Midsummer Day dawned with a thick grey haze in the air and a heavy dew on the meadows and trees.
Down among the little gardens of the still-sleeping cottages of Howling an idyllic procession might have been observed making its way from flower-bed to flower-bed, like ravaging bees. It was none other than the three members of Mrs Beetle's embryo jazz-band, shepherded by the patriarchal form of Agony Beetle himself.
They had been commissioned to pick the bunches of flowers which were to decorate the church and the refreshment-tables up at the farm. A lorry load of pink and white rose-peonies, from Covent Garden, had already been discharged at the gates of the farm; and, even now, Mrs Beetle and Flora were crossing and re-crossing the yard with their arms full of sleeping flowers.
Flora noted the heat-haze with joy. It would be a day of heat; brilliant, blue and radiant.
Adam Lambsbreath had been even earlier astir, making wreaths of wallflowers with which to garland the horns of Feckless, Pointless, Graceless and Aimless. It was not until he actually came to affix the decorations that he observed that none of the cows had any horns left, and had been forced to fasten the wreaths round their necks and tails instead. This done, he led them forth to their morning pasture, singing a smutty wedding song he had learnt for the marriage of George I.
As the day emerged from the heat-haze, and the sky grew blue and sunny, the farm buzzed with energy like a hive. Phoebe, Letty, Jane and Susan were whisking syllabubs in the dairy; Micah carried the pails of ice, in which stood the champagne, down into the darkest and coolest corner of the cellar. Caraway and Harkaway were fixing the awning across from the gate of the yard to the door of the kitchen. Ezra was putting his rows of beans under a net to protect them from damage during the festivities. Mark and Luke were arranging the long trestle tables in the kitchen, while Mrs Beetle and Flora unpacked the silver and linen sent down in crates from a London store. Reuben was filling with water the dozens of jars and vases in which the flowers were to be arranged. Mark Dolour's Nancy was superintending the boiling of two dozen eggs for everybody's breakfast. And upstairs on her bed lay Flora's new dress, a wonder of frilled and quilted, ruffled and tucked, pinked and shirred green batiste, and her plain hat of white straw.
At half-past eight everybody sat down to breakfast in the dairy, for the kitchen was being prepared for the reception, and could not be used for meals today.
'I'll just take up 'er breakfast,' said Mrs Beetle. 'She'll 'ave to 'ave it cold today. There's 'alf an 'am and a jar of pickled onions. I won't be a jiff.'
'Oh, I've just been in to see Aunt Ada,' said Flora, looking up from her breakfast. 'She doesn't want anything for breakfast except a Hell's Angel. Here give me an egg. I'll mix it for her.' She rose, and went over to the newly-stocked store cupboard.
Mrs Beetle stared, while Flora tossed an egg, two ounces of brandy, a teaspoonful of cream and some chips of ice in a jam-jar, and everybody else was very interested, too.
'There,' said Flora, giving Mrs Beetle the foaming jam-jar. 'You run along upstairs with that.'
So Mrs Beetle ran; but was heard to observe that it would take more than a mess like that to keep her stomach from rumbling before one o'clock. As for the other Starkadders, they were considerably intrigued by this dramatic change in Aunt Ada's diet.
'Is the old 'un gone off again?' asked Reuben, anxiously. 'Will she come down and upset everything after all, do 'ee think, Cousin Flora?'
'Not on your sweet life,' said Flora. 'Everything will be all right. Remember, I told you there was going to be a surprise. Well, it's just beginning.'
And the Starkadders were satisfied.
Breakfast over, they all fell to work like demons, for the ceremony was at half-past twelve and there was much to be done.
