Aunt Dimity and the Summer King (11 page)

“Such as?” I asked.

“Colorful characters,” Amelia said promptly. “Candid conversations. Concern for one's neighbors. Pride in one's village. And more else besides.”

I leaned toward her. “Did she tell you about the Finch-Tillcote feud?”

“Oh, yes,” said Amelia. “Marigold made it quite clear that the two villages did not get on. It put me off, rather.” Amelia frowned. “I felt as if I'd glimpsed the dark side of village life and I didn't like it one bit. If I hadn't had a very special reason to move to Finch, I might have chosen to live elsewhere.” A slow smile curved her lips as she stroked her engagement ring with her thumb. “Which would have been a grave mistake on my part.”

“I'm sure William would agree with you,” I said. “You weren't looking for love when you came to Finch, but you found it anyway.”

“Life,” she said, her smile widening, “is full of surprises.”

The most wonderful surprise in Amelia's life chose that moment to walk into the morning room.

M
y father-in-law wasn't physically imposing, but he had impeccable manners, patrician good looks, and a flawless sense of style. His gleaming black leather shoes and his black three-piece suit fit him as though they'd been made for him, which they had, and his white shirt wasn't blindingly white, but a more subtle shade that complimented his snowy hair perfectly.

His gray silk tie and pocket square were familiar accent pieces, but the forget-me-not in his buttonhole was a relatively new touch. He'd worn a fresh flower in his lapel ever since Amelia had tucked an anemone into his breast pocket during one of their long country rambles. It was his way of wearing his heart on his sleeve.

Bess went bananas as soon as Willis, Sr., entered the room. She kicked like a mule, waved her fists in the air, squeaked, gurgled, giggled, and favored him with a broad, gummy smile. His handsome face lit up when he saw her and when he spoke, he spoke as much to her as to me.

“Please forgive me for neglecting you so shamefully,” he said. “I had no idea that you were here. I have just this moment returned from paying my respects to Augusta Fairworthy.”

Augusta Fairworthy, who was distantly related to Deirdre Donovan, had grown up in Fairworth House. When she'd died, Willis, Sr., had honored her request to be buried on the estate, within view of the house, beneath an oak tree she'd climbed many times as a child.

“I hope you, too, will forgive my absence,” he continued, approaching Amelia.

“You were wise to absent yourself,” she said ruefully. “You're safe now, though. The hurricane warning has been lifted.”

Willis, Sr., caught my eye and smiled, then raised his fiancée's hand to his lips.

“Your desire to be helpful is wholly admirable, my dear,” he said, straightening, “if occasionally misplaced.” He held his arms out to Bess and looked questioningly at me. “May I?”

“You don't have to ask, William,” I said, exasperated. “I'm pretty sure I've mentioned it to you a few thousand times already, but for the thousand and oneth time: You don't need my permission to hold your granddaughter.”

To spare Willis, Sr.'s back, I lifted Bess from the bouncy chair. To spare his exquisite suit, I draped a clean diaper over his shoulder before handing her to him.

“My granddaughter has gained weight,” he commented.

I headed him off before he could rile me by asking if I was feeding Bess properly.

“I know,” I said brightly. “It's great, isn't it? According to Dr. Finisterre, Bess is exactly the right weight for her age.”

“Dr. Finisterre is a fine physician,” Willis, Sr., said, nodding his approval.

He carried his granddaughter to the windows to show her the view, but she was more interested in grabbing his nose, poking him in the eye, and putting her fingers into his mouth. There was no such thing as dignity where Bess was concerned.

“We've been discussing Marigold Edwards,” said Amelia.

Willis, Sr., turned to face me.

“We're not moving,” I said doggedly, in answer to his unspoken question. “We're not even thinking about moving. Bill and I are as happy as clams in the cottage.”

“Why, then, were you and Amelia discussing Mrs. Edwards?” he inquired.

“I've taken an interest in her,” I replied. “Did you deal with her when you bought Fairworth House?”

“I did not,” he said. “I dealt directly with the previous owner. He was eighty-four years old at the time, and living in Singapore. He wished to rid himself of an inherited estate that had become an encumbrance. I had no difficulty conducting the transaction without the aid of a local estate agent.”

With Bess gripping his chin and patting his lips, Willis, Sr., was unable to enunciate his words with his usual precision, but he managed to make himself understood.

“Although I have not yet met Mrs. Edwards,” he went on, “I will, of course, be eternally grateful to her for facilitating Amelia's purchase of Pussywillows.” He bestowed a tender glance on his beloved.

