Aunt Dimity's Christmas (26 page)

I closed my hand over the slender golden eagle. “I'm sure she's still listening.”

“You may be right.” Kit drew the pouch's drawstrings tight and returned it to the carryall. “You'll think it daft, but for the past few days I've had the strongest sense of her presence.” He grimaced ruefully. “She's been scolding me, telling me to stop worrying my friends and wake up.”

“I'm glad she got through to you,” I said, smiling inwardly, “because I have a couple of job offers to pass along.” I told him of Mr. Barlow's offer of employment and of a brand-new scheme I'd worked out with the Harrises. “Emma and Derek will need someone to run the stable, come spring,” I concluded. “And Derek'll have an apartment fitted out by then, overlooking the stable yard and the old orchard. The job's yours, if you want it.”

“There's no place I'd rather be than Anscombe Manor.” Kit lowered his dark lashes. “But I no longer have the right to live there.”

“Yes,” I said, “you do.” I took the blue journal from my shoulder bag and placed it in his hands. “I've brought a … a message for you, from Dimity. I'll wait outside while you read it.”

I left the room quickly, before he could ask any questions, and stood in the corridor, just outside his door, wondering if I'd been right to entrust him with the secret of the blue journal. I wasn't worried about him betraying
my trust so much as having a relapse when Aunt Dimity's handwriting appeared. The blue journal had given me a turn when I'd first seen it in action, and I'd been in tip-top health at the time.

Still, I reminded myself, drastic situations called for drastic measures, and only Dimity could provide Kit with the answers he so desperately needed.

“Lori!” Julian's shout cut through the background noise in the bustling corridor as he took the long hallway at a run. When he slid to a stop in front of me, he was out of breath and flushed with exertion, as though he'd jogged all the way from Saint Benedict's. “I'd've been here sooner, but I've been up to my elbows in … well, never mind. How's Kit?” he asked, looking eagerly at the door.

“He's fine, but he needs to be alone for a while,” I cautioned. “I've brought him some new information about his father. He needs time to digest it.”

“What new information?” Julian asked.

I took a deep breath. “The good news is that Kit wasn't responsible for his father's death. The bad news is that Sir Miles was more deeply disturbed than Kit realized.”

“Few blessings are unmixed,” Julian observed. “Who told you about Sir Miles?”

“I read something Dimity Westwood wrote about him,” I replied, telling the exact truth and no more. “And given a choice between Lady Havorford's version of the truth and Dimity's, I'll take Dimity's every time.”

Julian sighed. “Lady Havorford is a troubled soul. Hatred is poisoning her spirit.”

“She's trouble, all right,” I said. “But she won't bother Kit anymore. He's got a new family now, and we'll stand by him.”

“Amen.” Julian stood back to examine me. “You're
looking remarkable cheerful, Lori. Was Father Christmas kind to you?”

I colored to my roots as I remembered just how kind Father Christmas had been once I'd dragged him off to bed on Christmas Eve.

“If I'm cheerful, it's because I've come up with a killer fund-raising scheme for Saint Benedict's,” I said, hastily redirecting the conversation.

Julian grinned. “Do tell.”

“It's your idea, really.” I reached into my shoulder bag and handed him a slip of paper. “It's my father's recipe for angel cookies. You told me that I could make a fortune selling them, so I thought, why not use them to raise money for the hostel? Get it?” I held my hands in the air, framing an imaginary slogan. “Be an angel, support Saint Benedict's.”

“It's a lovely thought, Lori,” said Julian, “but we'd have to bake an awful lot of cookies to raise the kind of money Saint Benedict's needs. We simply can't afford the ingredients.”

“Not to worry,” I said. “I've already arranged for Shuttleworth Bakeries to make and distribute the cookies. They'll sell them all over the country and donate seventy percent of the proceeds to Saint Benedict's.”

“S-seventy percent?” Julian said wonderingly. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“I'm a powder puff,” I confessed. “It's my father-in-law who drives a hard bargain. But wait, there's more.” I dipped into my shoulder bag again and waved an oversized manila envelope under Julian's nose.

“Another recipe?” he guessed.

“Nope.” I felt a shivery thrill of anticipation as I announced, “Julian, it is my pleasure to present you with the title to the new Saint Benedict's.”

“I … I beg your pardon?” he said, blinking rapidly.

“My friend Derek Harris took a look at the old Saint Benedict's while you and I were in London and he says it'll take at least a year to renovate,” I explained. “It'd be ridiculous to have the men sleep in the streets for a whole year, so I bought a new building instead. I've cleared it with the bishop, and Derek's ready to outfit the new place to your specifications.”

“It's a magnificent gesture, Lori,” Julian said, frowning worriedly, “but are you sure you can afford it?”

