Aunt Dimity Goes West (4 page)

“I’m not going to
build
a log cabin,” I said. “I’m going to
stay
in one. In Colorado.”

You’ve decided to leave England for America? Good heavens. Have you told Bill?

“It was Bill’s idea,” I told her. “It’s his surefire cure for what ails me. He’s convinced that a radical change

of scene will exorcise Abaddon, so he’s sending me,

Annelise, and the twins to stay in a log cabin in

Colorado, while he stays here to catch up on work.

Have you ever been to Colorado?”

Never. It’s mountainous, I believe.

“So I’ve heard. I’ve never been there, either. The

thing is,” I added, voicing for the first time a concern that had been troubling me, “I was born and raised in

Chicago, Dimity. I don’t really see myself as a moun-

tain woman.”

I sincerely doubt that you’ll have to chop wood, haul water from a creek, or kill wild animals in order to put food on
the table, if that’s what’s worrying you. Bill wouldn’t send
you to a place that wasn’t equipped with a full range of modern conveniences.

“Bill’s never seen the cabin,” I said. “It belongs to

one of his clients, a guy named Danny Auerbach, who

never stays there. Danny likes to lend the cabin to

friends, but not one of his friends has asked to use it

this summer—not one!” I frowned anxiously. “I have a

horrible feeling that there’s something wrong with the

place, something that scares people off.”

Aunt Dimity Goes West

23

Pull yourself together, Lori. Bill’s clients are uniformly
wealthy, and the wealthy do not own shabby properties. I’m
sure the cabin will be lovely.

“There must be a crazy neighbor then,” I insisted.

“An old guy with a shotgun and a grudge against city

folk.”

Have you discussed your misgivings with Bill?

“No, and I’m not going to,” I said quickly. “This is

just between you and me, Dimity. I don’t care if the

cabin has a dirt floor and a trigger-happy old coot

living next door—I’m not going to say a word to Bill.

He needs a vacation from his lunatic wife, and I’m

going to give him one.”

I’m quite sure Bill doesn’t see it that way, Lori.

“
I
see it that way,” I declared. “Bill’s been at my beck and call ever since we got back from Scotland.

It’s my turn to make a sacrifice, and if that means

roughing it in the back of beyond for a couple of

weeks, so be it.”

Forgive me, Lori, but I was under the impression that you
were feeling better. Did I misunderstand you?

“I
do
feel better,” I insisted. “Will and Rob are out of their minds with excitement, Annelise can’t wait to

leave, and Bill’s been walking on air ever since I agreed to go. How could I not feel better when there’s so

much happiness swirling around me?” I wrinkled my

nose. “I’m just a little worried, that’s all.”

You wouldn’t be yourself if you weren’t a little worried
about something, dearest Lori. Nevertheless, I’m glad Bill
hatched such a delightful scheme. The brisk alpine air will

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Nancy Atherton

do you a world of good. Besides, I’ve never visited the Rocky
Mountains, and I’d very much like to go.

“Good, because you’re coming with me,” I said.

“So is Reginald. There are some sacrifices I’m not

willing to make, and facing the vast, untamed wilder-

ness without you and Reg is one of them.”

I can’t tell you how pleased I am to hear it.We will
face the wilderness together, my dear, but in the meantime,
the hour is growing late. Don’t you think you should toddle
off to bed? You’ll have lots to do tomorrow.

When I thought of the work involved in packing

everything the twins and I would need for an open-

ended, outdoorsy sort of trip, I couldn’t help but agree.

“You’re right,” I said. “It’s toddling time. Thanks

for listening, Dimity.”

Thank you, Lori, for allowing me to listen. Sleep well.

“I’ll try,” I promised, without much hope.

When the curving lines of royal-blue ink had faded

from the page, I closed the journal and looked up at

Reginald.

“Well, cowpoke,” I said, in my best western drawl,

“I hope Buffalo Bill hasn’t gotten us in over our heads.

If I have to hunt for food, we’re a-goin’ to get
mighty
hungry.”