I was about to move on to the third item on my agenda when Deirdre Donovan returned, bringing with her a second pitcher of ice water and a single Waterford tumbler, presumably for Willis, Sr.'s use. She placed the pitcher and the tumbler on the salver, then sniffed the air.

“Unless I'm mistaken,” she said, “someone needs a fresh nappy.”

Willis, Sr., sniffed his granddaughter delicately, then nodded.

“My olfactory receptors are not as acute as yours,” he said, “but I believe you are correct.”

“Sorry, William,” I said, standing. “I must be getting used to it.”

“Please, allow me,” said Deirdre, taking Bess from Willis, Sr. “You don't mind if I do the honors, do you, Lori?”

“Have I ever kept you from changing Bess's diapers?” I said, sinking back into my chair. “Knock yourself out!”

Bess was familiar with Deirdre and went with her willingly. A moment later, the sound of the elevator Willis, Sr., had installed in the entrance hall told us that they were on their way to the top-floor nursery. Willis, Sr., divested himself of his suit protector and Amelia tucked it into the diaper bag, looking thoughtful.

“Perhaps she's practicing,” Amelia proposed, as Willis, Sr., seated himself beside her on the settee, “for when she has to change her own baby's nappies.” She turned to him. “Has Deirdre said anything to you about starting a family, William? Has Declan?”

“They have not,” said Willis, Sr. “I would not expect the Donovans to discuss such a personal matter with me and I would urge you to refrain from discussing it. They may not wish to have children, they may wish to postpone having them, or they may be unable to have them. It is entirely their own affair. Speculation by a third party would be disrespectful, intrusive, and potentially hurtful.”

“You're right, of course,” said Amelia, but her fiancé's comprehensive critique of idle gossip didn't prevent her from adding, “What a tragedy it would be if they were infertile.”

“Shall we change the subject?” Willis, Sr., requested with a swift glance in my direction.

Willis, Sr., knew that I'd once harbored doubts about my own ability to start a family. He seemed to think that Amelia's musings might revive memories I did not wish to recall. I could have told him that those memories no longer troubled me. I could have said that each of my children had been well worth the wait. Instead, I shamelessly exploited his concern for me by pouncing on the chance to change the subject.

“Arthur Hargreaves,” I said abruptly, putting a triumphant mental check mark next to the third item on my agenda. “What can you tell me about him, William?”

“Why do you wish to know about Arthur Hargreaves?” Willis, Sr., asked, looking bemused. “Have you taken an interest in him as well?”

“Bess and I met him on Saturday,” I said. “I was a little surprised when he told me he'd never met you.”

“Who is Arthur Hargreaves?” Amelia asked.

“He's William's next-door neighbor,” I replied. “He lives in a place called Hillfont Abbey.”

“The Hargreaves estate is adjacent to mine,” Willis, Sr., clarified. “Technically, Mr. Hargreaves is my neighbor, but he and I do not interact in what most people would describe as a neighborly fashion.”

“Why not?” Amelia and I asked simultaneously. She sounded astonished, but I simply wanted to hear Willis, Sr.'s side of the story.

“I cannot speak for Mr. Hargreaves,” he said, “but it is an old habit of mine to respect a person's privacy until he or she invites me to do otherwise. I have received no such invitation from Mr. Hargreaves.”

Amelia tossed her head impatiently.

“William,” she said, “for an intelligent man, you can be remarkably obtuse at times. What if poor Mr. Hargreaves is waiting for
you
to invite
him
to invade
your
precious privacy?”

“If such is the case,” said Willis, Sr., “I fear that we shall remain strangers.”

“You haven't avoided him intentionally, have you?” I asked. “Because of the Finch-Tillcote feud?”

Willis, Sr., appeared to be faintly puzzled.

“Are the two villages engaged in a feud?” he asked.

“Of course they are,” Amelia expostulated. “You must know about the feud, William. It's been going on for ages. Marigold Edwards told me all about it when I first came to Finch.”

“I am not acquainted with Mrs. Edwards,” Willis, Sr., reminded her.

“Nor am I,” I said. “William and I are in the same boat, Amelia. Neither of us used an estate agent when we moved to Finch. No one told me about the feud until yesterday, but you're right—it's been going on for a long time.”

“How long?” Willis, Sr., inquired.

“Victoria was still on the throne when it started,” I said, recalling Aunt Dimity's history lesson. “Local lore has it that Arthur's great-great-grandfather, Quentin Hargreaves, sided with Tillcote in a quarrel about three stolen pigs.”

