Aunt Dimity and the Summer King (10 page)

I didn't hear about it all at once, Lori, as you've done just now. I grew up with it. It permeated the atmosphere in Finch, like a poisonous gas. Strange things don't seem strange when one grows up with them.

“The feud should seem strange to Peggy and Sally and Christine and the Handmaidens,” I said. “None of them grew up here. Most of them were approaching middle age when they moved to Finch.”

If you'll recall, some of them were billeted in Finch when they were children. Young children are very impressionable. They may have absorbed their host families' prejudices. As for the others . . . Those new to a community often adopt its foibles. It's not uncommon to find incomers resurrecting traditions the native-born have allowed to lapse, as a way of declaring their allegiance to their new home.

“And the, er, Tillcote folk haven't exactly declared a truce,” I said.

They have been rather combative.

“It still seems odd to me,” I said. “I mean, it's ancient history, isn't it? Why would a Victorian spat continue to affect people today?”

I believe the strong feelings provoked by the American Civil War continue to affect people today. I'm not, of course, comparing the petty bickering of two small villages to a great and terrible civil war. I'm simply pointing out that the past has a way of intruding on the present, whether we're conscious of it or not.

“Derek Harris thinks it's a case of village rivalry run amok,” I said. “He thinks it's ridiculous, but he goes along with it anyway.”

He goes along to get along, as my mother used to say.

“I wonder if Arthur is aware of the feud?” I said. “He didn't make any wisecracks about Finch while I was with him. He didn't treat me or Bess badly because we live in Finch. If the track between Finch and Hillfont were paved, I suspect he'd show his face more often in Finch.”

I'm not convinced that Quentin Hargreaves was aware of the resentment he'd stirred up among the villagers. He may have sided with Tillcote once, but he never did so again. Neither he nor his descendants participated in village life, either in Finch or in Tillcote. They kept themselves very much to themselves.

“They avoided the poisonous gas that permeated the atmosphere in Finch,” I said reflectively. “It's a disturbing image, Dimity. Marigold Edwards could use it or something like it to drive off prospective buyers.”

Why would she do such a thing, Lori? How would it benefit her?

“I haven't the faintest idea,” I said, “but I intend to find out. I'd confront her tomorrow if I hadn't already promised myself to Amelia.”

Why did you promise yourself to Amelia?

“Bill's aunts,” I said bleakly.

Oh, dear. I'd forgotten about Honoria and Charlotte. They'll be here tomorrow, won't they?

“Amelia expects them to arrive at Fairworth House around noon,” I said. “I promised to get her through the ordeal.”

Who will get you through the ordeal, my dear?

“Bess,” I replied.

I should have guessed. Good gracious, Lori, what are you doing down here at this late hour? You should be upstairs and asleep. You'll need all of your strength if you're to face your aunts-in-law tomorrow.

“I'm on my way, Dimity,” I said. “Thanks for the history lesson.”

You're quite welcome, my dear. Now, scoot!

I waited until the elegant lines of fine copperplate script had faded from the page, then closed the blue journal and returned it to its shelf.

“I don't care about village rivalries or multigenerational hissy fits,” I said to Reginald. “I won't turn my back on Arthur Hargreaves.”

My pink bunny's black button eyes gleamed softly in the lamplight, as if he'd given me his blessing to pursue my budding friendship with the Summer King.

I
felt surprisingly chipper when Bess roused me from slumber at the crack of dawn on Monday. Even so, I didn't hesitate to accept Bill's offer to drive the boys to school in his Mercedes and to pick them up at the end of the day. While his agenda contained nothing more pressing than the busywork he'd invented to avoid spending time with his aunts, mine was chock-full of vital tasks, the first of which I accomplished before leaving the cottage.

After downing a few hurried mouthfuls of breakfast, I waved Bill, Will, and Rob on their way, put a load of presoaked diapers into the washer, ate a proper breakfast, straightened the kitchen, and brought Bess and her workout mat into the study with me, so I could keep an eye on her while I called the number written on the page from Mr. Barlow's notebook.

