Aunt Dimity and the Summer King (15 page)

“Finch hasn't changed much,” I said.

“I'm glad to hear it,” said Arthur. “I haven't been there in years.”

“Why not?” I asked, straightening. “I realize that the cart track is rough and likely to flood if you burst into tears while you're on it, but if Bess and I could handle it, you could.”

“I seldom leave Hillfont,” he said.

“You go to Tillcote,” I countered.

“I don't go there often.” He sighed tiredly as he looked from one map to the next. “I gave lectures in each of those cities and many more, Lori. Traveling taught me to appreciate the comforts of home.”

We'd reached the fireplace. A heraldic shield held pride of place above the mantel shelf. The shield's design was unlike any I'd seen before. Yellow bars divided its sky-blue ground into three equal sections, and each section was emblazoned with a different creature: a bulldog, a bee, and a unicorn.

“That's our coat of arms,” Harriet said, speaking for the first time since Bess had fallen asleep in her arms. “My great-great-great-great-grandfather made it up because he couldn't be bothered with inherited knighthoods and peerages. He believed that we each of us make our own way in the world, based on our talents and our hard work. The coat of arms is on our flag, too.”

“Tell me about it,” I said.

“The bulldog stands for tenacity, the honeybee stands for hard work, and the unicorn represents the power of the imagination,” she explained, as if she'd learned the words by heart. “Ideas start up here”—she tapped the side of her head—“but they won't go anywhere if you don't work hard to make them real. And you need to stick with them until you do make them real or until you find out they won't work. That's where the tenacity comes in.”

I had a hunch that Harriet was more of a bulldog than a unicorn, but since she was a Hargreaves, I expected her to surprise me.

“Athletes may dream of winning an Olympic medal,” Arthur said, carrying on where his granddaughter had left off, “but they won't win medals by dreaming. They have to put in the hard yards.”

“Hard work and tenacity,” said Harriet, nodding decisively. “That's how a dream becomes real. Grandad, would you hold Bess?”

“I'd love to,” he said, adding in an aside to me, “Harriet's not the only one who misses having a baby in the house.”

He took Bess from Harriet and Harriet ran from the room, using the same door Mrs. Ellicott had used. Bess nestled into Arthur's arms without waking. I would have taken the opportunity to survey the library's books if I hadn't glanced at the tall case clock in the corner. It reminded me that Bill would be picking the boys up from school in an hour.

“Arthur,” I said, turning to face him, “I now know why you're the Summer King. I was in desperate need of a little warmth when I got here and you gave me a big bucketful.”

“Dare I ask what chilled you?” he inquired.

I gazed at him in silence for a moment, then asked, “Do you believe blood's thicker than water?”

“Blood's messier,” said Arthur. “Its relative density depends on whether it has coagulated or not.”

“I'm not talking about real blood, Arthur,” I said gently. “I'm talking about family loyalty.”

“Oh, I see,” he said, as if he'd genuinely misunderstood me. “No, I've never subscribed to that particular maxim. I love and admire most of my relations, but there are one or two I'd like to drop-kick across the Channel. My eldest nephew, for example—a shifty lad. He went into finance, of course. He's creative, yes, but not in a good way.” He raised his eyebrows. “Are you having second thoughts about a member of your family?”

“I'd like to drop-kick my husband's aunts across the Atlantic,” I said. “They're proper ladies—well-born, well-dressed, and never a hair out of place. They like to remind me that I'm not the well-bred debutante they had in mind for their nephew.” I heaved a discouraged sigh. “Let's just say that I'm not looking forward to dining with them at Fairworth on Saturday.”

“Until then,” Arthur said, “I suggest you dismiss them from your mind.”

“I wish I could,” I said, “but they'll be here for the next three weeks, taking polite potshots at me. William loves them, so I can't shoot back and I can't let Bill defend me, either.” I shook my head. “It's going to be a long three weeks.”

“Come here when you can,” said Arthur. “Let us cheer you up.”

“You already have,” I said, “and I'm grateful, but it's time for me to go. The rest of my family will be home soon and I have to get dinner on the table for them.”

“I understand,” he said, “but I hope you'll stay for just a few more minutes. Harriet will want to say good-bye to Bess.”

“Bess will want to say good-bye to Harriet, too,” I assured him. “Or she would, if she were awake.”