I laughed out loud. “I guess I never mentioned that I'm the head of the Westwood Trust. Apart from that, I've got about a bazillion dollars of my own lying around, collecting interest. It's time I put a chunk of it to good use.” I tapped the envelope excitedly. “The new building's about six blocks from where you are now—four stories, blond brick, with a fenced parking area—”

“I know the place.” Julian put a hand to his forehead. “I prayed that it would somehow come to us one day, but I never imagined …”

I clucked my tongue in disapproval. “Isn't there something about faith in your job description?”

“Lori,” he said huskily, “I—I don't know how to thank you.”

“You've got it backwards, Julian. This is my way of thanking you.” I took his hand and tucked the envelope into it. “Merry Christmas, Father Bright.”

The call light above Kit's doorway winked on and off. I tugged Julian into the room and left him standing near the door, staring dazedly at the manila envelope. As I approached the bed I saw the canvas carryall lying open on the bedside table and Lancaster nestled in the crook of Kit's arm. The blue journal lay beneath Kit's folded hands.
He was slightly flushed, but composed, and his violet eyes never left my face.

“Will you take the job at Anscombe Manor?” I asked.

Kit nodded slowly. “As soon as I'm strong enough.”

“What job is that?” Julian asked, emerging from his trance, but before Kit or I could answer, he exclaimed, “Good heavens, what's happened to Lancaster?”

The little brown horse was no longer the patched and faded toy Kit had left behind at Blackthorne Farm. His brown cotton hide was smooth and spotless, his mane and tail were complete and neatly combed, and his black button eyes twinkled in the lamplight.

Julian came to stand beside me. “Did you restore him, Lori?”

Kit's eyes danced as I struggled to find an answer that was both truthful and accurate, but he gallantly came to my rescue.

“Let's just say,” he murmured, gazing down at the blue journal, “that Lancaster's stay at the cottage did him a world of good.”

Julian nodded absently, too caught up in his own euphoria to worry over niggling details. He spied the wrapped packages on the windowsill and declared, “It looks as though a belated Christmas is in order. Shall we?”

“By all means,” said Kit.

We sampled Sally Pyne's hand-dipped chocolates, stacked Mr. Wetherhead's magazines on the bedside table, and draped the warm winter clothing from Kitchen's Emporium across Kit's bed. Finally, Julian scrounged three drinking glasses from a supply cabinet down the hall and poured a tot of the Peacocks' homemade brandy into each.

“A toast.” He raised his glass. “To blessings shared.”

“To answered prayers,” Kit chimed in.

I looked from Kit to Julian to the blue journal, lying buried beneath a scattering of bright ribbons, and thought of my father, opening his heart and hand to heal a wounded world. I hoped that he was listening as I raised my glass and said, “To a truly perfect Christmas.”

In a bowl, cream butter and sugar. Add the eggs and the vanilla. Mix until combined well.

In a bowl, sift flour and baking powder together.

Add the dry ingredients to the butter mixture and beat until mixture forms a dough. If easy to handle, roll out immediately; if sticky, wrap in plastic and chill for two hours or overnight.

Preheat oven to 350°F.

Divide dough in half. On a lightly floured surface, roll out half the dough into a ¼-inch-thick round. Cut out angel shapes and arrange 1 inch apart on lightly greased baking sheets. Repeat for remaining dough.

Bake for 8 to 10 minutes or until lightly golden around the edges.

Transfer to racks to cool. Frost with Confectioners' Frosting.

Yield: about 2 dozen cookies.

Confectioners' Frosting

cup softened butter	2 cups confectioners' sugar
teaspoon salt	2 tablespoons cream

Cream the butter and the salt together, then beat in the sugar. Stir in the cream and beat well, adding more sugar or more cream as needed to get the proper consistency.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

Lori Shepherd loves living in the small English village of Finch, but she finds herself wishing for something exciting to spice up her all-too-familiar routine. When King Wilfred's Faire opens nearby, Lori gets her wish and more. Wizards, wenches, magicians, and minstrels cajole the fairgoers while lords quaff, jesters joke, and knights battle in the joust arena. But Lori soon discovers that it's not all pageantry and play.

A sinister figure is stalking the angel-voiced madrigal singer; a jealous rival has sabotaged the Dragon Knight's weapons; and an evil assassin is trying to murder Good King Wilfred. With Aunt Dimity's otherworldly guidance, Lori races to save her dear village and risks her neck to keep the medieval revelry from ending in tragedy.

ISBN 978-0-670-02050-8

Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter

Lori Shepherd's life in England couldn't be more tranquil—except for one thing. Her five-year-old twins have started school, and Lori fears they'll catch everything from the flu to fleas. What they do come home with, however, is worse: a report of a pale, cloaked figure with bloodstained lips lurking in the woods.