Satisfied, I entered the kitchen, where I found the gray-haired woman transferring the contents of a large red cooler to the stainless steel refrigerator Jack MacBride had installed. The kitchen was crowded with boxes, some half empty, others unopened, none of them labeled MUSEUM.
“You arrived in the nick of time,” the woman said over her shoulder. “One more hour, and our butter would have been soup.” She tipped a stream of half-melted ice cubes into the sink, then set the cooler aside, with its lid open, to air dry. “I really can’t thank you enough,” she went on, turning to extend a damp hand to me. “I’m Felicity Hobson, by the way, and your baby is beautiful.”
Mrs. Hobson couldn’t have chosen a better way to endear herself to me. I looked down at my daughter’s silky dark ringlets, her velvety brown eyes, and her rose-petal complexion, and I had to agree that she was indeed beautiful. My boys were good-looking, too, but there was something about an infant . . .
“I’m Lori Shepherd,” I said, shaking Mrs. Hobson’s hand. “And my daughter’s name is Bess. We live up the lane from you, just past Anscombe Manor.”
“Anscombe Manor,” Mrs. Hobson repeated reflectively. “Is that the place with the riding school?”
“That’s right,” I said. “My sons take lessons there.”
“I know,” she said. “The woman who owns the tearoom told me.”
“Did she?” I said, wondering what else Sally Cook had told our new neighbors about me.
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Hobson. “Our estate agent introduced us to quite a number of villagers when we came to Finch to view Ivy Cottage. Everyone we met seemed eager to speak with us.”
“Talking is the most popular form of exercise in Finch,” I told her.
“I’m rather fond of it myself,” said Mrs. Hobson.
The twinkle in her eye suggested that she’d learned as much about the villagers as they’d learned about her during her first visit to Finch. It was a promising sign. Mrs. Hobson, I thought, would have no trouble holding her own in a community of snoops.
Bess repeated her request for food.
“Diaper?” Mrs. Hobson guessed.
“Hunger,” I said. “Bess usually has a bite to eat right about now.”
“I’m afraid we didn’t bring any baby food with us,” said Mrs. Hobson. “Our children outgrew it some thirty years ago.”
“Not to worry,” I said, patting the diaper bag. “I never leave home without a jar of puréed carrots.”
“Would you like me to warm it for Bess?” Mrs. Hobson asked. “I do have a saucepan here, somewhere.”
She began to shift boxes from one place to another, and in no time at all, I was seated at a cleared kitchen table, feeding Bess spoonfuls of her favorite midmorning snack. Mrs. Hobson’s saucepan search had produced a teakettle, a sturdy brown teapot, a squashed packet of tea, and a pretty set of blue-and-white cups and saucers as well as the saucepan. While I fed my ravenous daughter, Mrs. Hobson made a pot of Earl Grey tea and set the table with three cups and saucers. She then left the kitchen to stand at the bottom of the staircase leading to the upper floor.
“James!” she called. “Come down! We have guests!”
She returned to the kitchen and took the chair opposite mine, placed her reading glasses on the table, and rubbed her eyes.
“My husband will be with us shortly,” she said. “Unless he becomes distracted, in which case I’ll go upstairs and haul him down bodily.”
“Please don’t,” I protested. “He must have a lot to do—you both do—and you’ve already gone to so much trouble—”
“It’s no trouble,” she broke in, filling her cup. “I needed a sit-down, and you gave me an excuse to have one.”
I heard the sound of footsteps descending the stairs, and a moment later James Hobson strode into the kitchen. He was a head taller than his wife, and his face was more weathered than hers, but he had the same slim build. His bright blue eyes peered at me from behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, and his iron-gray hair stood up in random wisps, as if he’d just finished running his hand through it. He was dressed as casually as I would have expected him to be, in a plaid flannel shirt, a somewhat grubby pair of chinos, and sneakers.
“Lori?” said Mrs. Hobson. “Please allow me to present my husband, James. James, say hello to Lori Shepherd and her daughter, Bess. Their timely arrival saved our butter.”
“Hello and thank you,” he said, smiling down at me. “I’d offer my hand, but yours appear to be fully engaged.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Hobson,” I said.
“Please don’t call me Mr. Hobson,” he said with a groan, sinking into the chair next to his wife’s. “Felicity and I have been addressed as Mr. and Mrs. Hobson for so long that we’ve nearly forgotten our Christian names.”
“The schoolteacher’s curse,” said Mrs. Hobson. “One of them, at any rate.”
“Among grown-ups,” said her husband, “we’re James and Felicity.”
“And I’m Lori,” I said. “I’m familiar with schoolteachers’ curses. My mother taught third and fourth graders back in the States.”
“I thought I detected an American accent,” said James. “Is your mother still in the States?”
“She died a year before I moved to England,” I replied.
“I’m sorry,” said James. “And your father?”
“James,” Felicity said, frowning at him, “you’re prying.”
“It’s okay, Felicity,” I said. “I’m used to people prying. To answer your question, James, my father died shortly after I was born.”
“It must be a comfort to have your father-in-law living nearby,” said James. “He owns the estate across the lane from us, doesn’t he?”