Arthur walked up and down the library, crooning softly to my sleeping daughter, while I searched the sofa and the floor space around it for stray diaper bag supplies. I found a rattle wedged between the cushions and had just added it to the bag when Harriet returned, clutching something in her hands. I thought she would run straight to Bess, but instead she ran to me.

“For Bess,” she said, and she presented me with a stuffed animal.

It was a unicorn. Its delicate horn was made of a shiny, smooth, golden fabric and its mane and tale were as fine and fluffy as thistledown. Its shiny black eyes reminded me of Reginald's, but its necklace of crocheted buttercups would always remind me of Arthur.

“Her name is Bianca because she's pure white,” said Harriet. “Bianca's how you say ‘white' in Latin. And I made her necklace. It's like Grandad's crown.”

“It's lovely,” I said. “Bianca's lovely, too.” I stroked Harriet's inexpertly trimmed hair. “Thank you, Harriet. Bess will thank you herself as soon as she learns to speak English.”

“What I want Bess to learn,” Harriet said solemnly, “is that everything—
everything
—starts with the imagination.”

A
rthur guided me back through the maze of courtyards and gardens and waved good-bye to me from the arched opening in the outermost inner wall. Bess and I crossed the broad meadow where the ultralight stood and left the Summer King's realm through the wrought-iron gate.

After I closed the gate behind me, I paused to take a last look at Hillfont Abbey, half expecting it to vanish in a puff of glittering stardust. I felt slightly dazed, as if I were awakening from a dream. I ran my fingers lightly through Bianca's fluffy mane to remind myself that Hillfont wasn't a marvelous mirage, but a real place filled with remarkable, but real, people.

Bess and I were still in the orchid wood when she woke. She should have been hungry, but she was content to watch the world pass by as we followed the path back to Fairworth House. Declan Donovan was sweeping the front stairs when we arrived. He spotted us, set his broom aside, and trotted over to lift the pram into the Range Rover while I put Bess into her car seat.

“Taking off, are you?” he asked. “Can't say that I blame you. William's sisters are a right old pair of tartars, aren't they? Amelia hightailed it to Pussywillows as soon as they retired to their rooms to sleep off their jet lag. She had what my wife calls a strategic headache.”

“Trust me,” I said. “It was a real headache.” I eyed the house warily. “If I'd spent another minute with those two, my head would have exploded. I don't know how Deirdre is going to cope with them.”

“Don't you worry about Deirdre,” said Declan. “She's tough as nails, my wife.”

“She'll have to be,” I said. “Would you please tell William that Bess and I have gone home, Declan? I don't want to risk running into the tartars.”

“I'll let him know,” Declan said.

I thanked him, climbed into the Rover, and cruised slowly down Willis, Sr.'s graveled drive. Part of me was focused on the roadway, but the rest of me was still lost in a dream.

 • • • 

“Lori?” said Bill. “Can you hear me?”

“What?” I said, blinking vaguely at him.

We were in the living room. I was sitting on the couch, folding clean diapers, and Bill was ensconced in his favorite armchair, with Stanley purring blissfully in his lap. Will, Rob, and Bess were, presumably, upstairs and asleep. I had no clear recollection of anything that had happened since Bill had brought the boys home from school.

“You've been on another planet all evening,” said Bill.

“Have I?” I said, coming out of my reverie. “I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault,” he said. “You're in shock. My aunts have driven you to distraction.” He pursed his lips grimly. “I
knew
I should have gone there with you this morning.”

“It's not their fault, either,” I said. “To tell you the truth, I'd forgotten about them. You were right, by the way. They're gunning for Amelia.”

“Of course I was right,” said Bill. He peered heavenward. “
Please
let them insult Amelia openly, in front of Father.” He lowered his gaze to meet mine. “If you haven't been reliving a Charlotte-and-Honoria-induced nightmare, where have you been? Because you certainly haven't been here.”

“I guess I've been at Hillfont Abbey,” I said. “Bess and I spent a couple of hours there this afternoon, with Arthur Hargreaves, and I can't get it out of my mind. It's the most extraordinary place, Bill, and the people who live there are beyond extraordinary.”

“Is that where Bess's unicorn came from?” Bill asked. “I noticed it in the nursery. I thought Father had given it to her.”

“No,” I said. “Bianca was a parting gift from an impetuous little girl named Harriet. . . .”

