Aunt Dimity and the Summer King (22 page)

“Not everyone enjoys living under a microscope,” I said.

“No, indeed,” said Arthur. “For example, the woman who leased Pussywillows before Amelia Thistle—”

“Dervla Ponsonby,” I inserted.

“Miss Ponsonby,” Arthur went on, “believed she could shut her door on the village. She failed to realize that the villagers would never stop knocking on it. The constant attention drove her mad. Eventually, it drove her out of the village. Mrs. Thistle, by contrast, welcomed the knocks.”

“So did Charles Bellingham and Grant Tavistock,” I said. “They loved the tour. When they moved to Finch, they were eager to get in on the gossip. They wanted to know as much about the villagers as the villagers wanted to know about them.”

“If one is to live happily in Finch,” said Arthur, “it helps to take an interest in one's neighbors.”

“And yet,” I said, “you're not allowed to take an interest in yours.”

“Oh, I do take an interest,” said Arthur, “from a distance.”

“Still doing good deeds in silence, eh?” I said.

“Obviously not,” said Arthur. “I believe you and Bess have heard every word I've said.”

“Why is that?” I asked. “Why have you broken the code of secrecy? Why are you spilling the beans to me?”

Arthur stood and crossed to gaze through the French doors at the fountain court.

“We knew you'd come along one day,” he said. “Not you in particular, but someone like you.”

“Someone who noticed odd things going on in the village and dug around until she found an explanation?” I said with a touch of pride.

“No,” he said. “Someone who tripped the wire.”

“The . . . what?” I said, thrown off base.

“The wire,” Arthur repeated, turning to face me. “Of course, it's not a wire anymore. It's an infrared sensor, but it serves the same function.” He pointed at the ceiling. “It makes the flag on the tower fall to half mast.”

“Are we back to riddles?” I asked, mystified.

“Forgive me,” said Arthur. “I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start again.” He returned to his seat and leaned forward with his hands loosely clasped between his knees. “We placed an infrared device in the corner of our boundary wall. It shines a beam across the old cart track. When the beam is broken, an alarm sounds in the abbey and our flag falls to half mast. I saw the flag drop and knew that someone had come up the path.”

“I thought you heard Bess crying,” I said reproachfully.

“I couldn't have heard her through the racket the children were making,” said Arthur. “Though, of course, I did hear her when I approached the wall. She has a fine pair of lungs.”

“Never mind about her lungs,” I said indignantly. “Do you climb over the wall for every rambler who breaks the beam? Your alarms must be going off all the time.”

“Ramblers rarely use the track,” said Arthur. “They're worried about flash floods. They've triggered the alarm only three times in the past seven years. They weren't the reason it was installed.” He nodded at me. “You were.”

“You're creeping me out, Arthur,” I said. “You may be a visionary, but you couldn't have foreseen me.”

“Sorry,” he said, raising his hands in a pacifying gesture. “I misspoke. I wasn't referring to you specifically, but to you as an adult resident of Finch. You, Lori, were the first adult resident of Finch to use the track since the villagers abandoned it nearly a hundred years ago.”

“You're kidding,” I said.

“The breech between Finch and Hillfont Abbey was absolute,” he said. “It traveled down through the generations. In the meantime, the track deteriorated and became flood prone. Even if a villager had been willing to ignore the taboo, he would have thought twice about using such a dangerous route to approach the abbey.”

“Okay,” I said, “but why is using the track so important?”

“Quentin felt that when an adult villager ventured up the track and spoke civilly to a member of his family, it would be time to repair the old cart path and to reestablish the connection between Hillfont and Finch.” Arthur cocked his head to one side and smiled. “You ventured up the track. You spoke civilly to me. You, Lori, are Hillfont's emissary.”

“I don't recall volunteering for the position,” I said.

“It's yours, whether you volunteer for it or not,” said Arthur, chuckling. “You've already told someone about meeting me, haven't you?”

“Only my husband,” I protested. “And Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham. And Lilian Bunting. And . . .” I suddenly recalled mentioning my first meeting with Arthur to the group of women gathered around Bess in the churchyard after the Sunday service. I cleared my throat. “And I take your point, Arthur. I'm not very good at keeping my mouth shut.”

“Which is why you'll be a wonderful emissary,” he said.

“Can I tell them everything?” I asked.

“It's entirely up to you,” he said. “If you want your neighbors to know that the only thing keeping them in their homes is a form of charity, then by all means, tell them everything. There's a remote possibility that the media might pick up the story, but your neighbors are strong enough to handle it. It wouldn't dent their pride to be known in Tillcote, for example, as charity cases.”

I smiled wryly.

“Another point taken,” I said. “Your secret is safe with me.” I turned my head to gaze at the yellowing map of Finch, then looked up into the Summer King's blue eyes. “If it weren't for your family, Arthur, Finch wouldn't be Finch. I'll never let the villagers know how much they owe you, so you'll have to let me thank you on their behalf.” I rolled onto my knees and leaned forward to kiss his weathered cheek. “Thank you, Arthur. Thank you for protecting my village.”

