“We’ve been discussing Marigold Edwards,” said Amelia.
Willis, Sr., turned to face me.
“We’re not moving,” I said doggedly, in answer to his unspoken question. “We’re not even thinking about moving. Bill and I are as happy as clams in the cottage.”
“Why, then, were you and Amelia discussing Mrs. Edwards?” he inquired.
“I’ve taken an interest in her,” I replied. “Did you deal with her when you bought Fairworth House?”
“I did not,” he said. “I dealt directly with the previous owner. He was eighty-four years old at the time, and living in Singapore. He wished to rid himself of an inherited estate that had become an encumbrance. I had no difficulty conducting the transaction without the aid of a local estate agent.”
With Bess gripping his chin and patting his lips, Willis, Sr., was unable to enunciate his words with his usual precision, but he managed to make himself understood.
“Although I have not yet met Mrs. Edwards,” he went on, “I will, of course, be eternally grateful to her for facilitating Amelia’s purchase of Pussywillows.” He bestowed a tender glance on his beloved.
I was about to move on to the third item on my agenda when Deirdre Donovan returned, bringing with her a second pitcher of ice water and a single Waterford tumbler, presumably for Willis, Sr.’s use. She placed the pitcher and the tumbler on the salver, then sniffed the air.
“Unless I’m mistaken,” she said, “someone needs a fresh nappy.”
Willis, Sr., sniffed his granddaughter delicately, then nodded.
“My olfactory receptors are not as acute as yours,” he said, “but I believe you are correct.”
“Sorry, William,” I said, standing. “I must be getting used to it.”
“Please, allow me,” said Deirdre, taking Bess from Willis, Sr. “You don’t mind if I do the honors, do you, Lori?”
“Have I ever kept you from changing Bess’s diapers?” I said, sinking back into my chair. “Knock yourself out!”
Bess was familiar with Deirdre and went with her willingly. A moment later, the sound of the elevator Willis, Sr., had installed in the entrance hall told us that they were on their way to the top-floor nursery. Willis, Sr., divested himself of his suit protector and Amelia tucked it into the diaper bag, looking thoughtful.
“Perhaps she’s practicing,” Amelia proposed, as Willis, Sr., seated himself beside her on the settee, “for when she has to change her own baby’s nappies.” She turned to him. “Has Deirdre said anything to you about starting a family, William? Has Declan?”
“They have not,” said Willis, Sr. “I would not expect the Donovans to discuss such a personal matter with me and I would urge you to refrain from discussing it. They may not wish to have children, they may wish to postpone having them, or they may be unable to have them. It is entirely their own affair. Speculation by a third party would be disrespectful, intrusive, and potentially hurtful.”
“You’re right, of course,” said Amelia, but her fiancé’s comprehensive critique of idle gossip didn’t prevent her from adding, “What a tragedy it would be if they were infertile.”
“Shall we change the subject?” Willis, Sr., requested with a swift glance in my direction.
Willis, Sr., knew that I’d once harbored doubts about my own ability to start a family. He seemed to think that Amelia’s musings might revive memories I did not wish to recall. I could have told him that those memories no longer troubled me. I could have said that each of my children had been well worth the wait. Instead, I shamelessly exploited his concern for me by pouncing on the chance to change the subject.
“Arthur Hargreaves,” I said abruptly, putting a triumphant mental check mark next to the third item on my agenda. “What can you tell me about him, William?”
“Why do you wish to know about Arthur Hargreaves?” Willis, Sr., asked, looking bemused. “Have you taken an interest in him as well?”
“Bess and I met him on Saturday,” I said. “I was a little surprised when he told me he’d never met you.”
“Who is Arthur Hargreaves?” Amelia asked.
“He’s William’s next-door neighbor,” I replied. “He lives in a place called Hillfont Abbey.”
“The Hargreaves estate is adjacent to mine,” Willis, Sr., clarified. “Technically, Mr. Hargreaves is my neighbor, but he and I do not interact in what most people would describe as a neighborly fashion.”
“Why not?” Amelia and I asked simultaneously. She sounded astonished, but I simply wanted to hear Willis, Sr.’s side of the story.
“I cannot speak for Mr. Hargreaves,” he said, “but it is an old habit of mine to respect a person’s privacy until he or she invites me to do otherwise. I have received no such invitation from Mr. Hargreaves.”
Amelia tossed her head impatiently.
“William,” she said, “for an intelligent man, you can be remarkably obtuse at times. What if poor Mr. Hargreaves is waiting for you to invite him to invade your precious privacy?”
“If such is the case,” said Willis, Sr., “I fear that we shall remain strangers.”
“You haven’t avoided him intentionally, have you?” I asked. “Because of the Finch-Tillcote feud?”
Willis, Sr., appeared to be faintly puzzled.
“Are the two villages engaged in a feud?” he asked.
“Of course they are,” Amelia expostulated. “You must know about the feud, William. It’s been going on for ages. Marigold Edwards told me all about it when I first came to Finch.”
“I am not acquainted with Mrs. Edwards,” Willis, Sr., reminded her.
