Aunt Dimity and the Summer King (13 page)

“I wasn't comparing—” Amelia began, but again she was cut off.

“You're being unfair, Charlotte,” said Honoria. “You can't expect to find the same level of sophistication here as you do in Boston. Operas and symphonies would be wasted on the local inhabitants. One would be casting pearls before swine.”

“Very true,” said Charlotte. “I'm sure the villagers are content with their jumble sales and their sheep dog trials. Simple pleasures for the simpleminded.”

Bess pulled her head out of the crook of my neck and let loose a wail a banshee would have envied. The sound seemed to pierce Amelia's heart, but the sisters were more concerned about their eardrums.

“What's
wrong
with the child?” Honoria demanded, cupping her hands over her ears.

“Can't you
do
something?” Charlotte pleaded, following suit.

“I certainly can,” I said. I stood and addressed Amelia, raising my voice to be heard above the din. “I'll take Bess for a walk. That usually does the trick.” I winced as Bess upped the volume. “We may be gone for a while.”

If Willis, Sr., had been present, Amelia probably would have come with me, but she evidently felt obliged to remain with his guests. I felt no such obligation. Although I was sorry to abandon Amelia for a second time, Bess and I left the sisters behind without a second glance.

Deirdre met me in the entrance hall.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked as Bess's wails rebounded from the white marble walls.

“Bess needs a breath of untainted air,” I explained. “Her pram's in the Rover.”

“Right,” said Deirdre. “I'll fetch the diaper bag and meet you there. Look after Bess. Let me deal with the pram.”

In less than ten minutes, Bess and I were moving briskly across a verdant meadow on one of Willis, Sr.'s well-maintained gravel paths. Soothed by the change of scenery and by the all-terrain pram's familiar vibrations, Bess quickly regained her composure.

I, on the other hand, was ready to spit tacks.

T
rust fund babies,” I muttered furiously. “Pearls before swine. Simpleminded pleasures.
Childbearing at an advanced age?
”

If I'd been a dragon, I would have breathed fire.

“Your daddy knows his aunts much better than I do, Bess,” I went on. “He
knew
they'd try to undermine Amelia. Alcoholism, drug addiction, and mental illness, my foot!”

I walked so rapidly I scattered gravel in my wake. I didn't bask in the sunshine or revel in the loveliness of the flower-sprinkled meadow. I charged ahead like a rampaging rhinoceros. I didn't care where we were going, as long as it was away from the Harpies.

“Later on, Bess, when you're old enough to learn about good and evil,” I continued, “I'll show you a photograph of your grandfather and a photograph of the grandaunts you met today and explain to you which is which.” I kicked an inoffensive twig and sent it flying into the undergrowth. “Why can't Grandpa William see it?”

Cool air, dappled shade, and the faint scent of moist earth suggested that we were no longer in the sunny meadow. I stopped to look around.

“The orchid wood,” I whispered. A shiver went down my spine as Willis, Sr.'s words came back to me. “A five-minute stroll through the orchid wood . . .” I tucked a blanket over Bess's bare legs. “I wonder if the side entrance to the Summer King's estate is locked? Let's find out, shall we? He did invite us to drop in.”

I was pretty sure the side entrance Willis, Sr., had mentioned would be locked or rusted shut, but it didn't matter. The mere thought of seeing Arthur Hargreaves again brought my anger with Bill's aunts down to a manageable level.

“He should be at home,” I said to Bess. “Remember what Grant and Charles told us? The Hermit of Hillfont Abbey doesn't leave home, if he can help it. Then again, Grant and Charles could be wrong.” I pursed my lips and said thoughtfully, “Everyone could be wrong about Arthur.”

I jiggled the pram to keep Bess amused while I reviewed the information I'd gathered about Arthur Hargreaves. According to the villagers, he was as mean-spirited and uppity as the rest of the Tillcote folk. According to Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham, he was a slightly mad, wholly secretive power broker. According to Willis, Sr., he was a fireworks aficionado, and according to Aunt Dimity, he was the innocent victim of an inherited feud.

“But none of them—not even Aunt Dimity—has met Arthur,” I said aloud. “Their impressions of him are based on rumor, hearsay, innuendo, and a story that's been passed down from one generation to the next.” I stopped jiggling the pram and gazed steadily into Bess's brown eyes. “This could be our chance to find out if the rumors are true, baby girl. Interested? I knew you would be. Let's go!”

It took some time to locate the correct path among the many crisscrossing, branching trails in the orchid wood, but I eventually found myself standing before a formidable wrought-iron gate set into the boundary wall that had piqued my curiosity and drawn me farther along the old cart track than I'd intended to go. The wall itself was concealed by banks of massed rhododendrons and the gate was around the corner from the section Arthur had climbed.

