Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree

by Nancy Atherton

  “Where are Sally and Henrique?” I asked. “Since you’re speaking freely, I assume they’re not with you.”

  “Lady Sarah and Señor Cocinero are enjoying a friendly game of billiards,” he replied, “but I believe they will retire shortly for a siesta.” He heaved an exasperated sigh. “I am not entirely convinced that they will retire to separate rooms.”

  “They will,” I said reassuringly. “It’s been a tiring day for both of them, and there comes a time in everyone’s life when napping is more important than canoodling.”

  “I hope devoutly that you are correct,” he said. “I beg your pardon, Lori, but I am required elsewhere. Mrs. Donovan wishes to discuss the dinner menu with me. Such as it is.”

  The thought of not having to partake in a meal consisting of badly cooked pig parts cheered me greatly as I turned into Anscombe Manor’s curving drive.

  Rob and Will were blissfully unaware of my tardiness when I pulled up to the stables, and Nell and Kit were refreshingly incurious about the happenings at Fairworth House. Emma Harris, whom I hadn’t seen since the night of the housewarming party, turned out to be the toughest challenge I faced at Anscombe Manor.

  “Lori,” she said, as I strapped Rob into his booster seat. “I’ve been hearing the most bizarre rumors about William’s houseguest.”

  “What else is new?” I said with a nonchalant shrug.

  “Is it true that he’s a Colombian drug lord working out a secret deal with the C.I.A.?” she asked. “Or is he a Brazilian movie star in the midst of a messy divorce from his fifth wife? Or could he possibly be an Argentinean football player negotiating a new contract behind his coach’s back?”

  I straightened so abruptly that I banged my head on the car roof. Years of experience with the village grapevine had failed to prepare me for such a prodigious outpouring of utter rubbish.

  “He’s none of the above,” I said indignantly, rubbing my battered head. “Listen, Emma, you’re my best friend, so I won’t lie to you. I’m not at liberty to tell you who William’s guest is, but you can take it from me that he isn’t a crime lord, an actor, or an athlete.”

  “Okay,” she said equably. “Will you ever reveal the truth to me?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s not my secret to reveal.”

  “Fair enough.” She leaned closer, her blue-gray eyes twinkling. “I can’t wait to hear what the villagers come up with next.”

  “I can’t imagine anything more outrageous than a Colombian drug lord,” I said.

  “Ah, but they can,” she said happily.

  I rolled my eyes in response, called good-bye to Kit and Nell, and climbed into the Rover, wondering how many other ludicrous rumors would surface before I could squelch them with the taxidermist story.

  I changed into a cotton blouse, a pair of shorts, and my good old grubby sneakers as soon as we reached the cottage, then tossed the boys into the tub for a bubbly scrub before I helped them to dress in clean clothes. I could tolerate a whiff of horse, but after their riding lessons, my sons tended to smell like a whole herd.

  While I prepared a simple, wholesome, and grease-free lunch, Will and Rob regaled me with a blow-by-blow account of a morning spent mastering the emergency dismount maneuver. Though images of my precious babes tumbling repeatedly from their saddles would haunt me for days to come, I did my maternal duty and concealed my abject terror with a show of enthusiasm.

  I helped myself to a grilled chicken burger and some creamy cucumber salad and watched contentedly as the twins devoured theirs. I would never be a gourmet chef of Deirdre Donovan’s caliber, but it was comforting to know that my family thought my cooking was first-rate.

  “Can we go to Grandpa’s after lunch?” Will asked.

  “We cannot,” I replied. “Grandpa has company and you will, too. Don’t you remember? Piero Hodge is coming over to play.”

  “I like Piero,” Rob said, with a judicious nod. “He ate a worm once.”

  “Not a whole worm,” Will temporized. “Just a bite.”

  “Why?” I asked, grimacing.

  “Clive Pickle dared him to,” Rob explained.

  “Poor worm,” I said sadly.

  “It’s okay, Mummy,” said Will. “The worm was dead.”

  “You console me,” I said, stifling an urge to gag. “Does Clive Pickle dare you to do silly things?”

  “All the time,” said Rob. “But we ignore him.”

  “Daddy says Clive Pickle isn’t worth listening to,” Will declared.