As normal business hours had not yet commenced, I thought I would have to leave a recorded message for Marigold Edwards. I was pleasantly surprised, therefore, when my call was answered by a courteous human voice telling me that I'd reached the offices of the Edwards Estate Agency. Marigold might not be a go-getter, but Mrs. Dinsdale—the firm's office manager—evidently was.

Mrs. Dinsdale informed me that Mrs. Edwards would be happy to meet with me at ten o'clock on Friday morning. I would have preferred to come to grips with my quarry sooner, but I was in no position to argue with Mrs. Dinsdale's apologetic but firm assertion that Mrs. Edwards would be fully engaged until then.

I confirmed the date and time of the appointment, thanked Mrs. Dinsdale for her assistance, and ended the call, muttering, “I'll bet Marigold Edwards isn't fully engaged in finding buyers for
our
cottages.”

By then, Bess needed a diaper change.

I sorted her out and left her in her playpen, shaking a rainbow-striped toucan rattle, while I put the clean diapers into the dryer and the one she'd recently dirtied into the presoak bin. The clean-dirty diaper cycle was never-ending.

I loaded the all-terrain pram into the Range Rover in case Willis, Sr., wished to take his granddaughter for a stroll, but I didn't bother to dress Bess in a special meet-the-grandaunts outfit because the one she had on would almost certainly have to be changed before Charlotte and Honoria made their grand entrance.

Since Bess was a drooling, pooping, upchucking clotheshorse, however, I packed the usual assortment of extra outfits in the diaper bag and hoped that her great-grandaunts would approve of the one she was wearing when they met her. It was a wan hope, admittedly, but when it came to dealing with Bill's aunts, a wan hope was the only kind of hope I could manage.

I had no hope whatsoever of escaping criticism aimed at my own attire, regardless of what I wore. I could have been depressed by the thought, but I chose to regard it as liberating. It freed me to wear sneakers instead of heels and a utilitarian nursing top instead of a fancy blouse. I even felt a small rush of pride when I pulled on a pair of blue jeans I couldn't have squeezed myself into six weeks earlier.

By nine o'clock, Bess, the diaper bag, and I were in the Range Rover and on our way to Fairworth House. It was another splendid summer morning, warm but not too warm and still without being stuffy. The sun shone in a cloudless sky and a myriad of small birds fluttered in and out of the hedgerows that lined the lane. I told Bess about Anscombe Manor and Bree Pym's redbrick house as we drove past them, and announced our arrival when we reached the entrance to her grandfather's estate.

Most of my friends had garage-door openers hooked to their car visors. I had a wrought-iron-gate opener hooked to mine. I pressed it and the gates guarding Willis, Sr.'s tree-lined drive swung inward. As I passed between them, I glanced upward, half expecting to see Amelia perched on a tree branch, polishing leaves. The Donovans wouldn't have left her much else to do.

Deirdre and Declan Donovan lived in the self-contained apartment Willis, Sr., had carved out of the attics in Fairworth House. They were in their early thirties and they were the only full-time staff members my father-in-law employed. Declan worked outdoors, tending to the estate's gardens, meadows, and woods and occasionally serving as Willis, Sr.'s chauffeur, while Deirdre filled the dual indoor roles of cook and housekeeper. They were both very good at their jobs. What's more, they were good people. Bill and I slept more soundly at night, knowing that Willis, Sr., had such a competent, compassionate couple looking after him.

The Donovans thought themselves lucky to live and work in such a beautiful place, and when Fairworth House came into view, I couldn't help but agree with them. There was nothing outlandish or flamboyant about my father-in-law's home. It was a solid, respectable Georgian mansion—classical, restrained, and relatively modest in size. Its limestone walls glowed like old gold in the morning light, its tall windows sparkled, and its white trim work gleamed. Fairworth was, like its owner, elegant, understated, and well groomed.

