Aunt Dimity and the Summer King (16 page)

“Bess is barely fifteen weeks old, Dimity,” I said, giggling. “If she understood a word they said, we may have a genius in the family after all.” I stretched my legs out on the ottoman and got ready to astound Aunt Dimity. “Speaking of geniuses, you'll never guess where we went after we left Fairworth House.”

I presume you went to the Emporium to purchase a hatchet.

“You're not even close,” I said, laughing. “Bess and I went to Hillfont Abbey to visit the Summer King. The faux abbey matched your description. It's a whimsical country house loosely based on a historical model, but it's more than that, Dimity, much more. . . .”

I told Aunt Dimity everything I'd told Bill, but in far greater detail. My eyelids were drooping by the time I finished my epic tale, but it was such a pleasure to talk about Arthur Hargreaves instead of Bill's aunts that I couldn't bring myself to stop.

“I've never met anyone less uppity than Arthur,” I concluded. “He's as unpretentious as his mix-and-match tea set and he's the exact opposite of mean-spirited. If Peggy Taxman could see him with Bess, she'd change her mind about him. And his allegedly mysterious corporate connections aren't mysterious at all. He traveled the world, giving lectures to students who later became CEOs. It's as simple as that.”

He has since turned into a recluse, however, so Charles and Grant weren't entirely wrong to refer to him as the Hermit of Hillfont Abbey.

“If Crabtree Cottage were half as interesting as Hillfont Abbey,” I said, “Charles and Grant would become the Hermits of Crabtree Cottage. I can understand why Arthur loves his home. Besides, someone has to look after the children.”

You've always had a hungry mind, Lori. It sounds as though Arthur fed it.

“That's it,” I said enthusiastically. “You've hit the nail on the head, Dimity. Arthur's like a walking, talking encyclopedia, but he wears his knowledge lightly. He dispenses it with a diffidence and a sense of humor that makes you forget how much you're learning. He must have been a fantastic lecturer. I could listen to him all day, only he wouldn't let me because he's as curious about people as I am.” I sighed happily. “I don't think I could ever be bored at Hillfont Abbey. I don't think anyone could.”

I'm not sure your neighbors will agree with you. Will you tell them that you strode willingly into enemy territory?

“Enemy territory,” I scoffed. “Arthur Hargreaves isn't my enemy. If the villagers give me the stink-eye for saying so, so be it. Their disapproval won't keep me away from Hillfont.”

Their disapproval might, however, interfere with the friendly chats you intend to have with them tomorrow.

“True,” I acknowledged. “It's awkward to chat with people who've turned their backs on you. I'll save my scandalous news for another day.”

A wise decision. I'm somewhat surprised that Arthur made no mention of the feud.

“I think he's as oblivious to it as his great-great-grandfather was,” I said. “And I'm not going to be the one who brings it up with him. It makes the villagers look moronic.”

Blind prejudice is moronic. The only way to combat it is with education.

“Everyone's a teacher,” I said, smiling fondly as I repeated Arthur's words. “Maybe my job is to teach my neighbors to stop being such idiots.”

I pressed the Test button on the baby monitor, to make sure that it was still working.

Is something wrong, Lori?

“I think it's called twitchy mommy syndrome,” I replied. “I thought Bess would be fussy after her action-packed day, but I haven't heard a peep out of her.”

Perhaps she's conserving her lung power. She may need to rescue you from Bill's aunts again.

“If Bess can plan that far ahead,” I said, “we
definitely
have a genius in the family.” I stifled a yawn, then glanced again at the monitor. “If you don't mind, Dimity, I think I'll look in on my little genius before I turn in.”

I don't mind in the least. You, too, have had an action-packed day. I look forward to hearing the conclusions you draw from tomorrow's tour of Finch.

I didn't think my tour of Finch would alter my opinion of Marigold Edwards one iota, but I was too groggy to debate the point.

“I'll let you know what I find out,” I said. “Good night, Dimity.”

Good night, Lori. Sleep well.

The curving lines of royal blue ink faded slowly from the page. I returned the blue journal to its shelf, twiddled Reginald's ears, turned off the lights, and went upstairs to the nursery.