  “Clever Daddy,” I said and got to my feet. It is a truth universally acknowledged that small boys will tell revolting tales, but I tried not to encourage the habit, especially during mealtimes. “Dishes in the sink, please, and teeth brushed. Piero will be here in two ticks.”

  While Rob and Will were upstairs staging sword fights with their toothbrushes, I slipped into the study and read the application forms Davina Trent had faxed to me on Saturday morning. I then picked up the telephone and called Mrs. Trent.

  “How thoroughly did you vet the Donovans?” I asked, after we’d exchanged the usual pleasantries.

  “Quite thoroughly,” she replied. “I conducted personal interviews with their university tutors and with more than a dozen people who stayed at their guesthouse in the west of Ireland. No one had a bad word to say about them. Indeed, I was left with the impression that the Donovans are intelligent, hardworking, and eager to please.”

  “Why did they sell the guesthouse?” I asked.

  “The building developed structural flaws they couldn’t afford to repair,” Mrs. Trent replied. “When they realized they were in over their heads, they cut their losses and started afresh. I spoke with the estate agent who handled the sale for them. It was quite straightforward and aboveboard. Why do you ask, Ms. Shepherd? Has there been a problem?”

  “No,” I said. “They just seem a tad overqualified for their positions.”

  “In these difficult times, many people have been forced to take jobs they would normally pass up,” said Mrs. Trent, “but I can assure you that the Donovans haven’t settled for second best. They specifically requested placement in a country house such as your father-in-law’s. In fact, it was the only type of employment they would consider.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “Mr. Willis expressed his complete satisfaction with the Donovans in his telephone call to me,” Mrs. Trent went on, “but if you’ve discovered some fault—”

  “I haven’t,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pick holes in the Donovans. I have no reason to complain about them. I guess I’m just being an overprotective daughter-in-law.”

  “I understand,” she said. “It’s a perfectly natural reaction. Is there anything else I can help you with, Ms. Shepherd?”

  I told her there wasn’t, thanked her, and hung up, feeling strangely dissatisfied.

  “Davina Trent and William may adore the Donovans,” I said to Reginald, “but I choose to reserve judgment. Oxford scholars don’t jump at the chance to clean toilets and stables for anyone but themselves. They just don’t.”

  My pink bunny said nothing, but I could tell by the tilt of his ears that he agreed with me.

  I would have liked to discuss the matter with Aunt Dimity, but there was no time. I’d scarcely finished speaking to Reginald when the doorbell summoned me to the front hall to welcome Annie Hodge and her worm-eating son. Will and Rob promptly thundered downstairs and proposed an expedition to the narrow stream that ran along the bottom of our meadow. After securing parental permission, they whisked Piero to the garden shed, to arm him and themselves with nets and buckets, then galloped through the garden and across the flower-strewn meadow to the brook. Annie and I followed at a more sedate pace.

  “I see three wet boys in our future,” I proclaimed portentously.

  “No prizes for that prediction,” she said, smiling. “It’s such a hot day, I may wade in with them.”

  “I’ll join you,” I sai
d. “Nothing says summer like a good splash in the brook.”

  We walked through the sweet-smelling grasses in companionable silence, serenaded by birds and bees and the shouts of intrepid explorers. I marveled inwardly at Annie’s self-restraint, because I was certain that she, like everyone else within twenty miles of Finch, was bursting to ask me about William’s mysterious guest.

  “William’s gardener came by the farm today,” she said. “He seems a nice young man.”

  “He does, doesn’t he?” I said noncommittally.

  “He picked up the tripe and the pig’s trotters William’s housekeeper ordered,” she went on. “I must admit that I was a bit surprised by her selection of meats. I had William pegged as a filet mignon man, not as a tripe lover.”

  “If it were up to him, he’d have the filet,” I said, “but his client prefers less choice cuts and you know what they say—the customer’s always right.”

  “Fancy that.” Annie frowned reflectively. “I’d have expected a dictator to ask for posh things like caviar and foie gras.”

  “A dictator?” I said, eyeing her with some trepidation.

  Annie glanced over her shoulder, as though to make sure we were alone, then lowered her voice to a confidential murmur.