I spotted Declan Donovan in the rose garden as I pulled onto the graveled apron in front of the house. Declan, a short, stocky, redheaded Irishman, was dressed in his gardening gear—a loose-fitting short-sleeved shirt, scruffy Wellington boots, and black nylon trousers with padded knees and a variety of pockets. When he saw me, he shoved his secateurs into a leg pocket and came over to lend me a hand with the diaper bag while I released Bess's carry cot/car seat from the Rover.

“How's our Bess this fine morning?” he inquired.

“Blooming,” I replied. “How's our Amelia?”

“You'll see for yourself in a min—”

Declan broke off as Amelia flung the front door open and all but flew down the front steps.

“Oh, dear,” I said under my breath.

“Yep,” Declan murmured succinctly.

“You're here!” Amelia exclaimed, enveloping me and the freed carry cot in a hug. She planted a quick kiss on Bess's forehead, snatched the diaper bag from Declan, and tugged me up the stairs and into the high-ceilinged entrance hall.

Amelia Thistle was a petite, pleasantly plump widow in her early sixties. She was also a world-renowned watercolorist. She found inspiration in nature and spent much of her time tramping through the countryside, clad in a bulky pullover, a ratty rain jacket, and corduroy trousers, with her painting gear crammed into a grubby old day pack. Her complexion was ruddy and she wore her gray hair in a perpetually tousled knot at the back of her head, but though she preferred to dress down, she knew how to dress up.

She'd clearly made an effort to put her best foot forward for her prospective sisters-in-law. Her flowing, knee-length silk gown looked as though she had painted it herself, then dipped it in water to make the pastel colors run together. It was striking, but not showy, and its soft violet shades played off the amethyst in her antique engagement ring.

“Come into the morning room,” she said, pulling me across the entrance hall. “We're saving the drawing room for later.”

I assumed that “later” meant “when Charlotte and Honoria arrive,” and that Amelia wished to make a good impression on them by ushering them into a room that was marginally more formal than the morning room. They would, no doubt, find the morning room insipid.

I thought it was lovely. The walls were a delicate shade of apricot, the windows were hung with gold brocade drapes, and the furnishings were light and feminine, with slender cabriolet legs and embroidered upholstery. Porcelain figurines graced the white marble mantel shelf, and the silver filigree desk set on the rosewood writing table was so finely wrought it could have been made of lace. Willis, Sr., had put the finishing touch on the morning room when he'd replaced its oil paintings with a selection of his fiancée's superb watercolors.

Amelia had added an unexpected splash of color to the decor by placing a bright-red bouncy chair in the middle of the room. The chair looked slightly out of place on the Aubusson carpet, but when Bess saw it, she gave a squeaky chortle and began to kick like mad. She was very fond of the bouncy chair.

Amelia dropped the diaper bag on the settee near the windows, then prowled the room like a caged lioness while I placed Bess in her favorite piece of furniture. I secured the safety restraints, to keep my rock 'n' roll girl from launching herself into the stratosphere, then sat back on my heels and looked up at Amelia.

I intended to put our time together to good use. Having made an appointment to see Marigold Edwards, I was ready to tackle the second item on my agenda: soliciting Amelia's opinion of her.

“Are you sure you haven't pulled those straps too tight?” Amelia asked, peering at the bouncy chair. “We wouldn't want to cut off Bess's circulation.”

“Bess is fine,” I said through gritted teeth. “Where's William?”

“Oh, he'll be along as soon as he finds out that Bess is here,” Amelia said fretfully. “He's been shut up in his study all morning. He called it his hurricane shelter. I haven't the least idea what he meant by it.”

I grinned knowingly, got to my feet, and seated myself on a non-bouncy Regency armchair near Bess.

“It's a little joke he picked up from his son,” I explained. “Bill called me Hurricane Lori when I arranged William's housewarming party. You must be Hurricane Amelia.”

Amelia drew an indignant breath, then sank onto the settee and began to laugh.

“I have been behaving like a lunatic,” she admitted. “I feel as if I should be
doing
something, but everything's been done, so I keep walking in circles, moving things that don't need to be moved, then moving them back to where they were in the first place. Hurricane Amelia, indeed.” She shook her head and chuckled. “Poor William. I
drove
him into his study.”

