“The two of them tossed it back as if it were mother’s milk,” I marveled.
“Whereas I coughed and sputtered like a badly tuned automobile,” said Willis, Sr. “The experience was highly instructive.”
“Instructive?” Bill asked. “In what way?”
“It taught me never to underestimate the apparently harmless drinks served by elderly, churchgoing ladies,” said Willis, Sr. “Their damson wine was a force to be reckoned with as well. I soon learned to accept nothing but tea from their fair hands.”
“And cream cakes,” I said.
“And seed cake,” Bill added.
“And chocolate eclairs,” I went on, “and macaroons and meringues.”
“Ah, those excellent meringues . . .” Willis, Sr., heaved a reminiscent sigh.
Our stroll through memory’s bakery came to a screeching halt when the telephone rang. Bill answered it and I braced myself for the announcement none of us wanted to hear, but after exchanging a few brief words with the caller, he held the phone out to me.
“It’s Kit,” he said. “He wants to speak with you.”
I jumped to my feet and took the phone from Bill.
“Kit? ” I said. “Where are you?”
“Nell and I are still at the Pyms’ house,” he replied. “I think you should be here, too. Ruth and Louise have been asking for you.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes,” I said. I cut the connection, tossed the telephone to Bill, and headed for the front door.
“Lori?” said Bill, dislodging a reluctant Stanley from his lap and following me into the hallway. “Where are you going?”
“Ruth and Louise are asking for me.” I pulled a woolen jacket from the hat rack and thrust my arms into it. “I’ll take the Rover.”
“Do you want me to drive?” Bill asked.
“I want you to stay here,” I said, grabbing my keys from the telephone table, “in case there’s more bad news to break to the boys.”
I gave him a quick kiss, called good night to Willis, Sr., and sprinted through the crisp night air to our canary-yellow Range Rover. As I turned the key in the ignition and backed the Rover down our graveled drive, I tried in vain to prepare myself for what might be my last visit with the Pyms.
Three
T
he fields on either side of our narrow, twisting lane were shrouded in darkness and hidden from view by hedgerows, but I was conscious of their presence nonetheless. Harvesttime had come to my corner of the Cotswolds. All too soon, I told myself, the reaper would swing his blade and the ripe sheaves would be gathered.
“Stop being so melodramatic,” I muttered irritably as I cruised past Anscombe Manor’s winding drive. “The crops around here will be harvested by brawny men in big machines, not by a black-robed skeleton wielding a scythe.”
Still, it was hard to ignore the season’s symbolism.
I negotiated the lane’s most hazardous bend, and the Pym sisters’ house came into view, shining like a jewel nestled in velvet. Light poured from each lace-curtained window beneath the shaggy thatch, giving the redbrick walls a mellow glow. I was surprised to see how many lamps were burning in the house—I’d expected it to be as dimly lit as a sick room—until I noticed the vehicles parked on the grassy strip between the lane and the Pyms’ front garden. The row of cars told me that Kit Smith and Nell Harris weren’t the Pym sisters’ only visitors.
Kit’s small pickup was there, as were Mr. Barlow’s paneled van, the vicar’s black BMW, Miranda Morrow’s sky-blue Beetle, Sally Pyne’s ancient Vauxhall, and the Peacocks’ old Renault. I thought I’d received an exclusive invitation to appear at the Pyms’ bedsides, but it looked as though I’d have to wait in line.
I parked the Rover behind the vicar’s sedan, then made my way through the wrought-iron gate and into the leaf-strewn garden. As I passed the dried flower stalks shivering forlornly in the neglected beds and borders, I wondered who would make the garden bloom again once the Pym sisters were gone. Since the pair had outlived their blood relations, their house would be sold to a stranger. Would the newcomer preserve the old-fashioned plants the sisters had so lovingly tended, or would he dig them up and replace them with a modern, low-maintenance lawn? It hurt my heart to think of plain grass claiming victory over the Pyms’ snapdragons, hollyhocks, and sweet peas, so I pushed the unwelcome image to the back of my mind and hurried forward.
I was halfway up the graveled path when the front door opened and a line of villagers spilled onto the front step, with Lilian Bunting, the vicar’s scholarly wife, in the lead.