  “I know you’re sworn to secrecy, Lori, so I won’t ask you to say a word about it one way or the other,” she said, “but Opal Taylor has it on good authority that William’s client is a South American dictator seeking asylum in Great Britain after his long-suffering but courageous people finally gave him the heave-ho.” Annie paused to catch her breath before adding with a faint air of disillusionment, “You’d expect a man like that to fancy filet, wouldn’t you?”

  “I suppose you would,” I said, my mind reeling, “but Opal Taylor has bats in her cotton-picking belfry if she thinks that my father-in-law would have anything to do with a dictator.”

  “Has the wrong end of the stick, does she?” Annie asked, in a tone of voice that was much too casual.

  “She has the wrong stick altogether,” I stated firmly, coming to a halt. “I shouldn’t tell you this, Annie, but between you and me . . .”

  Annie’s lips parted and her eyes narrowed intently as I gave her the inside story on Tim Thomson, Topeka’s most successful taxidermist. The more softly I spoke, the more confident I was that my words would soon be heard far and wide.

  I could almost feel the village grapevine quiver.

  Fourteen

  What seemed like the longest Monday in recorded history was finally drawing to a close. Rob and Will were in bed and asleep, Bill was dozing in his favorite armchair in the living room, and Stanley was dozing in Bill’s lap. While my family slumbered, I sat at the old oak desk in the study, scouring a stack of magazines for new recipes. When the telephone rang, I snatched it up, to keep the noise from disturbing my menfolk. I wondered fleetingly if it would be Peggy Taxman, badgering me about the new rumor that had drifted her way, and felt a sweet sense of relief when the caller turned out to be Willis, Sr.

  “The man of the moment,” I said cheerfully. “Are you alone?”

  “Lady Sarah and Señor Cocinero have retired for the evening,” he informed me. “I have taken refuge in my study. Why, may I ask, am I the man of the moment?”

  “Because you’ve created such a stir in Finch,” I replied. “Are you aware that you’re harboring either a drug lord, a famous actor, a soccer player, or a fugitive dictator with a taste for peasant food?”

  “You are, of course, referring to the stories that have surfaced concerning Señor Cocinero,” he said dryly.

  “Have they reached your ears already?” I asked, mildly surprised.

  “Indirectly,” he said. “Mr. Donovan was treated to an assortment of colorful tales when he stopped at the pub on his way back from Hodge Farm. He refused to comment on any of them, of course, but he felt duty-bound to report them to me. He seemed to find them highly entertaining.”

  “It’s helpful to maintain a sense of humor in the face of adversity,” I said.

  “The firm of Willis & Willis does not consort with criminals or with so-called celebrities,” he declared vehemently. “Such rumors are bound to damage my reputation among the villagers.”

  “Not a chance,” I said. “They’ll enhance your glamor.”

  “I do not wish to be considered glamorous,” he protested.

  “Then you can relax,” I said placatingly. “I told Annie Hodge about Tim Thomson from Topeka. If I know Annie, everyone in Finch will have heard about Tim by daybreak. I can almost guarantee that no one, not even Peggy Taxman, will be able to make a big deal out of a taxidermist.”

  “Would that it were true. . . .” Willis, Sr., paused, as though to compose himself, then continued in a more temperate manner, “The purpose of my call is to share a rather interesting tidbit of news with you. Mr. Tavistock telephoned me a short time ago.”

  “Grant called you from London?” I said. “Why?”

  “I believe Mr. Tavistock wished to impress me with his professionalism,” Willis, Sr., answered. “Concerned that I might accuse him of neglecting my commission, he telephoned from London to present me with the results of the work he accomplished today.”

  “Well done, Grant,” I said appreciatively. “Did he figure out what the thing is?”

  “It seems that Mr. Tavistock has uncovered an illuminated family tree,” Willis, Sr., announced with quiet exultation.

  “Illuminated?” I said.

  “Illustrated,” Willis, Sr., clarified. “The names on the family tree appear to be accompanied by miniature portraits.”

  “Whose family tree is it?” I asked.

  “It appears to record succeeding generations of the Fairworthy family,” said Willis, Sr. “I consider it a discovery of inestimable value because, as you know, the Fairworthys built Fairworth House and lived in it for over a century.”