The baby monitor hadn't misled me. Bess was sleeping as peacefully as I would be as soon as my head hit my pillow. I glanced at Bianca, wondering if the white unicorn had the same calming effect on my daughter that my pink bunny had always had on me. Smiling, I gazed down at Bess.

“If you did rescue me from the aunts,” I whispered to her, “keep up the good work. As long as we have your howl, we won't need my hatchet.”

B
ill had opened up a can of worms when he'd suggested that Didier Pinot reexamine his will. The busywork he'd concocted for the sole purpose of avoiding his aunts had, much to his dismay, turned into real work. He couldn't stop at home after Tuesday's school run because he had to rush in to the office to discuss further changes Monsieur Pinot wished to make.

“Hoist by his own petard,” I said to Bess. “Or, to put it another way, it serves Daddy right!”

It was nearly eleven o'clock. Bess and I were in the Range Rover and on our way to Finch. I'd hoped to leave for Finch earlier, but the clean-dirty diaper cycle and a series of volcanic eruptions from Bess had delayed our departure. I was in my third blouse of the day. Bess was in her fourth onesie.

The weather couldn't have been lovelier. A brief rain shower in the small hours had left the world gleaming. I made a mental note to thank the Summer King for his handiwork the next time we met.

Guilt assailed me as we passed Willis, Sr.'s gates. Had I been Amelia, I would have had three weeks' worth of debilitating headaches, but she was less devious than I was. The aunts were no doubt torturing her over brunch at Fairworth House.

Raindrops glistened on the bushy bay tree that concealed the entrance to the old farm track. I assumed the track had flooded overnight and felt a rush of gratitude to Willis, Sr., for suggesting a safer route to Hillfont Abbey.

I slowed to a crawl when we reached the humpbacked bridge, in part because the bridge was dauntingly steep and narrow, but mainly because the view from its tallest arch was so pretty. Finch lay before me, basking in the midday sun. Its honey-hued stone buildings, with their crooked chimneys and lichen-dappled roofs, faced one another across the cobbled lane encircling the village green, like a cluster of gossips leaning in for the latest news.

Peacock's pub, Taxman's Emporium, and the greengrocer's shop sat with their backs to a rising landscape of shadowy woods and sheep-dotted pastures, while Sally Cook's tearoom, the vicarage, and the old village school edged the water meadows that dropped down to the willow-draped banks of the Little Deeping. Homely cottages rubbed shoulders with the small business establishments. The geraniums, petunias, pansies, and impatiens in their carefully tended window boxes added splashes of vibrant color to the mellow scene.

Mr. Barlow lived at the foot of the bridge. He was in front of his house, working on the vicar's black sedan, when I entered the village. I waved to him and he raised an oily wrench in response, then motioned for me to pull over. I stopped the Rover beside the vicar's car, rolled down my window, and prepared myself for the first friendly chat of the day.

“Met William's sisters this morning,” he informed me, resting his arms on the window's sill. “He brought 'em in after breakfast to show 'em the village. Snooty pair of cats, aren't they?”

Mr. Barlow was as bad as I was at mincing words.

“You don't know the half of it,” I said.

“Don't think I want to,” he declared.

“Was Amelia with them?” I asked.

“No,” said Mr. Barlow. “She had to leave bright and early for Oxford. Something to do with setting up a new exhibit of her paintings.”

Since Amelia had said nothing to me about a new exhibit, I suspected that it was a fabrication invented for the sake of self-preservation. She might lack my flair for duplicity, I told myself, but she wasn't a masochist.

“Been meaning to tell you,” Mr. Barlow went on, “I was wrong about Peggy buying Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage. She wanted to, right enough, but Jasper put his foot down.”

“I'll bet he put it down softly,” I said.

“His soft ways work with Peggy,” Mr. Barlow reminded me. “They had enough on their plate, he told her, with the Emporium and the greengrocer's. No need to go looking for more.”

“Thanks for letting me know about Peggy,” I said. “Has anyone looked at the empty cottages today?”

“Not yet,” he said. “Haven't seen hide nor hair of Marigold Edwards for a couple of weeks.”

“She must be having a hard time lining up prospective buyers,” I said. “Have you met any of her clients?”

“I've met all of 'em,” he replied. “Marigold always tracks me down when she's showing a cottage. Stands to reason, doesn't it? Who else can tell her clients about the cottages' quirks?”