“Shall we join the children?” he proposed, his eyes dancing. “Shall we watch the kites?”

“We shall,” I said. “After I change Bess's diaper.”

Arthur's laughter filled the room and this time I joined in. There would always be kindly laughter, I thought, in the realm of the Summer King.

I
had every intention of sharing Arthur's remarkable story with Bill and with Aunt Dimity on Friday evening, but life got in the way. A flat tire during the school run, a cricket ball through the kitchen window, and an exploding diaper that would have taxed the cleanup skills of a fully trained hazmat team made me glad simply to crawl into bed at an early hour.

I spent Saturday morning persuading Will and Rob not to pack every toy, book, and piece of clothing they possessed for their overnight at Anscombe Manor. I spent Saturday afternoon brushing lint from Bill's tux, searching my closet for an evening gown I could squeeze into, and listening to Bill grumble about his aunts. By the time we finished dressing for dinner, I was ready to stuff a sock in his mouth, but I thought I looked pretty good.

I'd chosen a strapless gown in midnight-blue silk satin primarily because it would allow easy access to the snack bar, but also because its mermaid shape flattered my motherly figure. Bill was too busy girding himself for battle to notice.

I'd dressed Bess in a pretty pale-blue cotton frock Sally Cook had made for her, then added a few backup onesies to the diaper bag in case she needed a quick change en route. The diaper incident was still fresh in my mind.

At half past seven, we climbed into the Rover and drove to Fairworth House. Deirdre Donovan greeted us at the front door, looking as lovely and as unflappable as ever.

“William and Amelia are in the drawing room with the tartars,” she murmured as she relieved us of our coats and the diaper bag.

“How do you do it?” I said quietly. “You've had to kowtow to them for nearly a week. Why haven't you ripped your hair out by the roots?”

“It's simple,” she said. “I've discovered what they like to eat.”

“Diet pills?” I hazarded.

“Vodka martinis,” said Deirdre. “Stirred, extra dry, no olives. They lap them up like a pair of thirsty puppies, then doze off. They're not bad company when they're asleep.”

“Ingenious,” I said.

“Let's get this over with,” Bill growled, squaring his shoulders.

I gave Deirdre a speaking look.

“Stay cool, Bill,” she said. “I'll have you out of here by ten.”

“Nine would be better,” Bill muttered.

“Eat fast,” she advised.

Deirdre opened the drawing room door and announced us, then stood aside to allow us to enter the room ahead of her. Honoria and Charlotte rose from their chairs to welcome their nephew effusively while favoring Bess and me with perfunctory smiles. William and Amelia kissed me on both cheeks and told me how lovely I looked before taking Bess with them to show her the Staffordshire spaniels on the mantel shelf. I sat on the Regency settee and waited for World War III to begin.

“Bill needs a drink, Donovan,” Charlotte said gaily as Bill escorted her and Honoria back to their seats and their martini glasses.

“A drink for Bill,” said Honoria, snapping her fingers at Deirdre.

“Nothing for me, thank you, Deirdre,” Bill said, joining me on the settee.

“Not even a small one?” Charlotte coaxed. “To celebrate your release from home detention?”

The muscles in Bill's jaw began to work, but he kept his cool.

“I'm driving,” he explained.

“We're not!” Honoria crowed.

She and Charlotte raised their glasses to Bill, drained them, and motioned imperiously for Deirdre to refill them. Though Deirdre filled the glasses to the brim, the sisters didn't spill a drop as they went on speaking. I was impressed.

“You'll never guess who we ran into at L'Espalier last month,” Charlotte said, naming one of Boston's most exclusive restaurants. “Pamela Grove! Dear, sweet Pamela. You remember Pamela, don't you, Bill?”

“She was Pamela Highsmith when you dated her,” said Honoria.

“I remember Pam,” Bill said woodenly, putting his arm around me.

“Her son is the same age as Will and Rob,” said Charlotte. “He's already finished his first year at Beresford.”

“I'm sure you remember your old prep school,” Honoria said playfully.

“I remember my prep school,” said Bill.

“Imagine our surprise,” Charlotte continued, “when dear Pamela informed us that you hadn't put your sons' names down for Beresford.”

“
Our
sons,” Bill said, tightening his hold on me, “won't be attending Beresford.”

“If you don't send them to Beresford,” said Honoria, “where will you send them?”

“Lori and I aren't sending them anywhere,” said Bill. “Will and Rob are happy where they are.”

“My dear boy,” said Charlotte, “prep school isn't about happiness. It's about making the right friends.”

“Friends who share the same background,” Honoria elucidated. “Friends who will stand them in good stead for the rest of their lives.”