“Nor am I,” I said. “William and I are in the same boat, Amelia. Neither of us used an estate agent when we moved to Finch. No one told me about the feud until yesterday, but you’re right—it’s been going on for a long time.”
“How long?” Willis, Sr., inquired.
“Victoria was still on the throne when it started,” I said, recalling Aunt Dimity’s history lesson. “Local lore has it that Arthur’s great-great-grandfather, Quentin Hargreaves, sided with Tillcote in a quarrel about three stolen pigs.”
“Did Quentin Hargreaves blame the theft on a person or persons residing in Finch?” Willis, Sr., asked.
“Quentin didn’t point a finger at anyone,” I said, “but he chose Tillcote over Finch, so he must have believed that the guilty party lived in Finch.”
“Implications can sometimes do more damage than outright accusations,” Willis, Sr., observed. “One can defend oneself against an accusation. An implication is more difficult to refute.”
“Quentin’s implication outraged Finch’s law-abiding residents,” I said. “They shunned the Hargreaves family because of it and they’ve been shunning them ever since. That’s why I thought you might . . .” My voice faded as Willis, Sr., gave me a withering look.
“I think he’s outraged by your implication,” Amelia said in a deliberately comical stage whisper.
Willis, Sr.’s frosty expression thawed.
“I beg your pardon, Lori,” he said contritely. “I was taken aback by your suggestion that an ancient quarrel might influence my choice of friends. I can assure you that such is not the case, nor would it ever be the case. I have seen petty vendettas tear families apart far too often. I refuse to participate in one.”
Before his retirement, Willis, Sr., had been an international attorney who’d specialized in estate planning for the fabulously wealthy. He had firsthand knowledge of the spite, bile, and malice that shaped many last wills and testaments.
“It was a long shot,” I acknowledged, “but I had to be sure. Everyone else in Finch seems to be caught up in the feud.”
“William isn’t everyone,” Amelia said proudly, putting her hand on his.
“No, he isn’t,” I agreed. I leaned back in my chair, feeling disappointed. �
�Are you certain you can’t tell me anything about Arthur Hargreaves, William?”
“Our paths have not crossed,” he replied. “I have seen bright lights in the sky above Hillfont Abbey from time to time and I have heard the occasional explosion, but apart from that—”
“Bright lights?” Amelia exclaimed.
“Explosions?” I said, sitting upright.
Deirdre Donovan’s reputation for good timing took a serious hit when she chose that precise moment to return to the morning room with Bess. I saw immediately that she hadn’t merely changed my daughter’s diaper. She’d exchanged Bess’s simple white jumpsuit for an unfamiliar gray onesie topped with an equally unfamiliar but adorable coral cardigan.
“Do you like them?” she asked me, plucking anxiously at the onesie’s collar and smoothing the cardigan before passing Bess to me. “They caught my eye the last time I was in Upper Deeping and I couldn’t resist buying them. I’ve been dying to try them on Bess.”
“They’re wonderful,” I said. “The color combination is very sophisticated. I wouldn’t have thought of pairing coral with gray, but they look great together. Thank you, Deirdre.”
Deirdre looked so relieved that I didn’t have the heart to tell her that all baby clothes, no matter how sophisticated, were doomed to a life that was damp, sticky, and short. She acknowledged my thanks with a beaming smile, filled the three tumblers with water, and took the empty pitcher with her as she left the room.
Bess should have been ready to chow down, but she was too excited to think about eating, so I put her back in the bouncy chair before turning my gimlet gaze on Willis, Sr.
“Bright lights in the sky?” I said. “Explosions? What the heck are you talking about, William?”
“Yes, William,” Amelia chimed in. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”
“I assume Mr. Hargreaves enjoys fireworks,” said Willis, Sr. “I have never had a reason to test my assumption. The pyrotechnics I have witnessed have had no deleterious effects on my property.”
Amelia and I exchanged looks of helpless disbelief.
“If I heard explosions coming from my neighbor’s house,” I said, “I’d mosey over to have a little chat with him.”
“So would I,” Amelia said feelingly. “Where is Hillfont Abbey?”
“The abbey itself lies slightly to the northeast of Fairworth House,” said Willis, Sr., “but the Hargreaves estate shares my estate’s northern border.”
“You could walk there,” Amelia said, staring at him.
“I have no desire to trespass on a stranger’s property,” said Willis, Sr. “It is true, however, that a five-minute stroll through the orchid wood would bring me to a side entrance in the wall that surrounds the abbey.” He peered at me inquisitively. “Where did you happen upon Mr. Hargreaves?”
“He happened upon us,” I said. “Bess and I were exploring a long-forgotten farm track Emma Harris had told me about, when—”
“Are you referring to the disused cart track that runs parallel to my property line?” Willis, Sr., interjected, looking alarmed.
“Yep,” I said. “And before you accuse me of risking Bess’s life, let me say in my own defense that I wouldn’t have taken her down the old track if I’d known it was prone to flash floods.”
“Good heavens,” Amelia breathed.
