Storm of Bells

02. The Battle of the Bride

The moment I opened the door of my uncle Bufford's modest townhouse, I heard them.

'...white lilies, of course! Both for the decorations and bouquets. I mean, how could that not be obvious? Her name is Lilly.'

'I know what her name is, thank you very much. I've only been best friends with her since she's been so high! And I tell you, white flowers are completely ridiculous. We need something red! Something fiery! Something to reflect her character and the fact that, as everyone knows, red is much prettier than white.'

'I beg your pardon? I always wear white!'

'Exactly.'

I grinned. When I'd told Mr Ambrose I would let my relatives and friends do battle over who would be in charge of the wedding planning and pick whoever was left standing, I hadn't been joking. My friend Eve had jumped on the chance, spurred on by the fact that no one else among our friends would ever be mad enough to let her anywhere near their wedding planning. Before I knew what was happening, she was browsing exotic locations anywhere between Jamaica and Johannesburg, designing dresses that looked like a salad had eaten itself and regurgitated itself up again, and composing a wedding march for the event in five-seventh time.

But then something happened. Something neither I, nor my aunt, nor Eve would ever have expected: Ella. My sweet, little, demure, sister Ella, who normally couldn't be made to argue with someone if you threatened her with an iron axe, had marched up to Eve and told her: 'No! You are not allowed to ruin my sister's wedding! I won't let you!'

Eve had blinked.

And blinked again.

'Ruin? I don't intend to ruin anything! I'll make it the most wonderful day of her life!'

Ella snatched the drawing Eve was working on out from under her fingers. 'With this? What is this even supposed to be? The wedding cake?'

'The groom's attire,' Eve admitted, lips pursing.

'He'll be wearing much whipped cream, will he?'

'That's not supposed to be whipped cream! That's—oh, give that here! You're hopeless!'

'Me?' Ella drew herself up to her full height of five foot three inches. 'You're the one who's hopeless! And so will Lilly's wedding be, if someone doesn't start to take this seriously! So from now on, I will be taking over all wedding planning matters.'

'You? Ha! In your dreams!'

'Want to bet?'

It had been a most interesting scene, particularly since I was the one who could lean back and just enjoy the circus. I couldn't wait to see who would win the second round—particularly once a certain pair of ladies from northern England arrived...

Smiling, I tiptoed past the room containing the wrestling wedding furies and made my way into the dining room, where Leadfield had already prepared our usual sumptuous dinner of cold porridge and potatoes.

'Good evening, Leadfield.'

'Good evening, Miss Lillian.' Bowing so deeply his back creaked, the aged butler teetered on the spot for a moment, then managed to right himself. 'May I be so bold as to express my congratulations on your forthcoming nuptials?'

I gave the old fellow a smile, which he of course didn't return. He was a butler, after all. But his ears wiggled in a very friendly manner.

'You may.'

'Most gracious, Miss.' He glanced down the corridor, from where ever-louder voices were issuing, followed by a crash, and what sounded like the tear of fabric. Ah. Another wedding dress design down the drain. 'Ehem...I would not usually suggest this, Miss, but would you like me to serve your dinner now, before the rest of the family and your guests arrive? I have a feeling it will yet be some time until the others arrive.'