“We’re agreed, then,” she said, gazing intently at a small notebook she held in one hand. “I’ll devise a rota for cooking, shopping, and general housekeeping duties. Mr. Barlow and Derek Harris will keep the house, the shed, the fences, and the garage in good repair. Miranda will look after the garden and Emma Harris will make sure that none of the fruit goes to waste. Peggy Taxman has already volunteered to deliver their mail directly to the house and Jasper Taxman will see to it that their bills are paid on time. My husband will, of course, tend to their spiritual needs.”
“I have the easiest job of all, it seems,” murmured the vicar.
“You never know,” said Mr. Barlow. “Old ladies can be full of surprises.”
The rest of the villagers chuckled and a comprehending smile crept across my face. The social machinery that had been set in motion for the wedding of the century had evidently been diverted to the communal mission of caring for the Pyms. While I’d been preoccupied with symbols and hypothetical heartbreaks, my neighbors had concerned themselves with down-to-earth practicalities.
“It looks as though I’ve missed a committee meeting,” I said, striding forward to join the group. “Sign me up for general housekeeping, Lilian. I’m a dab hand with a feather duster.”
“Lori!” she exclaimed, looking up from her notebook. “How nice to see you. Our meeting was quite spontaneous, I assure you.”
“Emma’s phone calls instigated it,” Christine Peacock explained. “As soon as she told me about the Pyms, I left Dick to close up the pub and came right over.”
“Each of us drove over as soon as we heard the news,” said Miranda Morrow. “We wanted Ruth and Louise to know that they’re not alone.”
“Peggy said we’d only be making a nuisance of ourselves,” Sally Pyne noted tartly, “so she and Jasper stayed at the Emporium. If you ask me, she’d rather fill her till than help her friends.”
“The Taxmans offered their highly useful services via the telephone before Teddy and I left the vicarage,” Lilian Bunting pointed out, with a reproving glance at Sally. “I’m sure we’re all very grateful to them.”
“I’m sure we’re all very tired and somewhat overwrought,” the vicar observed mildly. “It’s been a difficult evening. Shall we continue on to our cars? I’ve no doubt that a good night’s sleep will settle our nerves and prepare us for the tasks that lie ahead.”
“Ever the voice of reason,” said Lilian, smiling at her husband. “You’re quite right, Teddy. We’ve accomplished all we can in a few short hours. It’s time for us to leave Ruth and Louise in peace.”
I exchanged good nights with the villagers as they left the garden, but as Lilian passed, I touched her sleeve.
“Don’t forget to add my name to the rota,” I said.
“I’ve already done so,” she said, tapping a fountain pen against the notebook. “I’ll let you know when you and your feather duster will be needed.”
I waved good-bye to my neighbors as they drove back to Finch, then turned to face the solitary figure standing in the doorway.
Kit Smith smiled wearily at me. He was dressed in faded blue jeans, a dark-blue pullover that seemed to be sprouting bits of hay, and a pair of thick woolen socks. His patched and mud-stained Wellington boots sat beside Nell’s on a rubber mat just inside the doorway.
“Lori,” he said. “Come in.”
I followed him into the foyer. He left me there to hang my coat on the Pyms’ coat tree and add my shoes to those on the rubber mat while he circumnavigated the ground floor, turning off lamps as he went. When he returned to the foyer, I peered up at him worriedly. His violet eyes were so breathtakingly beautiful that, if I hadn’t known him so well, I might not have noticed how tired they were.
“You poor thing,” I said, standing on tiptoe to give him a hug. “You look as though you’ve been through the wringer.”
“It’s been quite a day,” he acknowledged, returning my hug warmly.
“I’m sorry about the wedding,” I said, stepping back from him.
Kit shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. The wedding will happen when it happens.”
“I know, but all the same . . .” I rubbed his arm sympathetically. “Where’s Nell? ”
“Upstairs, with Ruth and Louise,” he replied. “She’s moved into one of the extra bedrooms. She wants to be on hand to nurse them round the clock.”
“Shouldn’t they have a professional nurse? ” I asked.
“They want Nell,” he answered.
“Who wouldn’t?” I said with a wry smile.
“I’ve spent the evening fielding visitors,” Kit informed me.
“I noticed,” I said “Word does travel fast in Finch.”
“That it does,” he agreed. “The freezer’s already filled with the casseroles and soups people have dropped off, not to mention Horace Malvern’s cheeses. The rest of the offerings are in here.” He led the way into the dining room and began naming the items that littered the long walnut table. “Devotional books from the vicar, chrysanthemums from George Wetherhead, hand-knitted shawls from Sally Pyne, fresh eggs from Mrs. Sciaparelli, honey from Burt Hodge’s hives, a packet of Miranda Morrow’s herbal remedies, six bottles of Dick Peacock’s homemade wine, and a pile of mystery novels from Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham.”