“We couldn't see the gate from the cart track,” I explained to Bess, “because it was hidden in a stand of trees. If your mummy had a better sense of direction, she would have known it was the orchid wood. Emma would have recognized it straightaway.” I rolled my eyes. “All that map reading . . .”

Bess sighed sympathetically.

“I can see Arthur's house,” I told her excitedly, stepping past the pram. “It's over there.”

I peered eagerly through the wrought-iron gate and across a broad expanse of open meadow to the low rise upon which Quentin Hargreaves had built his faux abbey. Aunt Dimity's Victorian ancestors had poured scorn upon “Quentin's Folly,” but it filled me with delight.

“Oh, Bess,” I whispered. “It's
wonderful
.”

From a distance, Hillfont Abbey looked more like a fanciful fortress than a sober monastery. Its basic layout was quite simple—a square tower flanked by a pair of three-story wings—but the magic was in the details.

The central tower was crenellated and pierced by lancet windows. The three-story wings were festooned with spires, turrets, chimney clusters, stepped gables, projecting bays, and slender corner towers with conical caps. The building seemed to possess every shade of Cotswold stone—gray roofs, golden turrets, cream-colored embrasures, butterscotch walls—and it was surrounded by a crazy quilt of courtyards and gardens enclosed by another stone wall.

A flag hung from a pole atop the central tower. When it fluttered in a passing breeze, I caught a glimpse of a multicolored emblem centered on a sky-blue ground. I was too far away to decipher the emblem, but I was willing to swear that it wasn't a Union Jack.

“Quentin Hargreaves probably designed his own flag, too,” I said to Bess. “Should I ask your brothers to design a flag for our family? I'll bet your grandaunts would have a lot to say about a family flag emblazoned with ponies, cookies, and dinosaurs.”

I began to chuckle but fell silent when a strange buzzing noise reached my ears. It sounded as if someone had crossed a lawnmower with a sewing machine, then tossed a hornets' nest into the mix for good measure. Stranger still, the noise seemed to be coming from the sky.

I tilted my head back to see if the Summer King or one of his grandchildren had launched a marvelous, motorized kite into the air, but the buzzing noise didn't come from a kite. It came from a tiny aircraft that looked as though it had been cobbled together from a lawn chair, spare pram wheels, and leftover kite fabric.

The craft's single, lime-green wing and its tail wings looked marginally reliable, but they were attached to a frame that appeared to be made out of duct tape and plastic pipes. It had no fuselage, no windshield, no doors, no protective shell of any kind, and its buzzing engine sat directly above the pilot's bare head.

My mouth fell open as the flimsy airplane circled once, twice, three times around the abbey, then swooped low to land in the meadow. I held my breath as it touched down and didn't breathe again until it had rolled to within twenty yards of the wrought-iron gate. When it finally came to a full stop, I saw that its pilot had white hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard.

“Arthur may be slightly mad, Bess,” I conceded, pressing a hand to my heaving chest, “but we can't fault his courage.”

Arthur Hargreaves switched off the engine and unbuckled a shoulder harness and a seat belt. He stashed his goggles and his bulbous ear protectors beneath his seat, then climbed out of the lawn chair and stretched his arms above his head, as if they were stiff. He was dressed in a loose-fitting Hawaiian shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and the same soiled sneakers he'd worn when I'd first met him, but his grapevine crown was missing.

“He must have left it at home so it wouldn't blow away,” I whispered to Bess. “If the Summer King had abdicated, it would be raining.”

I watched in silence as Arthur secured the little plane, tethering it to stakes he drove into the ground by the simple expedient of stomping on them. He stood back to survey his handiwork, then began to make his way to the abbey.

“Arthur?” I called through the gate. I plucked a clean diaper from the diaper bag and waved it to get his attention. “Arthur! Over here!”

He swung around and looked toward me. A broad grin split his bearded face when he spotted the flapping diaper.

“Lori!” he shouted back. “Good to see you!”

I returned the diaper to the diaper bag and waited expectantly as the Summer King ambled toward me. When he reached the gate, I meant to say, “Hello again, Arthur. I hope Bess and I aren't intruding.” Instead, the first thing that came into my head popped out of my mouth.

“That is the coolest thing I've ever seen in my life,” I gushed, sounding—even to my own ears—like a starstruck twelve-year-old. “Absolutely the coolest.” I slipped my arm through the gate to point at the tiny aircraft. “Did you make it yourself?”

“The ultralight?” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “No, I didn't make it. I merely tweaked a few engine parts for its owner. He'll be along later to pick it up. I think he'll be happy with my improvements.” He cocked his head toward me. “Would you like to come in? Or were you merely passing by?”

“No one could pass your gate accidentally, Arthur,” I said, grinning. “Of course I want to come in. Unless”—I looked down, feeling suddenly shy—“unless Bess and I are intruding.”

