“Oh.” Sally’s face went scarlet and she stared at her hands. “I told Henrique that the villagers call me Sally—Sally of Finch—because I’m not a la-di-dah sort of snooty-nose who needs to show off her title all the time. He addressed the letter ‘To Sally of Finch’ even though he insisted on calling me Lady Sarah—to give me my proper due, he said. He’s s-such a g-gentleman!”
Another teary downpour ensued, but it passed fairly quickly.
“As I was saying,” Sally went on, dropping another wad of damp tissues into the wastebasket, “I had a letter from Henrique this morning. He arrived in England a week ago. He’s touring the English countryside and he thinks it’ll be such fun to spend three days at Fairworth on his way to Stratford.” She gasped. “He’ll be here on Monday!”
“Which leaves you one full day to prepare for his arrival,” Willis, Sr., observed.
“How can I prepare for his arrival?” Sally wailed. “Henrique thinks I’m a grand lady who lives in a grand house. What will he think of me if he finds out who I really am?”
“He may be enchanted,” said Willis, Sr.
“Don’t be daft,” Sally said, shaking her head mournfully. “He’ll think I’m a big fat liar, because that’s what I am. What’s worse, he might think I’m some sort of gold digger, which I’m not. I may not be a grand lady, but I’m not a pauper.”
“Of course not,” murmured Willis, Sr.
“I could stand Henrique thinking ill of me,” Sally said, twisting her hands in her lap. “It’s what I deserve. But if word gets out about my little ... charade ... I’ll never be able to hold my head high in Finch again. I’ll be a laughingstock, William. I’ll be the butt of jokes from now until the end of time. Peggy Taxman will never let me live it down. I’ll always be Silly Sally, the ridiculous woman who put on airs and graces because she was too ashamed to be herself.” She caught her breath and blinked back a fresh batch of tears. “I know how foolish I’ve been, William, but I won’t be able to bear it if everyone else knows, too.” She swallowed hard. “I’ll have no choice. I’ll have to leave Finch.”
There was a pregnant pause. My eyes swiveled back and forth between Sally and Willis, Sr. I had absolutely no idea what would happen next. The suspense was delicious.
After what seemed an age, Willis, Sr., spoke.
“We must not allow that to happen,” he said.
Sally pressed a hand to her mouth and peered at Willis, Sr., as if he were her last hope of salvation.
“Finch would be greatly diminished if it were to lose your excellent jam doughnuts, your skills as a needlewoman, and your effervescent personality, Mrs. Pyne.” Willis, Sr., leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers over his immaculate waistcoat. “You must leave the problem with me. I will contact you as soon as I have devised a satisfactory solution to it. In the meantime, you are to remain incommunicado.”
Sally blinked uncomprehendingly.
“You are not at all well, Mrs. Pyne,” Willis, Sr., reminded her. “You are certainly too ill to receive visitors. You must remain sequestered in your sickroom, with the curtains drawn, until I telephone you. Do you understand?”
Sally nodded eagerly. “I’ll keep out of sight. Rainey’ll tell everyone I’m sick as a pig.”
“A granddaughter can be a great support in times of strife.” Willis, Sr., consulted his pocket watch. “I believe our business is finished for the moment, Mrs. Pyne. Please allow my son to escort you home.”
“No, thank you,” Sally said, getting swiftly to her feet. “I’ll go back along the riverbank, the way I came. One person makes less noise than two.”
“In that case, I will bid you good night,” said Willis, Sr. “Get some sleep, Mrs. Pyne. I will be in touch. Lori? Will you see our guest out?”
“No need.” Sally motioned toward the French doors. “I’ll slip out through the garden. Good night, William. And thank you.” She scurried across the room and was gone in a swish of draperies.
Bill crossed to sit in the chair Sally had vacated.
“I’m glad she mentioned the river,” he said, grinning. “I was wondering where the mud came from. Well, well, well ...” He gave a low whistle. “Who’d’ve thunk it? Sally Pyne, femme fatale.”