  “You were right and I was wrong, William,” I conceded. “A family tree, however grubby, is an undeniable treasure. It’s a window into Fairworth’s past.”

  “Indeed it is,” said Willis, Sr. “Mr. Tavistock was able to discern the name Frederick Fairworthy beside one of the portraits,” he went on. “A gentleman with the same name wrote Notes on Sheep, the book that kindled my desire to restore a flock of Cotswold Lions to the estate.”

  “Oh,” I said as the penny dropped. “It’s his fault.”

  “Fault?” said Willis, Sr., sharply. “Do you disapprove of my ambition?”

  “No,” I said, backtracking hastily. “I think it’s a terrific idea. I just didn’t know where it came from.”

  “I will lend you the book,” he said coolly. “You will, no doubt, find it instructive.”

  “No doubt,” I said, making a wry face at Reginald. Notes on Sheep didn’t strike me as a compelling read.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Donovan,” Willis, Sr., said in an aside. “Yes, please place it on the desk. As I was unable to do anything with my dinner but gaze disconsolately at it,” he explained, for my benefit, “Mrs. Donovan has prepared a chop for me, a simple, succulent chop accompanied by freshly made applesauce, roast potatoes, and some extraordinarily attractive brussels sprouts. I believe there will be a lemon syllabub to follow.”

  “How nice for you,” I said, in exactly the same tone of voice Opal Taylor had used when I’d informed her of Deirdre’s manifold virtues. “How’d the trotters go down with Henrique?”

  “He requested a second helping,” Willis, Sr., replied stoically. “The poor man claimed that it reminded him of a dish his madre used to make for him. Yes, Mrs. Donovan,” he said to Deirdre, “the Shiraz is an excellent choice and a Riesling will go well with the syllabub. Forgive me, Lori,” he continued, “but as you can imagine, I am eager to appease my appetite with the splendid viands Mrs. Donovan has so kindly provided. I will speak with you again tomorrow.”

  “Enjoy your dinner,” I told him.

  I put the phone down and looked askance at the pages I’d torn from t
he magazines. Not one included a recipe for lemon syllabub.

  “You know what, Reginald?” I said through gritted teeth. “I’m beginning to loathe Deirdre Donovan.”

  “That’s a shame, because Father thinks very highly of her.”

  I was fairly certain that Reginald couldn’t talk and I was absolutely certain that he wouldn’t refer to Willis, Sr., as “Father,” so I addressed my next remarks to Bill, who stood in the doorway with Stanley draped over his shoulder.

  “I wish I could like her,” I said plaintively, “and maybe I will someday, but right now I have my doubts about her. I can’t explain it, but—”

  “I can,” Bill interrupted. He smiled sleepily and stroked Stanley’s gleaming black back. “You’d have doubts about anyone Father hired, Lori. In your eyes, no one will ever be good enough to look after him, and I love you for it. Was that him on the phone just now?”

  I nodded. “He wanted to let me know that his dirty picture is a Fairworthy family tree.”

  “He must be delighted,” Bill said. “I am, too. It’ll give him something pleasant to dwell on while he’s engulfed in Sally’s soap opera. How’d Henrique like his trotters?”

  “He gobbled them down,” I said. “Maybe they should try serving him worm tartare. I’m sure Deirdre had a recipe for it.”

  Bill chuckled, set Stanley on the floor, and came over to cup my chin in his hand.

  “You’ll have to get over your dislike of Deirdre Donovan,” he said gently. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, she and her husband are here to stay.” He looked at the mantel clock as it began to chime. “Half past nine? It’s too early to turn in, but I’m turning in anyway. I’ll have to put in a long shift at work tomorrow to make up for slacking off today. But don’t you fret, my sugar lump—I’ll take the boys to Anscombe Manor in the morning. I want you to be free to ride to Father’s rescue at a moment’s notice.”

  “I’ll be at the ready, sword drawn and steed saddled,” I promised. “Kiss Stanley good night for me.”

  “I always do.” Bill bent to press his lips lingeringly to mine, then left the study, yawning, with Stanley padding worshipfully at his heels.