Somewhere in the flat where Isabella came to live, she stored her beads. Who knows if she ever looked at them? But there was one reminder of those long ago days that she passed every day, for in her hall there was a rug. A boring rug patterned in shades of brown. It had short, scratchy fur and a photograph of her late husband gazed down at it.
If photographs could talk, what would he have said? Because he was credited with having damaged that rug by slicing it with his sword while he was cutting the wedding cake.
Well, why cut a cake with a sword? It obviously wasn't a good idea, since it had made such a mess of the rug. He'd left a great grey patch where the pile was so short the rug was almost bald. Did the fluff get into the cake? And where was the cake when the sword missed it so dramatically?
How about a magic carpet ride back in time to October 1919, when Isabella married Hubert? She was back in Scotland after her adventures, a truly romantic ending to a long journey.
If photographs could talk, what would he have said? Because he was credited with having damaged that rug by slicing it with his sword while he was cutting the wedding cake.
Well, why cut a cake with a sword? It obviously wasn't a good idea, since it had made such a mess of the rug. He'd left a great grey patch where the pile was so short the rug was almost bald. Did the fluff get into the cake? And where was the cake when the sword missed it so dramatically?
How about a magic carpet ride back in time to October 1919, when Isabella married Hubert? She was back in Scotland after her adventures, a truly romantic ending to a long journey.
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