“How could you intrude?” he asked. “I invited you.”

He tugged on the gate and it swung aside soundlessly.

“It's not locked,” I said. “I thought it might be.”

“Why would I lock it?” Arthur asked. “Your father-in-law is a decent chap. Or so I've heard.”

“William is decent,” I said, as I wheeled Bess past him, “but he mystifies me. Come to think of it, so do you. The pair of you live next door to each other, with an unlocked gate between you, yet you haven't exchanged so much as a how-do-you-do.” I looked up at Arthur, perplexed. “Is it a guy thing?”

“Yes, Lori,” he said, closing the gate behind me. “It's a guy thing. Hello, princess.” He bent to stroke Bess's cheek with his knuckles, then squatted to study the pram. “My repairs seem to be holding up.”

“So far, so good,” I said. “Thank you for calling the company's CEO.”

“It was no trouble,” said Arthur. “He said himself that he'd rather hear the bad news about the axle from me than from a mother whose child had been injured because of it.”

“I wouldn't have known how to get ahold of him,” I said, recalling Grant Tavistock's comments about Arthur's mysterious corporate connections. “Is he a friend of yours?”

“A former student,” Arthur replied.

His answer seemed to demolish Charles Bellingham's repeated assertions that the infamous Mr. Hargreaves was profoundly antisocial. I doubted that a recluse would feel comfortable in a classroom.

“Are you a teacher?” I asked.

“Everyone's a teacher,” he said, standing. “I could do with a cup of tea after my test flight. What about you?”

“I'd love one,” I replied.

“Please, allow me,” he said, holding his hand out toward the pram. “You probably don't get many chances to walk with your hands free.”

“Not lately,” I agreed, wondering if I'd ever met a more perfect gentleman. No one who knew Arthur Hargreaves, I thought, could regard him as mean-spirited or uppity.

He took control of the pram and we strode side by side across the broad meadow. Bess was entranced by her new companion. She smacked her lips, cooed, and gurgled, as if she were engaging him in conversation. When he responded with soft noises of his own, she kicked so enthusiastically that her blanket slithered to the ground. I picked it up, shook it out, and put it in the diaper bag. “How's Marcus doing in Santiago?” I asked.

“He's having a ball,” Arthur replied. “He's climbed a couple of
cerros
, eaten
pastel
de
choclo
in a barrio, shouted himself hoarse at a football game, and made lots of new friends.”

“Didn't he go there to attend a conference?” I asked uncertainly.

“Oh, yes,” said Arthur, as if the conference were an afterthought. “His paper was very well received.”

“Good for Marcus,” I said. “Are the rest of your grandchildren still here?”

“Just the little ones,” he replied, “and Harriet. Her summer hols started last week.”

“Harriet's the one who got kite paste in her hair, isn't she?” I asked and Arthur nodded. “Do your grandchildren stay with you often?”

“As often as they please,” he said. “They seem to like it here.”

“I can see why,” I said, gazing admiringly at the abbey. “Hillfont Abbey is—”

“Absurd,” Arthur put in. “It's utterly ridiculous.” He eyed his home ruefully. “Silly houses were all the rage when my great-great-grandfather built Hillfont. His name was Quentin Hargreaves and he had a taste for medieval kitsch. I'm thankful that he never toured India. If he had, I might be living in a scaled-down version of the Brighton Pavilion.”

“I like Hillfont Abbey,” I said. “I guess I share your great-great-grandfather's taste for medieval kitsch.”

“It's better than the Brighton Pavilion,” Arthur conceded. “I can't bear Indo-Gothic architecture. Much too busy. It would be like living inside a kaleidoscope.”

I did my best to conceal it, but I was shocked to hear Arthur speak so disparagingly about his family home. If he'd been around when Hillfont Abbey had been built, he would have sided with the Victorian villagers who'd dismissed it as an overdone eyesore. Did he realize that his opinion echoed theirs? I asked myself. Was he aware of the hostility his great-great-grandfather had roused in them?

“I suppose Hillfont Abbey wasn't to everyone's taste when it was built,” I said cautiously. “What did your great-great—”

“Please, call him Quentin,” Arthur interrupted. “It'll save time.”

“Okay,” I said. “What did Quentin's neighbors think of his abbey?”

“I wasn't alive at the time,” Arthur said, with a wry, sidelong glance, “but my grandfather intimated to me that the abbey wasn't a big hit with the locals. I imagine they preferred your father-in-law's house.”

“Fairworth is a little less, um, whimsical than Hillfont,” I allowed.

“Fairworth is older than Hillfont,” said Arthur, “but it's no less whimsical. Georgian architects looked to ancient Rome for inspiration. Building a Roman house in the English countryside is about as whimsical as it gets.”