“Another tidbit from the tearoom?” I inquired.
“Not at all,” James replied. “We heard about your father-in-law from the man who owns the pub. He sounds like quite a nice chap.”
“William is wonderful,” I said. “You couldn’t ask for a better neighbor.”
“I don’t suppose we could borrow a blender from him,” said Felicity, with a wry smile. She kicked a nearby box, and it made a faint tinkling noise. “Ours didn’t survive the move.”
“I’ll bring one over tomorrow,” I said. “My husband and I were given six blenders as wedding presents, and we’ve only ever used one. The rest are stashed in our attic. They may not have the latest bells and whistles, and their warranties are definitely out of date, but they’re as good as new.”
“I was joking,” Felicity said, “but if you wouldn’t mind . . . It would save us a trip to Upper Deeping.”
“It would be my pleasure,” I said. “We’ll call it a housewarming gift.”
Bess had finished inhaling her carrots, and although she found our conversation fascinating, she was ready for some exercise. I cleaned her up, then scanned the cluttered floor for a safe place to put her, but there was none. Her body language—and mine—must have spoken to James because he proposed a simple solution.
“Shall we repair to the back garden?” he said. “Your daughter can play among the leaves while we chat.”
“Are you sure we’re not taking up too much of your time?” I asked.
“Let’s see,” said James, feigning concentration. “Unpack another box or sit idly in the garden on a fine October morning? Difficult choice, but . . .” He stood. “I choose the garden!”
“So do I,” said Felicity, standing. “A breath of fresh air will make a nice change from breathing dust. James, you bring the diaper bag, and I’ll bring the tea.”
* * *
Jack MacBride had, with ample help from my friend Emma Harris, transformed Ivy Cottage’s back garden from a tangled jungle into a tranquil haven. No garden was at its best in late October, but I’d seen the trellis covered with roses, the boundary wall shaded by the
pergola’s profusion of grape leaves, and the blooming beds of wildlife-friendly flowers that had been cut back but not uprooted during the renovation. James and Felicity, I thought, had a lot to look forward to.
Whatever the season, the garden’s most noteworthy feature was the old well that stood at its center. It was known throughout the village as the wishing well, and it looked the part. The wellhead was round and constructed of smooth river stones, with a shingled roof resting on a pair of wooden posts. An oak bucket hung from a rope wound around the wooden spindle that spanned the posts. I remembered the day Mr. Barlow had given the rope and the bucket to Jack MacBride.
Although the sight of the old well revived vivid memories, I pushed them aside. I’d been so disarmed by the Hobsons’ hospitality that I’d forgotten the reason for my visit, but it was time to get down to business. I was fairly sure that the villagers would look upon me with disfavor—and possibly growl at me—if I left Ivy Cottage without learning the truth about the museum boxes.
The movers had deposited a simple teak table and four matching chairs on the back garden’s brick patio. I placed Bess and a few of her toys on the soft grass at the edge of the patio and kept an eye on her as the Hobsons and I took our places around the table. I didn’t mind Bess playing with dead leaves. I just didn’t want her to fill her mouth with them.
I was about to turn the conversation toward the mysterious boxes when James spoke.
“Tell me, Lori,” he said, “were you deputized by the lurkers in the lane, or did you visit us of your own volition?”
I blushed to my roots. A feeble denial sprang to my lips, but I couldn’t bring myself to insult James’s intelligence.
“I suppose it was too much to hope that you wouldn’t notice our little gathering,” I said with a sigh.
“We’re tired, but we’re not that tired,” said Felicity. “Does it happen every time someone new comes to Finch?”
“I’m afraid so,” I said apologetically. “The arrival of newcomers is a big event in a small village. Since Finch is a very small village, your arrival is a very big event.”
“We aren’t complaining,” James assured me. “It’s rather flattering to be the center of so much attention. Were you sent, by the way? Or did you volunteer?”
“A bit of both,” I admitted. “The villagers are curious about you.” I was too embarrassed to meet his gaze, so I kept my eyes fixed on Bess as I added, “So am I.”
“We thought as much,” said James, nodding. “And we’re prepared to give you a few morsels of information to take back with you.”
“We won’t reveal our deepest secrets,” said Felicity. “We plan to be here for a long time, and we’d like to save something for later.”
“But we’ll tell you enough of our life story to satisfy our audience,” said James.
“Please feel free to break in with questions,” said Felicity.
Their graciousness had robbed me of the desire to ask any questions of them, ever, on any subject, but I’d lived in Finch for too long to put my fingers in my ears as James began.
Four
“Let’s start with why we came to Finch, shall we?” James proposed. “It’s a dramatic tale, filled with pathos, danger, and near-tragedy. I’m sure the lane lurkers will gobble it up.”
“Behave yourself, James,” Felicity scolded. “The ‘lane lurkers,’ as you call them, are our new neighbors.”
“I stand corrected,” James acknowledged. “I’m sure our new neighbors will gobble it up.” He took a small sip of tea, adjusted his spectacles, and gazed out over the meadows beyond the garden’s boundary wall. “I suppose you could call us climate-change refugees.”