“Did Quentin Hargreaves blame the theft on a person or persons residing in Finch?” Willis, Sr., asked.

“Quentin didn't point a finger at anyone,” I said, “but he chose Tillcote over Finch, so he must have believed that the guilty party lived in Finch.”

“Implications can sometimes do more damage than outright accusations,” Willis, Sr., observed. “One can defend oneself against an accusation. An implication is more difficult to refute.”

“Quentin's implication outraged Finch's law-abiding residents,” I said. “They shunned the Hargreaves family because of it and they've been shunning them ever since. That's why I thought you might . . .” My voice faded as Willis, Sr., gave me a withering look.

“I think he's outraged by your implication,” Amelia said in a deliberately comical stage whisper.

Willis, Sr.'s frosty expression thawed.

“I beg your pardon, Lori,” he said contritely. “I was taken aback by your suggestion that an ancient quarrel might influence my choice of friends. I can assure you that such is not the case, nor would it ever be the case. I have seen petty vendettas tear families apart far too often. I refuse to participate in one.”

Before his retirement, Willis, Sr., had been an international attorney who'd specialized in estate planning for the fabulously wealthy. He had firsthand knowledge of the spite, bile, and malice that shaped many last wills and testaments.

“It was a long shot,” I acknowledged, “but I had to be sure. Everyone else in Finch seems to be caught up in the feud.”

“William isn't everyone,” Amelia said proudly, putting her hand on his.

“No, he isn't,” I agreed. I leaned back in my chair, feeling disappointed. “Are you certain you can't tell me anything about Arthur Hargreaves, William?”

“Our paths have not crossed,” he replied. “I have seen bright lights in the sky above Hillfont Abbey from time to time and I have heard the occasional explosion, but apart from that—”

“Bright lights?” Amelia exclaimed.

“Explosions?” I said, sitting upright.

Deirdre Donovan's reputation for good timing took a serious hit when she chose that precise moment to return to the morning room with Bess. I saw immediately that she hadn't merely changed my daughter's diaper. She'd exchanged Bess's simple white jumpsuit for an unfamiliar gray onesie topped with an equally unfamiliar but adorable coral cardigan.

“Do you like them?” she asked me, plucking anxiously at the onesie's collar and smoothing the cardigan before passing Bess to me. “They caught my eye the last time I was in Upper Deeping and I couldn't resist buying them. I've been dying to try them on Bess.”

“They're wonderful,” I said. “The color combination is very sophisticated. I wouldn't have thought of pairing coral with gray, but they look great together. Thank you, Deirdre.”

Deirdre looked so relieved that I didn't have the heart to tell her that all baby clothes, no matter how sophisticated, were doomed to a life that was damp, sticky, and short. She acknowledged my thanks with a beaming smile, filled the three tumblers with water, and took the empty pitcher with her as she left the room.

Bess should have been ready to chow down, but she was too excited to think about eating, so I put her back in the bouncy chair before turning my gimlet gaze on Willis, Sr.

“Bright lights in the sky?” I said. “Explosions? What the heck are you talking about, William?”

“Yes, William,” Amelia chimed in. “What in heaven's name are you talking about?”

“I assume Mr. Hargreaves enjoys fireworks,” said Willis, Sr. “I have never had a reason to test my assumption. The pyrotechnics I have witnessed have had no deleterious effects on my property.”

Amelia and I exchanged looks of helpless disbelief.

“If I heard explosions coming from my neighbor's house,” I said, “I'd mosey over to have a little chat with him.”

“So would I,” Amelia said feelingly. “Where is Hillfont Abbey?”

“The abbey itself lies slightly to the northeast of Fairworth House,” said Willis, Sr., “but the Hargreaves estate shares my estate's northern border.”

“You could
walk
there,” Amelia said, staring at him.

“I have no desire to trespass on a stranger's property,” said Willis, Sr. “It is true, however, that a five-minute stroll through the orchid wood would bring me to a side entrance in the wall that surrounds the abbey.” He peered at me inquisitively. “Where did you happen upon Mr. Hargreaves?”

“He happened upon us,” I said. “Bess and I were exploring a long-forgotten farm track Emma Harris had told me about, when—”

“Are you referring to the disused cart track that runs parallel to my property line?” Willis, Sr., interjected, looking alarmed.

“Yep,” I said. “And before you accuse me of risking Bess's life, let me say in my own defense that I wouldn't have taken her down the old track if I'd known it was prone to flash floods.”