I awoke with a gasp before dawn the next day, but I

had too much on my mind to waste time shuddering,

so I got up, dressed, and went downstairs to pull suit-

cases out of storage. I’d managed to dislodge exactly

Aunt Dimity Goes West

25

one duffel bag from its shelf in the utility room when

Bill charged in after me, removed the duffel bag from

my grasp, and shooed me into the kitchen to start

breakfast.

It soon became apparent that Dimity and I had

grossly overestimated the amount of energy I’d need

to prepare for the trip. Bill had promised that I

wouldn’t have to lift a finger, and he saw to it that

I didn’t. He and Annelise allowed me to watch them

pack, but if I dared to tuck so much as a sock into a

suitcase, they ordered me out of the room.

Since the twins and I were clearly underfoot, I

piled them into the Range Rover for a farewell tour of

Finch. Our abrupt, unannounced flight to Scotland

had started the rumor mills churning at breakneck

speed among my neighbors, and I didn’t want our

Colorado trip to start another frenzy of speculation. I

wanted everyone to know that the boys and I were

setting out on a pleasant vacation this time, not being

chased from our home by a homicidal maniac.

The villagers with whom I spoke were unani-

mously in favor of Bill’s big idea, except when it came

to his choice of destinations.

“Colorado?” said Sally Pyne, offering me a plate

of fresh-baked scones. “It’s a bit rough and tumble

out there, isn’t it? All prickly plants and vipers? Why

don’t you ask Bill to find you a nice B&B in Cornwall instead? The sea air would put you right in no time.”

“The Rocky Mountains?” said Mr. Barlow, wiping

axle grease from his hands. “I had a cousin who went

26

Nancy Atherton

there once. Collapsed on his first day. Altitude sickness.

Had to be airlifted to a lower altitude. I’d book a hotel in Skegness if I were you. The sea air’s like a tonic.”

“America!” thundered Peggy Taxman, closing her

cash register with a bang. “Wouldn’t go there if my life depended on it. Loud voices, fast food, vulgarity and

violence everywhere you turn. You’d be better off in

Blackpool. The twins’d love the donkey rides, and

you’d be blooming after a week or two of fresh sea air.”

Shy, balding, soft-spoken George Wetherhead ap-

proved of Bill’s plan unreservedly, but only because he

was a train enthusiast.

“The Pikes Peak Cog Railway is the highest in the

world!” he exclaimed. “The views from the Royal

Gorge train are breathtaking! The Cripple Creek and

Victor Narrow Gauge Railroad has an 0-4-0 locomo-

tive! Oh, how I envy you.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that a tour of his-

toric railways was not on the agenda. Nor did I have

the courage to disagree with everyone else. My neigh-

bors were, after all, merely expressing my own doubts

and misgivings.

After we’d made the rounds in Finch, I took Will

and Rob to Anscombe Manor to say good-bye to

Emma Harris, who owned the manor, and to the boys’

ponies, who were stabled there.

Will and Rob were identical twins who bore a

strong resemblance to their father. They had Bill’s

dark-brown hair and velvety chocolate-brown eyes,

and they were, as he had been, so tall for their age that

Aunt Dimity Goes West

27

strangers couldn’t believe they were only five. Like

Bill, they were bright, sweet-natured, and energetic.

Unlike him—and most definitely unlike me—they

were completely and utterly horse-crazy.

When my sons weren’t galloping over hill and dale

on their ponies, Thunder and Storm, they liked to

draw horses, talk about horses, sing songs about

horses, and pretend to be horses. They liked to play

cricket, squelch through mud puddles, and pretend to

be dinosaurs, too, but they were never happier than

when they were with their ponies.They couldn’t leave

England without saying good-bye to Thunder and

Storm, and I, shaken by my neighbors’ observations,

couldn’t face my well-meaning husband again until I’d

had a calm, sensible conversation with Emma.

I found her in the stables, cleaning stalls.

“I used to think the lady of the manor had a glam-

orous life,” I said, stepping carefully across the straw-strewn floor. “Boy, was I wrong.”

