you."
"I love you."
"I've loved you since the moment I saw you in the beach hut," she went on, coaxing.
"Well, not then, no," Poole told her, matter-of-factly. "I mean, it was plain you were no cleaner, and –"
"Richard."
"No." He shook his head at her. "You were obviously just a chancer who had a knack for getting herself into scrapes. Like just then."
"And you would be the man who can get me out of them?" she challenged him, her hands now taking their possessive hold on his jacket lapels.
"Yes," Poole told her without a qualm. "I'm that man."
"Are you," she whispered, her lips closing over his.
...
When they finally continued on, Poole with one arm still around his wife, he began running through the list of Teague and Dubois holdings in his head. (He was the one who renewed their landlord license.) "That villa we booked; it's not on the beach," he stated. "All T&D rental properties are in the foothills. Where are we going?"
Camille clung to his side, matching her steps to his. "You'll see, cher."
The way became familiar as they went on, and before Poole knew it, they had passed through yet another screen of forest that touched the sea and came on to his own beach, the peeling whitewash of the bungalow beckoning like a burning lamp in the moonlight.
"Here?"
"Yes, mon mari!" Camille replied, dragging him across the sand.
"But I locked this . . . Camille! How –?" as she was manhandling him up the steps to the open door.
"Reechard!"
"I, well, if –" Poole briefly resisted by hanging on to the jambs, but an irresistible force hauled him through. "Awk! Ahh, Harry! We're home!"
HERE ENDS THE BEGINNING
NOTE: For those of you who were expecting a passionate love scene, I'm sorry, but my authorization only extends to the threshold of the bridal chamber. Please feel free to write your own follow-up. Why should I have all the fun?
Thank you all for the comments and for your patience. FFH