“It’s not funny,” I scolded. “Sally has good reason to worry about the villagers. They’ll make her life a misery if they find out what she’s done.”
“They will,” he agreed. “Sally’s dug a pretty deep hole for herself.” He favored Willis, Sr., with a speculative gaze. “It sounds as though you intend to jump in with her, Father. What are you going to do?”
“I am going to go to bed,” Willis, Sr., replied firmly. “I suggest that you do the same. We will reconvene here after church tomorrow—later today, that is—to devise a stratagem that will allow Mrs. Pyne to maintain both her friendship with Señor Cocinero and her standing in the community.” He leaned forward, and though he addressed Bill and me, he looked only at me. “I wish to state once again, to both of you, that whatever is said in this room is said in the strictest confidence.”
“My lips are zipped,” I said, “and your son’s a lawyer—he’s trained to keep his trap shut.”
“I’m ready to shut my eyes as well,” said Bill, yawning. “Come on, Lori. Kit and Nell must think we’ve forgotten about them.”
I glanced at my watch as we said good night to Willis, Sr. Although it was two o’clock in the morning, I still had enough energy to complete one more vitally important task. Bill could sail off to dreamland when we reached the cottage, but I planned to make a small detour.
I needed to speak with Aunt Dimity.
Five
Nell Smith was awake and absorbed ina bookwhen Bill and I walked into our living room. She sat in the chintz armchair near the hearth, bathed in the pool of light cast by a single lamp.
Nell’s beauty never failed to astound me, but it had somehow become even more ethereal since her marriage. The nimbus of soft golden curls framing her flawless oval face seemed to glow with a brightness that rivaled the sun’s, and her midnight-blue eyes, darker and deeper than moonlit wells, were filled with a quiet contentment most souls yearn for but seldom find. The aura of happiness surrounding her was almost palpable.
Kit, who was every bit as beautiful as his young wife, was asleep with Stanley on the sofa, but he woke with a start when the sleek black cat used him as a trampoline to reach Bill. As Kit sat up and rubbed his eyes, Stanley wove in and out of Bill’s legs, purring ecstatically. Stanley was very fond of me and the twins, but he adored Bill.
“Must’ve dozed off,” Kit said, running a hand over his short crop of prematurely gray hair. “Did William enjoy his party?”
“Very much,” I replied. “I’m sorry we’re so late. A pair of potential employees arrived just after midnight and we wanted to stick around until William finished interviewing them.”
“What’s the verdict?” Kit asked.
“They’re in,” I announced. “Deirdre Donovan is William’s cook/ housekeeper. Her husband, Declan, will look after the garden and fix things that need fixing around the house.”
“You must be relieved,” said Nell, with a knowing look.
“I’m over the moon,” I conceded. “Now that William has solved his servant problem, I can get back to my usual routine.”
“I’m glad he’s not alone anymore,” Nell said thoughtfully. “Fairworth is too big for one person.”
“I never liked the thought of him staying there by himself,” I agreed. “I’ll sleep better, knowing that Deirdre and Declan are on hand to look after him. Incidentally, William wants everyone to know that the Donovans are in charge of hiring extra help.”
“In other words,” Bill interjected, “he’s posted guards at the gates.”
Nell’s eyes twinkled merrily and Kit laughed out loud. They were aware of the Handmaiden situation.
“Wise man,” said Kit. “There’s such a thing as having too much company.”
“We’ll sp
read the word,” Nell promised.
She set her book aside, uncurled her long, slender legs, and rose gracefully from the chintz armchair, then put an exquisite hand out to her husband, who took it and got to his feet.
“We’ll be off,” said Kit, entwining his fingers with Nell’s. “Will and Rob were as good as gold, by the way.”
“They always are, when they’re with you,” Bill said dryly. “It helps that you’re their riding instructors. It gives you the kind of clout mere parents can only dream of.”
We thanked Kit and Nell profusely and watched from the doorstep as they made their way down the flagstone path to their classic gray Land Rover. They were such an enchanting couple that it was hard to look away.