Bill listened without interrupting while I told him about my visit to Hillfont Abbey. When I finished, he tented his hands over Stanley and scrutinized me.

“You're not in shock,” he said. “You're in love.”

“No, I'm not,” I protested. “I think Arthur's amazing, but he's not—”

“I'm not talking about Arthur,” Bill broke in. “You've fallen in love with the whole Hargreaves family, from Great-Great-Grandpa Quentin to little Emily with her chicken bones.”

“Am I in love with them?” I folded the last diaper, added it to the stack, and leaned back on the couch to consider Bill's proposition. “I'm intrigued by them, awed by them, enchanted by them—I may even have been seduced by them—but I'm not sure I'm in love with them. They're a little intimidating.”

“Overachievers usually are,” said Bill. “Will you go back?”

“If your aunts continue to be as horrible to me as they were today,” I said, “I'll have to go back. Otherwise, I'll be the one committing a double homicide. And I'd hate to spoil your father's wedding.”

Bill's laughter was cut short by a yawn.

“I'm going to bed,” he said. “Are you coming?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I have some catching up to do.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Bill. “Dimity will want to hear all about Hillfont Abbey.”

Stanley jumped from his lap as he stood, and padded after him as he took the stack of folded diapers upstairs. I sat for a moment, collecting my thoughts, then walked up the hall to the study.

The book-lined room triggered memories of Hillfont's splendid library.

“Reginald,” I said, as I turned on the mantel shelf lamps, “I've had a strangely satisfying day. It got off to a terrible start, but boy oh boy, did it get better!”

My pink bunny was all ears as I took the blue journal from its shelf and sat with it in one of the tall leather armchairs that faced the hearth.

“Dimity?” I said as I opened the journal. “I have so much to tell you that I don't know where to begin.”

I smiled as Aunt Dimity's elegant handwriting appeared, looping and curling gracefully across the blank page.

May I suggest a starting point?

“It might help,” I said.

Marigold Edwards.

“Marigold Edwards?” It felt as though a thousand years had passed since I'd spoken with the estate agent's office manager, but after a moment's thought, the main point of our conversation came back to me. “I have an appointment to see her on Friday.”

Very good. Were you able to ascertain Amelia's opinion of her?

“I was,” I said. “As it turns out, Amelia's opinion of Marigold Edwards jibes with Mr. Barlow's and Lilian Bunting's. In their view, Marigold is pure gold, but in mine, she's pure tarnish.”

You were never one to mince words, Lori. Have you discovered a gold mine of evidence that supports your view?

I glanced at the baby monitor, then leaned back in my chair. I didn't have a scrap of hard evidence to lay before Aunt Dimity, but the anecdotal evidence I'd amassed had bolstered my belief that there was something distinctly dodgy about Marigold Edwards.

“Marigold's actions support my view,” I replied firmly. “When Amelia came to Finch to look at Pussywillows, Marigold didn't just show her the cottage. She took her on a grand tour of the village and introduced her to Peggy Taxman and Sally Cook and anyone else they bumped into.”

It sounds like a sensible thing to do. One doesn't simply move into a cottage. One moves into a community.

“It
is
a sensible thing to do,” I agreed, “if you're trying to scare off potential home buyers.”

I'm afraid I don't follow you, my dear.

“The villagers made a good impression on Amelia,” I said. “She came away from Marigold's tour feeling as if she'd met a delightful array of colorful, candid characters who took pride in their small community. Which is great, right?”

I would think so.

“Unfortunately,” I said, “most people aren't as tolerant as Amelia. Most people wouldn't enjoy a run-in with Bossy Peggy and Gabby Sally. The tour would give most people the impression that the villagers are a bunch of opinionated blabbermouths who are too stiff-necked to get along with a neighboring village.”

A neighboring village . . . ? Did Marigold Edwards take it upon herself to tell Amelia about the Finch-Tillcote feud?

“Marigold gave Amelia an explicit warning about the feud,” I said. “Why would she even bring it up? If you were trying to sell a cottage in Finch, would you tell a prospective buyer that her future neighbors are actively pursuing a vendetta?”

If I were an estate agent, would I disclose the existence of a local feud to a client? Probably not.

“There you are,” I said triumphantly. “Marigold is sabotaging her own sales and I think I know why.” I made a wry face and continued reluctantly, “You may find it hard to believe, Dimity, but I got the idea from Bill's aunts.”