“Will and Rob aren't likely to meet their own sort in this godforsaken corner of the world, are they, Bill?” Charlotte asked silkily.

“Will and Rob have many friends,” Bill said through gritted teeth.

“But what kind of friends?” Charlotte asked with a dissatisfied moue. “Farmers' sons? Shopkeepers' sons? Public schools are good enough for ordinary people”—her eyes darted to me—“but are they good enough for
your
children?”

I could almost see the faint wisps of steam coming out of Bill's ears. I willed Bess to break the rising tension with a well-timed wail, but she insisted on cooing contentedly in her grandfather's arms.

“We realize that you were pressured into moving here, Bill,” Honoria said, sending another malevolent glance my way, “but you mustn't allow the same kind of pressure to jeopardize the twins' futures.”

“They're your sons and heirs, Bill,” Charlotte said gravely. “Don't you think they deserve to have the same advantages your father gave you?”

The vein in Bill's right temple was throbbing. His face was flushed and his jaw muscle looked as if it might snap. I felt the hand clasping my waist curl into a fist, and braced myself. The outbreak of war seemed imminent.

Then the doorbell rang.

“See who it is and send them away,” Honoria said peremptorily to Deirdre.

“This is a family occasion,” said Charlotte. “Interlopers are not welcome.”

She directed her last comment at Amelia, but Amelia deflected it with a gracious smile. The week in Oxford had evidently rendered William's fiancée immune to his sisters' jibes.

“You haven't invited one of the villagers to dine with us, have you, William?” Honoria drawled. “The ramblings of a country bumpkin will do nothing to elevate the tone of the—”

She broke off as Deirdre returned to the drawing room, looking faintly disconcerted.

“A gentleman to see you, sir,” she said to Willis, Sr.

“Gentleman might be overstating the case,” said a familiar voice from the entrance hall. “I prefer to think of myself as a humble scholar.”

Arthur Hargreaves strode into the room, dressed in a spotless tuxedo, an immaculate shirt, a flawless bow tie, and gleaming black leather shoes, with his grapevine wreath tilted at a rakish angle over one eye. He struck a wide-legged pose before Charlotte and Honoria, thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, and grinned roguishly at them.

“You,”
Charlotte gasped as the color drained from her face.

“Arthur?”
Honoria breathed, looking horror-struck.

“Hello, girls,” he said cheerfully. “I hear you've become proper ladies.”

The color rushed back into Charlotte's face in a crimson flood. Honoria's mouth moved, but no sound emerged.

“Deirdre,” said Willis, Sr. “Would you please take my granddaughter to the nursery? I believe her diaper requires attention.”

Deirdre, who'd been staring delightedly at Arthur, came out of her happy trance and, with many a backward glance, took Bess from the room.

“I do apologize for bursting in on you,” Arthur said, extending his hand to shake Willis, Sr.'s and Bill's. He raised Amelia's to his lips before releasing it. “I'm Arthur Hargreaves and I live next door. Lori thought we should get to know one another.” He cocked his head toward Honoria and Charlotte. “No need to introduce myself to those two. Honey and the Shark are old pals.”

“Honey and the Shark?” I said, feeling as though Christmas had come early.

“That's what they called themselves back in the day,” Arthur said brightly, beaming at Bill's aunts. “We met in Boston when I was lecturing at MIT. They were party animals back then. Haven't changed a bit, have you, girls? Still downing your drinky poos?” He began to stride jauntily back and forth in front of the sisters. “I was a callow fifteen-year-old, but Honey and the Shark liked the look of me. Fixed me up with a fake ID, took me barhopping.” He came to a halt and gazed wistfully into the middle distance. “I'll never forget the sight of them, dancing on a pool table with their dresses hiked up around their . . .” He sighed reminiscently. “It was quite an education.”

The martini glasses fell to the floor. The sisters stood.

“Excuse me, William,” Charlotte said, her eyes downcast. “I am unwell.”

“As am I,” Honoria mumbled.

They sped from the room. The sound of their footsteps on the marble staircase suggested that they were unwilling to wait for the elevator.

“Is it true?” I asked Arthur, clasping my hands to my chest as I rose from the settee. “Oh, please, let it be true.”

The answer came from an unexpected quarter.

“It is true,” said Willis, Sr. “My sisters were legendarily wayward young women. My father had to bail them out of jail on five separate occasions. My recollections of their youthful indiscretions have always made it difficult for me to take their conversion to respectability seriously.”

“Thank you, Arthur,” I cried, throwing my arms around him.

“I had to protect our emissary,” he said, his eyes twinkling, when we broke apart. “And some good deeds can't be done in silence.”

“Mr. Hargreaves?” said Amelia. “Would you care to join us for dinner?”

“I would be honored,” said Arthur.

“The honor,” said Bill, grinning from ear to ear, “is entirely ours.”

And though darkness had fallen on the slumbering world, the sun shone that night in Fairworth.