“Ah, young love,” I said with a heartfelt sigh as they drove off.
Bill closed the door and put his arms around me.
“Old love’s not so bad,” he observed.
“Not bad at all,” I agreed, kissing him.
“I’m for bed,” he said, “but something tells me that you have other plans.”
“You don’t mind, do you?” I asked.
“Since you won’t be able to concentrate on anything until you finish your business in the study,” he said, “no, I don’t mind. I’ll look in on the boys before I hit the sack. Don’t be too long.” He nuzzled my neck in a way that made it quite difficult for me to let him go to bed alone, then went upstairs. Stanley gave my leg a friendly rub before padding faithfully after his favorite human.
I sped past the stairs and up the hallway, because Bill was correct: I wouldn’t be able to sleep—or to concentrate on anything else—until I’d finished my business in the study.
Our study was smaller, darker, and much less formal than Willis, Sr.’s. Bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and the only furnishings, apart from the old oak desk beneath the ivy-covered windows, were a pair of tall leather armchairs and an ottoman grouped before the fireplace.
The room was still and silent when I entered it. I paused to light a fire in the hearth, not for warmth, but for the cheerful companionship of the dancing flames, then smiled at the small, pink-flannel rabbit perched in a special niche on one of the shelves.
“Hi, Reg,” I said, touching a finger to the faded grape juice stain on his snout. “Wait until you hear about Sally Pyne!”
A psychiatrist would have had a field day explaining why a woman in her late thirties spent time chatting with a pink bunny named Reginald, but it made perfect sense to me. Reginald had been my confidante and my companion in adventure for as long as I could remember. It would have been impolite to ignore him simply because I’d grown up.
“It’s spectacular, Reg,” I continued. “It’s the juiciest story I’ve heard since we moved to Finch.”
Reginald’s black-button eyes glimmered with anticipation as I took a particular book from the shelf next to his and curled up with it in the leather armchair closest to him.
I’d inherited the book from my late mother’s dearest friend, an Englishwoman named Dimity Westwood. My mother and Dimity had met in London while serving their respective countries during the Second World War. The bonds of affection they forged during that dark and dangerous time endured long after peace was declared and my mother sailed back to the States.
Though the two women never saw each other again, they nurtured their deepening friendship by sending hundreds of letters back and forth across the Atlantic. My mother regarded those letters as her private sanctuary, a peaceful retreat from the daily grind of raising a daughter on her own after my father’s sudden death. She valued her sanctuary so highly that she kept it a secret from everyone—including me. As a child, I knew Dimity Westwood only as Aunt Dimity, the redoubtable heroine of a series of bedtime stories that sprang from my mother’s fertile imagination.
I didn’t find out about the real Dimity Westwood until after both she and my mother had died. It was then that Dimity bequeathed to me a considerable fortune, the honey-colored cottage in which she’d spent her childhood, the letters she and my mother had written, and a curious book—a journal bound in dark blue leather.
It was through the blue journal that I finally came to know Dimity Westwood. Whenever I opened it, her handwriting would appear on its blank pages, an old-fashioned copperplate taught at the village school at a time when inkwells were considered useful rather than decorative. I was staggered the first time it happened, afraid that I’d unwittingly conjured up a creepy, demanding sort of spirit who would rattle chains and howl at inappropriate moments.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. Aunt Dimity quickly showed herself to be a wise and kindly soul who wanted nothing but the best for her best friend’s only child. I had no idea how she managed the trick, but by reaching out to me from beyond the grave, Aunt Dimity proved to me that love could indeed make all things possible. I simply couldn’t imagine life without her.
I rested the journal on my lap and opened it, but before I could say a word, the familiar lines of royal-blue ink began to curl and loop excitedly across the page.
You’re back very late, Lori. Am I right to assume that William’s party was the success you hoped it would be?
“It was a smashing success,” I assured her. “Against all odds, I might add. The caterers were smitten by food poisoning at the eleventh hour, but the villagers rushed to my aid.”
