Sharyn McCrumb - The Windsor Knot

Cameron Dawson frowned at the official-looking ivory envelope, fearing the worst.

His younger brother Ian, who had joined him for tea in the garden, was helping himself to a scone and clotted cream. One of the nice things about being home from college for the summer was that you got to eat decent food again. Ian planned to consume quite a lot of it before the fall term began at Strathclyde.

“Do you want that last ginger biscuit, Cameron?” he asked as he reached for it. When no reply was forthcoming, Ian glanced at his brother, who was still staring at a small ivory envelope. Noting Cameron’s stricken expression with interest, he asked, “Anything the matter?”

“Not until now,” murmured Cameron, still staring at the letter.

The afternoon had thus far been remarkably pleasant for early June in Edinburgh: it was sunny after only an hour of misting rain, and so warm that one needed only a cotton sweater instead of a wool one. Cameron’s yearlong stay as a visiting professor of marine biology at a university in Virginia had considerably reduced his tolerance to the climate of his native Scotland. Today, though, had been quite satisfactory, and having spent his first few days home visiting with family and friends, he had decided to spend the afternoon in the garden so that he could bask in the sunshine while he caught up on accumulated mail and bank statements and other bits of paperwork that had arrived too recently to be forwarded to him in America. He had been enjoying colors of the well-tended garden, with its well-pruned privet hedge, its herbaceous border, and the unfortunate, but nevertheless familiar red-hatted garden gnome, who stood smirking by the forsythia bush. As he leafed through newsletters and back issues of magazines, Cameron savored the aroma of his mother’s prize roses. There was nothing to occupy his mind except the prospect of afternoon tea. This peaceful interlude under the rowan tree had been spoiled by the discovery of an official-looking envelope tucked into a pile of advertising circulars from Halford’s. Trust Ian to miss an important letter-probably with dire consequences! And the prospect of having to cope with this disaster spoiled his serenity just as the tea arrived.

“What is it, then? Inland Revenue?” asked Ian, dumping sugar into his teacup. “Getting you for all that money you made in the States?”

“Shut up, Insect,” murmured Cameron. “You should have forwarded this to me, or else opened it and phoned me about it. It’s rather important looking. Addressed to Dr . Cameron Dawson.”

“Ye-ess,” said Ian gravely. “That is you, is it not? Or have you an evil twin that I am unacquainted with? I don’t think I could stand the thought of another sibling at this late date.”

Cameron opened the envelope and took out a card-sized invitation, printed in graceful script. He read it twice. “I was afraid of this.” He sighed, handing the letter to his brother.

Ian’s eyes widened at the sight of the royal coat of arms. “It’s from-” He scanned the card, muttering an occasional word aloud. “Well, imagine that! An invitation to the Royal Garden Party! Did someone from Fettes put you up for this? I sense an Old School Tie dangling over all this.”

“Adam McIver, I expect. He was always a proper little prat, quite intent on government service. The bugger!”

“Steady on, Cameron. It’s only a tea party. You act as if you’d been commissioned in the Light Brigade.”

“Yes, Ian, but you don’t comprehend the possibilities for trouble here. You see, they’ve just invited me . And you know what a maniac Elizabeth is about the Queen. She’s always reading royal biographies and asking me daft questions about the latest palace scandal, as if I’d know anything about it. She may even have been named for the sovereign, for all I know.” Cameron sighed. “I suppose that I could ring up the committee and ask them to invite Elizabeth as well.”

“Not a hope,” said Ian. “No guests except spouses and unmarried daughters. You haven’t any of those , I trust?” he added mischievously.

“Elizabeth and I are engaged…”

“I don’t believe fiancées are permitted to attend.” Ian chuckled. “There’s many a slip twixt-”

“No, I realize that,” snapped Cameron. “But if I go to the Royal Garden Party without telling her, and somehow Elizabeth finds out that she missed a chance to meet the Queen-”

“Second American Revolution.” Ian nodded. “Absolutely. It’s curious, isn’t it, how starstruck the Yanks are about our royal family? Makes you wonder why they seceded from the empire in the first place.”

Cameron looked again at the invitation with Her Majesty’s seal for a letterhead. “They do seem to dote on the royals, don’t they? People were always asking me if I knew any of them. Elizabeth even has a complete set of royal-family coffee mugs. Only Prince Edward is cracked.”

“Yes, I’d heard that,” said Ian, grinning wickedly. “Well, brother dear, what’s it going to be? The Queen’s tea party or the Boston tea party?”

“I’ll just explain to Elizabeth that with the garden party only three weeks away and the wedding planned for next summer, we can’t possibly manage. They might not include her as an afterthought in any case…”

“Surely Old Adam could put in a word for you,” said Ian with a smirk.

“Or perhaps I won’t mention it to her at all. After all, how could she find out about this invitation?”

Ian strove to look unconcerned.

Cameron scowled at his younger brother. “You would , too, wouldn’t you?” he muttered. “Oh, all right! I suppose I’ll have to mention it to her before I write my reply-with fulsome apologies for the delay! As for Elizabeth, I’ll just reason with her.” Cameron clambered out of his lawn chair and started for the house.

“You’re going to ring her up now-while the rates are high?”

“Yes,” said Cameron. “I want to get it over so I don’t brood about it. What time is it in America?” he asked.

Ian called after him, “1776!”

AT A PICTURESQUE university in the Blue Ridge of southwest Virginia, the mountain laurel blossomed on shady hillsides and the squirrels scampered under the oaks on the campus quad. All this was wasted on Elizabeth MacPherson, who hunched over a technical journal in the shabby, windowless cubicle reserved for graduate students in forensic anthropology. Her thoughts were far from queen and empire: she was reading about maggots.

The scholarly article detailing the usefulness of insect life in determining time and place of death almost sanitized the subject past the point of gruesomeness. Almost, but not quite. Elizabeth found herself scratching her just-washed hair and brushing imaginary specks of dirt off her khaki skirt. She thought it odd that a mere article would make her squeamish, considering that the examination of corpses was a routine occurrence for her. As a graduate student in forensic anthropology, Elizabeth had become accustomed to all manner of unsavory exhibits. She was inured to gruesome sights, but she had difficulty in controlling her imagination-and that was the trouble with the journal article. Besides, it awakened a childhood memory of her brother putting a fishing worm down her back. She shuddered, remembering the feel of writhing coldness, when she suddenly noticed the word Scotland on the page in front of her. With a smile of anticipation, she returned her attention to the text. Maggots were still disgusting, but Scottish maggots seemed more… palatable was definitely not the word she wanted.