“Quirks?” I said alertly. “You told me that Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage are as sound as a bell.”

“They are, but every house has its quirks,” Mr. Barlow said easily. “It's best to know about them beforehand. Take Rose Cottage, for example. The pipes knock when you run the hot water, the back door sticks in damp weather, and the chimney flue will need replacing in a year or two.”

“And Ivy Cottage?” I asked.

“Whoever takes it on will have to take on the garden as well,” Mr. Barlow replied. “If they don't, the whole village will have something to say about it. It'll be a lot of work, I tell 'em, but it's the kind of work that gives a real gardener pleasure.” He straightened. “Better get back to my own work. Mrs. Bunting'll need the car this afternoon for meals-on-wheels. Nice talking with you, Lori.”

“Nice talking with you, Mr. Barlow,” I said and I meant it. It was clear to me that Marigold Edwards used Mr. Barlow's expert knowledge to underscore the empty cottages' shortcomings. As I restarted the engine, I murmured, “Strike one.”

I parked the Rover in front of the Emporium, took Bess from her car seat, and carried her inside.

“ 'Morning, Lori!” Peggy Taxman boomed from behind the shop's long wooden counter. “ 'Morning, Bess!”

I always expected Bess to flinch at the sound of Peggy's voice, but she seemed to find it hilarious.

“Got a postcard for you from Jack and Bree,” Peggy went on. She let herself into the post office cage at the counter's far end and handed the postcard to me through the cage's little window. “They're in Wellington—that's in New Zealand—and the weather's atrocious. Gale force winds, Bree says, blowing straight up from the Antarctic.”

Postmistress Peggy considered it her sworn duty to read each and every postcard that passed through her hands.

“It's winter in New Zealand,” I pointed out.

“They should have gone there in summer,” she retorted.

I waited for Peggy to lecture me about the correct way to carry an infant, but she plunged into another topic altogether.

“William brought his sisters in here this morning,” she thundered. “I'm not one to speak ill of a man's nearest and dearest, Lori, but those sisters of his should be shut up in a box and shipped straight back to America.”

“If you figure out how to do it,” I said, “I'll cover the postage.”

“Like that, is it?” she roared, giving me an appraising look.

“It's exactly like that,” I replied. “I hear you're not buying Rose Cottage or Ivy Cottage.”

“Jasper was against it,” she shouted. “It's a pity, because they'll never be cheaper, but he's right. We're busy enough as it is.”

“How cheap are they?” I asked.

“Not cheap as chips,” she hollered. “But reasonable.”

“You'd think someone would have taken advantage of the reasonable prices by now, wouldn't you?” I said.

“I would,” Peggy bellowed. “Don't know why someone hasn't.”

“Maybe the buyers Marigold Edwards has lined up are persnickety,” I said. “Have you met any of them?”

“Of course I have,” Peggy roared. “Marigold always brings them in here for a bottle of water or a tube of sun cream or some such. That's when I give them my volunteer sign-up sheets.” A manic gleam lit Peggy's eyes as she shook a meaty index finger at me. “I tell them not to bother moving here if they don't intend to pull their own weight. I tell them we need all hands on deck in Finch. Flower shows and church fêtes don't happen by accident, I tell them.” She folded her beefy arms and squared her broad shoulders. “Then I give them my sign-up sheets and send them on their way.”

I'd heard all I needed to hear. I thanked Peggy for the postcard and left the Emporium, ready to cast my nets wider.

I left Bess in her car seat while I removed the all-terrain pram from the Rover.

“Reasonable prices wouldn't scare off house hunters,” I explained to her as I unfolded the pram and locked its safety latches, “but Marigold's machinations would. First she lets Mr. Barlow tell them what's wrong with the cottages, then she lets Mrs. Taxman bury them in a mountain of sign-up sheets. They'd have to be crazy to stick around after that.” I put Bess and the diaper bag in the pram, then gazed across the green at the tearoom. “Let's find out what Mrs. Cook has to say about Marigold's clients.”

Sally Cook had a lot to say.

“They come in here, asking for sugar-free, fat-free, cholesterol-free snacks,” she said, sounding highly affronted. “No cream, no eggs, no sugar, and above all, no butter. How am I supposed to make pastries without butter? God knows I don't like to send folk away hungry, Lori, but they give me no choice. Pack of food-faddy fools, the lot of them.” Her round face grew pink with exasperation. “The architect and his wife ordered
wine
, for heaven's sake. Does my tearoom look like a wine bar? I sent
them
to the pub.”