“You've got stage fright,” I said. “Who wouldn't? It's easier to meet future in-laws than it is to contemplate meeting them. You'll be fine once the show gets under way. In the meantime, let's talk about anything
but
Charlotte and Honoria.”

“Oh, yes, let's,” she said imploringly. “If I touch another ornament, Deirdre will lock me in the cloakroom and throw away the key.”

“We can't have that,” I said, smiling. “I'm a little parched, though. May I have a glass of water?”

“Good Lord,” said Amelia, jumping up from the settee. “I've officially lost my mind. Forgive me, Lori. I forgot that nursing makes you thirsty. I should have had a pitcher of water waiting for you. I'll be right back.”

She'd scarcely taken two steps away from the settee when the door to the dining room opened and Deirdre Donovan entered the morning room, carrying a silver tray that held a Waterford pitcher filled with ice water, two Waterford tumblers, and a plateful of madeleines.

Deirdre was almost a full head taller than her husband and her refined English accent bore no trace of the years they'd spent together in his homeland. She was an exotic beauty, shapely and graceful, with a swanlike neck and a creamy complexion. During working hours, her “uniform” consisted of a full-skirted white shirt dress, a crisp black apron, black pumps, and a demure black snood—she was the only woman I knew who owned a snood—into which she bundled her luxuriant chestnut hair.

“Thank you, Deirdre,” said Amelia, resuming her seat. “I may have forgotten my manners, but you haven't forgotten yours.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself, Amelia,” said Deirdre. “You're under more pressure than I am.” She placed the silver tray on the occasional table at my elbow. “Shall I pour?”

“I think I can manage,” I said. “But thanks.”

“Will there be anything else?” Deirdre asked.

“Not at the moment,” said Amelia.

Deirdre motioned to the buzzer concealed beneath the mantel shelf.

“Ring if you need me,” she said. “I'll be in the kitchen. Hello, Bess,” she added, smiling down at my bouncy daughter. “Your grandfather will be with you shortly.”

She bent low to caress Bess's wispy curls, then left the morning room. Amelia waved away the glass of water I offered to her, so I drank it down greedily, refilled the glass, and drank half of it before setting it aside.

“I thought Deirdre would have a child of her own by now,” said Amelia, lowering her voice.

“So did I,” I said.

Amelia peered worriedly at the dining room door. “I hope she and Declan realize that William has no objection to—”

“Hold on,” I interrupted. “Would you mind skipping over the Donovans for now? I'd like to pick your brain about someone else.”

“Who?” Amelia asked.

“Marigold Edwards,” I replied. “What's your take on her?”

“What's my take on Marigold Edwards?” Amelia gave me a piercing look, then said cautiously, “I think she's an excellent estate agent. My experience with her was completely satisfactory. I'd recommend her to anyone, apart from you and Bill, because you'd break William's heart if you—”

“We're not moving,” I stated firmly. “I'm just curious about Marigold. What is it, exactly, that makes her an excellent estate agent?”

My reassuring words seemed to enable Amelia to speak more freely and with more enthusiasm about the woman I would meet on Friday morning.

“Having Marigold as my agent was like having a friend in Finch,” she said. “She was thoroughly professional, of course, but she was also . . .” Amelia's voice trailed off and she began again. “The first time I came to Finch to see Pussywillows, Marigold didn't merely show me the cottage. She took me to the tearoom, the Emporium, the pub, the old schoolhouse, and the church.”

“Did she show you the wall paintings?” I asked.

“Naturally,” said Amelia. “They're among Finch's finest treasures and I would have missed them if Marigold hadn't pointed them out to me. She drew my attention to all sorts of little details and she introduced me to everyone we met.” Amelia looked down at her hands. “As you know, Lori, I had my own reasons for purchasing Pussywillows, but Marigold gave me new reasons, fresh reasons, reasons that would never have occurred to me.”