“I suggest that you pour Dick’s wine down the sink,” I said. “I’m sure he means well, but—”
“It’s not for the faint of heart,” Kit put in.
“Or the weak of stomach,” I added. I surveyed the villagers’ gifts in silence, then said, “It looks as though people are anticipating a prolonged siege. Are they being optimistic?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Kit ran a hand through his short, prematurely gray hair. “Dr. Finisterre says that his patients have proved him wrong too often for him make predictions.”
“I didn’t see the doctor’s car out front,” I said. “Is he still here?”
“No,” said Kit. “He showed Nell what to do, then went home. He’ll stop by again in the morning.” Kit cocked his head toward the hallway. “You’d better go up.”
“I’ve never been upstairs before,” I confessed. “Which bedroom is theirs? ”
“Turn left at the top of the stairs,” said Kit. “Their bedroom is the first one on the left.”
“Thanks.” I started to leave the dining room, hesitated‚ and turned back. “Did they really ask for me, Kit?”
“Several times,” he replied. “I don’t know what’s on their minds, but it definitely involves you.”
“Maybe it’s something to do with the twins,” I said, frowning puzzledly.
“There’s one way to find out,” said Kit with a meaningful look.
“I’m going,” I said, and left him gazing at the gifts on the dining room table.
Kit’s directions were unnecessary, as it turned out, because Nell was waiting for me at the top of the stairs.
“I heard your voice,” she said.
Nell looked more like a fairy princess than a nurse. She was tall and willowy, with golden hair that fell in soft ringlets around a face so exquisite that case-hardened men of the world tended to melt when they caught sight of it. She was dressed, like Kit, in blue jeans, an old pullover, and woolen socks, but she somehow managed to look regal no matter what she was wearing. I couldn’t detect the slightest trace of sorrow, regret, or fatigue in her. Her midnight-blue eyes were as serene as ever, and her manner was calm and entirely self-assured. Although Nell was only nineteen years old, she was, and always had been, more mature than I’d ever be.
“I’m sorry about the wedding,” I said.
“The wedding will keep,” said Nell. “Ruth and Louise won’t.”
I looked down the darkened hallway. “How are they?”
“They’re waiting for you,” she said. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me. Kit’s in desperate need of a cup of cocoa. He’s been a bit overwhelmed by well-wishers.” She bent to kiss me softly on the cheek, then floated down the stairs as gracefully as an autumn leaf.
I took a steadying breath, walked to the first door on the left, and let myself in to the Pyms’ bedroom. The room was just as I’d imagined it would be—spacious, airy, and unmistakably feminine. The ceiling was white and the walls were covered with a pretty wallpaper patterned with pale blue ribbons and bunches of bright red poppies. A wood fire crackled in the tiled fireplace to my left, throwing bright reflections across the polished floorboards.
To my right, a matching pair of white-painted iron beds sat on either side of an oval night table that held two rose-shaded lamps and a pair of well-thumbed Bibles. The bedclothes on each bed were identical, from the crocheted coverlets layered atop the white duvets to the ruffled bed skirts and the lace-edged pillowcases. A splendidly carved oak wardrobe filled the wall next to the doorway, and two white-painted dressing tables sat side by side between a pair of tall windows that overlooked the front garden. The dressing tables held matching silver-backed brushes, yellowing ivory combs, hand-painted porcelain boxes, and delicate bottles filled with the lavender water the sisters made every summer.
The only discordant notes in the room were struck by the medical paraphernalia Dr. Finisterre had left behind. An oxygen tank sat beside each bed, and a card table placed discreetly in a dim corner held medicine bottles, a blood-pressure cuff, and a thermometer. I averted my eyes from the card table and turned to regard the Pyms.
Ruth and Louise sat upright in their beds, propped against piled pillows. They weren’t wearing oxygen masks or tubes to help them breathe, so I assumed they weren’t in the final throes of their illness. Their long white hair had been loosed from the buns they usually wore and lay fanned across their pillows like bridal veils. They were clad in matching dove-gray bed jackets made of quilted silk and trimmed at neckline and cuff with ivory lace. Their blue-veined hands lay motionless atop the coverlets, but their bright bird’s eyes followed me closely as I crossed from the doorway to stand between their beds.