Emma gave me a jaundiced look, leaned her pitch-

fork against the wheelbarrow, and fetched apples from

a nearby basket for the boys to give to their ponies.

“Very funny,” she said, wiping the sweat from

her brow as we walked into the fresh air. “Anyone

who thinks living in a manor house is glamorous has

never come face-to-face with an eighteenth-century

drain.”

“I may be able to match you on that score before

the summer’s out,” I said, and told her about our im-

pending journey.

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Nancy Atherton

“It sounds fantastic,” she said when I’d finished.

“You’ll have miles of trails to explore, and the moun-

tains will be awash in wildflowers. It’s a beautiful time of year to be in the Rockies.”

“I’m not so sure,” I said doubtfully. “Peggy’s got

a point, you know. America
is
loud and vulgar and violent.”

“
Some
of America is nasty,” Emma temporized, “but
most
of it is nice. The same could be said of England or anywhere else in the world, for that matter. And

what would Peggy know about it, anyway? She’s never

been to America.”

“But what about Mr. Barlow’s cousin?” I asked. “He

didn’t have such a great time in the Rockies.”

“He’s the exception that proves the rule,” Emma

said firmly. “Colorado wouldn’t have much of a tourist

industry if visitors were falling over every five minutes from altitude sickness.You and the boys will be fine.”

“What about the cabin, then?” I said. “Don’t you

think there must be something wrong with it? Like

bad drains?”

“The drains will be fine, Lori,” said Emma. “Every-

thing will be fine. You’ll see. You’ll come back from

Colorado with roses in your cheeks. I wish I could

come with you.”

“You can!” I said, brightening.

“No, I can’t,” said Emma. “I’ve got to run the rid-

ing school and tend the garden and repair the drains

and . . .” She took a deep breath, then said in a rush,

“And Nell is coming home.”

Aunt Dimity Goes West

29

“
Nell’s
coming home?” I cried.
“When?”

“Tomorrow,” Emma replied.

Nell was Nell Harris, Emma’s eighteen-year-old

stepdaughter, and the most exquisitely beautiful girl

I’d ever seen or imagined. She’d been in Paris for the

past year, studying at the Sorbonne.

“Does Kit know?” I asked.

“Not yet,” said Emma. “I’m going to break it to him

tonight, after dinner.”

Kit was Kit Smith, Emma’s stable master and the

object of Nell’s unwavering affection, an affection

he tried hard not to return because he was twice

Nell’s age, and he thought the age difference mat-

tered. No one else did. Nell was an extraordinarily

mature eighteen-year-old.

“Good grief,” I said faintly, then turned to grip

Emma’s wrist. “What if Kit changes his mind? What

if he
proposes
to Nell? I absolutely
forbid
him to marry her until I’m back from Colorado!”

“I don’t think you have much to worry about,”

Emma said dryly. “Kit’s as stubborn as you are.”

I looked toward the stables. “Lucky for Kit, so is

Nell.”

Once Emma had promised that she wouldn’t let

Kit marry anyone until I’d returned, and I had prom-

ised to bombard her with postcards, I rounded up the

boys and left for home, feeling more despondent than

ever.

I’d been eagerly awaiting Kit and Nell’s reunion for

over a year, and now it would take place without me.

30

Nancy Atherton

I didn’t want to be thousands of miles away while the

romance of the century was taking place. I wanted

to be on hand, on the spot, if possible, when Kit’s re-

sistance melted and he gave in to the urgings of his

heart.As we turned out of Anscombe Manor’s curving

drive, I composed a suitable message for Emma’s first

postcard.

“Killed bear last night,” I muttered. “Skinned it

this morning. If Kit and Nell elope while I’m away, I’ll skin
you
!”

Four

S ince Will, Rob, Annelise, and I were a sea-

soned team of travelers, our flight from Lon-

don to Denver would have been pleasantly

uneventful if only I’d been able to stay awake. Unfor-

tunately, I dozed off somewhere over the Atlantic and