I find it almost impossible to believe that you would agree with them on any point whatsoever, but I'm listening.

“Marigold is working for a developer.” I shuddered as I recalled the chilling scenario Charlotte and Honoria had outlined in the drawing room at Fairworth House. “Marigold's job is to drive down property values in Finch so her big-shot developer client can buy up cottages cheaply. He'll annoy the villagers by making a ridiculous amount of noise and mess refurbishing the cottages, and when they complain—”

Which they will.

“—he'll plant the idea of living in a quieter place,” I went on. “He'll wave a lot of money around and before you know it, the whole village will be in his hands, only it won't be a village anymore. He'll turn it into a . . . a
summer retreat.
” I spat out Honoria's detestable phrase, but it still left a bad taste in my brain.

A bit of noise and dust wouldn't drive the villagers out of Finch, Lori.

“A huge amount of noise and dust combined with a tempting offer might do the trick. Most of the villagers are living on fixed incomes,” I continued. Though it pained me to parrot Charlotte, I couldn't deny the truth in her taunt. “People living on a fixed income might find it difficult to turn down a developer's cold, hard cash.”

Mr. Barlow seemed to think that Peggy Taxman would purchase the empty cottages.

“Peggy won't be able to compete with a professional developer,” I said scathingly. “No, Marigold Edwards is laying the groundwork for someone a lot richer and more experienced than Peggy Taxman. I'm going to find out who it is and put a spoke in his wheel. Or her wheel. It could be a woman.”

What spoke do you propose to put in his or her wheel?

“No idea,” I said, “but I'll think of something.”

I'm sure you will. Your meeting with Marigold Edwards should prove to be quite instructive.

“Don't worry, Dimity,” I said. “I'll wangle the truth out of her.”

I have the greatest respect for your wangling skills, Lori, but before you employ them on Finch's behalf, may I make a suggestion?

“Fire away,” I said.

You have thus far spoken with three people about Marigold Edwards.

“Mr. Barlow, Lilian Bunting, and Amelia,” I said, nodding.

It's a rather small sample upon which to base such a momentous conclusion, don't you think? I suggest you spread your nets wider. Chat with Peggy and Sally and the rest of your neighbors. Ask them to describe their encounters with Marigold's clients.

“Why bother?” I said. “I already know what they'll say. They'll claim they behaved with perfect propriety.”

Perhaps they did. The only way to know for sure is to ask them. If the encounters went well, you may have to rethink your suspicions. If they went badly, your suspicions will be vindicated. Either way, you'll be better prepared for Friday's meeting.

“Okay,” I said. “I'll take Bess for a stroll through the village tomorrow. I'll chat with whoever met Marigold's clients. And I'll try not to let my suspicions get in the way of the facts.”

Excellent. Now, about Charlotte and Honoria . . . What on earth inspired them to discuss Finch's fate with you?

“They were discussing it with each other,” I said. “And they weren't simply discussing Finch's fate—they were inventing it. They can't imagine why anyone would live in Finch year-round, so they came up with a story about a developer transforming it into a summer retreat. When they finished taking potshots at Finch, they took aim at Amelia.”

Was William present?

“Most of the time,” I said. “When he was in the room, the Harpies pretended to be concerned about Amelia because they have it on good authority that all artists are drunk, drug-addicted lunatics.”

What utter nonsense. I hope William leapt to Amelia's defense.

“He calmly explained to them that Amelia isn't a drunk, drug-addicted lunatic,” I said. “I would have gone after them with a hatchet, but I'm a little more excitable than William.” I smiled mirthlessly. “I'm also on to their game, which he isn't.”

What did they say about you?

“Let's see . . .” I counted on my fingers. “I'm old, I'm fat, I'm a lousy dresser, and I'm ruining Bill's career by forcing him to stay away from the office because I'm also a lousy wife and an incompetent mother. Oh, and Bess should be called Elizabeth because only ignorant peasants like me use nicknames.”

What kept you from going after them with a hatchet?

“I didn't have a hatchet,” I said. “I had Bess, though, and she was terrific. Once she started howling, the aunts couldn't get rid of us fast enough.”

Why was Bess howling?

“I'm not sure,” I said. “She had a full belly and dry diapers and she certainly wasn't lonely.”

Perhaps she objected to her great-aunts' unkind remarks.