By six o’clock, the autumn air began to cool, and the servers began placing the first courses at the long banquet tables under the arbor.
I sat at a small side table near the edge of the lawn with Emma and Grace, well away from the center of the terrace where the elder Ashcrofts were gathering.
Emma, who was eight, sat with her back straight, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest as she watched the main table.
“Why are we sitting over here, Mommy?” Emma asked, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
“There are a lot of guests tonight, sweetheart,” I said, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. “We have more room to ourselves down here.”
Grace leaned her head against my arm, her thumb firmly in her mouth as she stared at the empty plates. Her yellow dress was already slightly rumpled from playing in the garden, and her small shoulders rose and fell with a tired sigh.
“I am hungry,” Grace mumbled around her thumb. “When does the dinner start?”
“Very soon, darling,” I said, though I could see the kitchen staff were still waiting for Andrew’s signal to begin the service.