I was ninety-nine percent certain of the torture the architect and his wife had endured at Peacock's pub, but I trundled Bess across the green again to hear a firsthand account of it from Christine Peacock.

“I remember those two,” she said disdainfully as she served me a large glass of water. “They were no better than the rest of folk Marigold's brought in here lately. Wine snobs, every last one of them. If a bottle doesn't have a fancy label, it's not fit to drink. Dick tries to pry their closed minds open by giving them a taste of his homemade wine, but they never get past the first sip.” She sniffed disparagingly. “There's no pleasing some people.”

I drank my water and left the pub, feeling as though my suspicions were being amply vindicated.

“Mr. Peacock's wine upset Daddy's tummy once,” I told Bess, recalling the revolting aftermath of Bill's stint as a judge in Dick's wine-tasting competition. “At least Marigold's clients had the good sense to stop at one sip.”

“Lori!”

I turned to see the Handmaidens bearing down on me. Opal Taylor, Millicent Scroggins, Elspeth Binney, and Selena Buxton were eager to tell me that they, too, had had the dubious pleasure of meeting Charlotte and Honoria.

“William's sisters dress beautifully,” Selena began.

Then the others jumped in.

Insulting comments whizzed through the air like thrown daggers, each of them prefaced with: “I don't wish to insult William's relatives, but . . .” By the time the collective diatribe was over, every possible criticism of Bill's aunts had been aired, re-aired, and aired again. I could have hugged the quartet individually and as a group.

“At least they're not moving into the empty cottages,” I said. “I imagine Marigold Edwards's clients are more polite than William's sisters.”

“Oh, they're splendid,” Opal said effusively, her eyes glowing. “The young lawyers we met are from Tunbridge Wells originally, but they've been living in a London flat for the past year, poor things. They'll keep the flat, of course—so handy for their work—but they'd like a quiet place in the country for weekends.”

“Marigold's Mr. Partridge is a martyr to hives,” said Millicent. “He's on medication, but I told him an oatmeal bath is what he needs. His wife wants him to find a less stressful job, but I don't see it happening. He's spent the whole of his working life in advertising. At his age—he'll be fifty-five next April—he won't find it easy to start over.”

“He's better off than the banker,” said Elspeth. “He has a rash all over his . . . private area. I recommended lashings of calamine lotion.”

“They're both better off than Mr. Fortnam,” Opal declared, adding for my benefit, “Mr. Fortnam is an Oxford don. His life has been in tatters ever since his wife left him for one of his students, but why it took him by surprise, I'll never know. The girl was half his age! A mature woman would make him a better wife, and so I told him.”

“There was the surgeon as well,” said Selena. “Hands like velvet and clothes to die for—all of them tailor-made, right down to his shoes. He's had trouble with his hair plugs—they keep getting infected—but I told him he doesn't need hair plugs. Bald men are very attractive, especially when they work out as often as he does.” She tossed her head. “Not like that pudgy computer hardware engineer . . .”

“He can't help gaining weight,” Millicent objected. “It runs in his family. His mother and father were simply enormous. . . .”

The Handmaidens went on and on, sharing a wealth of personal information they could have obtained only by subjecting Marigold's clients to the kind of interrogations usually reserved for hardcore criminals. I'd long since grown accustomed to their impertinence, but someone facing them for the first time would, I was certain, feel as if he'd been stripped naked by a flock of budgies.

Bess was eyeing my chest beadily by the time the Handmaidens trotted off to refresh themselves at the tearoom. I was about to wheel her back to the Rover when Grant Tavistock called to me from behind Crabtree Cottage's white picket gate.

“Charles is preparing lunch,” he said when I was within chatting distance. “It was supposed to be brunch, but his culinary reach exceeded his grasp and he had to start over. Join us?” Grant opened the gate and crooned enticingly, “He's making his chocolate mousse.”

I suspected that the proposed meal would include a heaping helping of questions about Arthur Hargreaves, but I didn't mind. I had a few questions of my own to ask Grant and Charles, so I accepted the invitation with one caveat.