“It’s an accurate description,” Felicity agreed, “but I think we’ll have to turn the clock back a bit to explain why.” She refilled my cup, then went on. “After James and I retired from teaching, we sold our house in North London and bought a cottage in a small village near Eastbourne.”
“Our cottage had been built in 1820,” James said, “and it sat high on a cliff overlooking the Channel. We’d hoped to spend the rest of our days there, savoring the sea air and the glorious sunsets.”
“It was our dream home,” Felicity said, “until it turned into a nightmare.”
“A nightmare?” I echoed, and my reluctance to ask questions went straight out the window. “What happened?”
“The southeast coast has always been battered by winter storms,” James said, “but over the past few decades, the storms have become bigger and stronger and more frequent than any in recorded history. As a result, the cliffs have begun to erode at an alarming rate.”
“The sea is reclaiming the land,” said Felicity, “and it was happening before our very eyes. Cliffs that had been fifty meters away from our back door were suddenly forty meters away, then thirty.” She shook her head. “It was like watching a disaster film.”
“It was like being in a disaster film,” James countered. “We couldn’t let our grandchildren play outside when they came to visit because we never knew when the next section of cliff would collapse. We couldn’t stroll on the beach because falling rocks might land on our heads. The stress and the uncertainty began to take a toll on our health. We had trouble sleeping, eating, concentrating. It was, as Felicity said, a nightmare.”
I left my chair to persuade Bess to chew on a teething toy instead of a pinecone, then returned to it, breathless with anticipation.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “About your nightmare, I mean. It must have been awful.”
“We were certainly filled with awe,” James said dryly. “But we could see the handwriting on the wall.”
“Once we faced the fact that our dream home’s days were numbered,” said Felicity, “we revised our dream and began to look for another home.”
“We should mention here that our daughter lives in Upper Deeping,” James interjected.
“I know,” I said, with a half smile in Felicity’s direction. “I also know that your daughter is an interior decorator and that she’s the one who told you about Ivy Cottage.” I shrugged. “Word gets around.”
“Naturally,” said Felicity, smiling back at me. “Yes, Jessica did tell us about Ivy Cottage. She’d be here helping us today if her children weren’t under the weather.”
“Both of them sick?” I said. “That’s tough.” I smiled sheepishly as Felicity’s eyebrows rose. “As I said, word gets around. Rumor has it that your daughter has two school-aged children, a boy and a girl.”
“And our son?” Felicity asked.
“Unmarried, works in finance, lives in Singapore,” I said unhesitatingly.
“Remarkable,” said Felicity.
“Typical,” I said. “If you let something slip, the villagers will remember it. And pass it on.”
“I’ll bear it in mind,” said Felicity, “and I’ll watch what I let slip.”
“So will I,” said James.
“A wise decision,” I said.
“Where were we?” said Felicity. “Ah, yes . . . our daughter learned of Ivy Cottage from a client who knew the estate agent handling the property.”
“Felicity and I drove up from the coast to view the cottage,” said James, “and decided on the spot to up stakes and move inland. It wasn’t an easy decision, but it was the right one.”
“I imagine you’ll miss the sea air and the sunsets,” I said sympathetically.
“We can drive back to the coast whenever we like,” said James. “And we won’t miss the tension and the fear. Our grandchildren will be able to visit us more often, and we’ll allow them to play outside when they do.”
“The Little Deeping floods from time to time,” I said, in the interest of full disclosure.
“We know,” said Felicity, with another smile. “Grant and Charles—the chaps who live in Crabtree Cottage—told us. But they also told us
that the floodwaters have never reached Ivy Cottage.”
“If our nightmare taught us anything,” James said philosophically, “it’s that no place on earth is entirely safe. We believe, however, that we’re safer here than we were on our crumbling cliffs.”
“Ivy Cottage suits us perfectly,” said Felicity. “It’s on solid ground, it has a magnificent garden, and it has plenty of room for James’s hobby.”
“My wife is a keen gardener,” James informed me.
“A decent-sized garden was the one thing our cliff-top cottage lacked,” said Felicity. “Well,” she temporized, “that, and solid ground.”
“I’ll introduce you to my friend Emma Harris,” I said. “She worked on the garden while the cottage was being renovated. I know for a fact that she still has a three-ring binder filled with her drawings, diagrams, and plant lists. I’m sure she’ll be willing to pass it on to you.”
“I look forward to meeting her,” said Felicity, sounding impressed.
“We look forward to meeting everyone we haven’t already met,” James put in. “That’s the point of village life, isn’t it? Getting to know one’s neighbors?”
Bess crawled across the brick patio to join in the discussion, but before I could reach for her, James picked her up, parked her in his lap, and gave her his key ring to play with. When she made no objection, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Hobsons would make a fine addition to Finch. Bess was a shrewd judge of character.
“If you’re looking for neighbors who take an interest in one another,” I said, “then you’ve come to the right place. As a matter of fact, the villagers sent me in here to ask you about some boxes that piqued their curiosity. They think you’re planning to open a museum in Ivy Cottage, and they’ve worked themselves into a lather over the extra traffic, the parking, the litter, the zoning laws, and just about anything that could be remotely connected to the opening of a museum.”
Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure Page 3