I imagine some rushed more speedily than others. Were you able to keep the Handmaidens from thrusting their offerings on William?
I laughed. “You know Finch too well, Dimity. The dear ladies tried to ambush William behind my back, but Lilian and Emma kept them at bay.”
Three cheers for Lilian and Emma! It’s a pity they won’t always be around to protect William from his overzealous admirers. I fear that he will be pestered incessantly, now that he’s on his own.
“Ah, but he’s not on his own,” I said. “He has the Donovans to run interference for him.”
Who, may I ask, are the Donovans? I don’t recall a family by that name in Finch.
“Deirdre and Declan Donovan aren’t from Finch,” I informed her. “I’m not sure where they’re from, but they showed up tonight to offer their services to William and he accepted. They’re at Fairworth House right now.”
Are they ... suitable?
“William thinks so,” I said. “I’m not sure what to think. He made up his mind awfully fast.”
I’ve never known William to be impulsive.
“Nor have I,” I said. “But I’ve never known him to talk about sheep before, either.”
Sheep?
“Sheep,” I said. “William told me this morning that he’s thinking about adopting a flock of endangered sheep.”
If he has enough land to support a flock of sheep, why shouldn’t he adopt one?
“Because he’s no more a shepherd than he is impulsive.” I glanced pensively at the fax machine on the desk, then looked down at the journal again. “He’s behaving oddly, Dimity. First he comes up with the sheep idea, then he hires the Donovans without a proper interview. I can’t help wondering if he hired them just to please me and Bill. He knows how twitchy we’ve been about leaving him alone at Fairworth.”
He may have hired the Donovans in order to allay your fears, Lori, but he won’t keep them on if they fail to meet his expectations.
“They’re doing all right so far,” I said. “Deirdre Donovan didn’t bat an eye when Sally Pyne showed up after the party, covered in mud.”
Why on earth was Sally Pyne covered in mud? And why did she arrive after the party?
“You’re going to love this, Dimity,” I said, grinning. “I promised William that I wouldn’t breathe a word of it to anyone, but you’re not just anyone.”
I appreciate the compliment, Lori, but I would appreciate a direct response even more.
“Your wish is my command.” I hunkered down and gave Aunt Dimity a detailed account of the dramatic events that had taken place both during and after the party, from Rain
ey Dawson’s startling entrance in the garden to Sally Pyne’s stealthy exit along the riverbank. “I think it’s fair to say,” I concluded, “that Sally’s pickle lived up to its hype.”
I think it’s fair to say that it surpassed my wildest expectations. Poor, dear, featherbrained Sally. Her first experience of foreign travel turned her head completely. She would have been better off if she’d won a seaside holiday at Skegness. No Englishman would have mistaken her for a grand lady.
“She wouldn’t have pretended to be one if she’d stayed in England,” I said. “But would she be better off, Dimity? It sounds to me as though she had the time of her life with Henrique. She may regret it now, but would she be happier if she’d missed it altogether?”
Are a few days of happiness worth years of regret? It is a vexed question, to be sure, but I believe Sally gave her own personal answer to it when she bared her soul so tearfully to William. If she could relive her Mexican holiday, knowing what she knows now, I’m certain that she would behave differently.
“Twenty-twenty hindsight’s no fun at all,” I said, nodding. “But why did she bare her soul to William? What did she think she’d gain from her confession, apart from sympathy?”
She hoped that William would solve her problem, of course.
“How can William possibly solve her problem?” I asked, smiling incredulously.
Let me see ... The ormolu clock on the mantel ticked away the minutes while Aunt Dimity marshaled her thoughts. Finally, the handwriting continued. If I were a gallant gentleman like William, I would continue the charade.
“How?” I asked.
I would allow Sally to have the run of Fairworth House for a few days.
“You want William to move out?” I said, blinking in disbelief. “He’s only just moved in!”
William doesn’t have to go anywhere, Lori. He can introduce himself to Señor Cocinero as Lady Sarah’s brother or, better still, her American cousin who is spending the summer with her in her beautiful home.
Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree Page 5