“When did you become aware of the danger?” Willis, Sr., asked.
“Yesterday,” I said. “Lilian Bunting alerted me to it.”
Willis, Sr., heaved a brief but heartfelt sigh of relief.
“I will express my profound gratitude to Mrs. Bunting when next we meet,” he said.
“Go on with your story,” Amelia urged me. “Tell us how Arthur Hargreaves happened upon you.”
I opened my mouth, but closed it again when Bess emitted a fussy squeak. I glanced down at her, expecting her gaze to be fixed firmly on my chest, but she’d turned her head toward the windows. As I looked to see what had caught her attention, Deirdre strode into the morning room.
“Battle stations,” she announced. “Our guests have arrived.”
Thirteen
Amelia jumped to her feet as if propelled from a cannon. The color drained from her face as she wheeled around to peer through the windows at the classic, silver-gray Bentley that had appeared on the drive’s graveled apron. Willis, Sr., rose in a more leisurely fashion, but he put a reassuring hand on her back as he, too, turned to observe the Bentley. Deirdre went into the entrance hall and prepared herself to open the front door for Charlotte and Honoria.
I had scarcely any time at all to decide on my own course of action. Would I support Amelia in her hour of need? Or would I show my true colors and flee? I dithered for less than a nanosecond, then chose the coward’s way out.
“Bess needs a feed,” I said. “Back in a minute.”
I scooped Bess up from the bouncy chair and ran for the elevator. I left the diaper bag behind in my haste, but I didn’t go back to collect it because I wouldn’t need it. The nursery was fully stocked with maternal necessities.
I flung myself into the elevator as Deirdre opened the front door. I caught a glimpse of a uniformed chauffeur burdened with pristine leather luggage before I closed the elevator’s door and allowed myself and my child to be whisked to the third floor. I was fairly certain that Bill’s aunts wouldn’t follow me. They weren’t overly fond of infants.
The late Augusta Fairworthy had once lived in the room that had become the nursery. Willis, Sr., had left a few of her prized possessions in place as a tribute to her memory. Bess wanted to taste the Murano paperweights, the enameled snuffboxes, and the silver, sheep-shaped salt and pepper shakers that twinkled so invitingly from the locked display cabinet in the corner, but she eventually calmed down enough to avail herself of a more nutritious meal.
“I’m not proud of myself for running out on Amelia,” I told her gravely after we’d settled ourselves in the rocking chair. “When you grow up, I hope you’ll be braver than I am. If your great-aunts are still around then, though, you may understand why we’re here now.”
I cut my soliloquy short when the nursery door opened and Deirdre appeared, carrying a tray set with three covered dishes, silverware, a linen napkin, a tumbler, and a small cut-glass pitcher of ice water. Her mouth was set in a thin line and her nostrils flared slightly as she spoke.
“Mrs. Steele and Mrs. Wilberforce don’t want the lunch I spent all morning preparing for them,” she said, “but I thought you might.”
I seldom used Charlotte’s and Honoria’s last names, but even if I’d never heard them before, I would have known who’d rubbed Deirdre the wrong way.
She placed the tray on a low table and removed the dishes’ covers.
“Tomato bisque, tarragon chicken salad, and mixed wild greens,” she announced. “I left the bitter herbs out of your portions, so you don’t have to worry about them flavoring your milk.”
“Thank you, Deirdre,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy every bite.”
“They’re having tea in the drawing room,” she informed me icily. “Tea in the drawing room instead of lunch in the dining room.”
“Try not to take it personally,” I said, putting a placatory hand out to her. “Charlotte and Honoria hardly ever eat lunch. They think midday meals are plebeian.”
“I wish I’d known it sooner,” Deirdre said tersely.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have done more to prepare you and Amelia for the calamity that was about to befall you. I’ve been so wrapped up in Bess that I—”
“A mother should be wrapped up in her child,” Deirdre interrupted. “You’re here now, though. Tell me about the calamity.”
“William’s not the most reliable source of information about his sisters,” I explained. “They’re his kid sisters, the only girls in a family that included five boys b
efore two of them died. Bill claims that two of his uncles moved to California in order to get away from his aunts, but your boss has a soft spot for them.”
“What else should I know?” Deirdre asked, folding her arms.
“Where to begin?” I said, gazing heavenward. “Nothing you do will satisfy them, but keep trying anyway. Surprise them by being the same consummate professional you’ve always been. When they push you to your limit, remind yourself that they’ll be gone in less than a month.”
Deirdre drummed her fingers on her biceps for a moment, then unfolded her arms and lifted her chin.
“I accept the challenge,” she said and left the nursery.
Bess finished her über-plebeian midday meal a few minutes later. She was mellower than she had been when she first entered the nursery and so was I. I tidied us both, scarfed down the meal Deirdre had left for me, took a deep breath, and went downstairs to introduce my drowsy baby to her grandaunts.
The sense of tranquility that had enveloped me in the nursery evaporated when I entered the drawing room. The mere sound of Honoria’s familiar nasal drawl set my teeth on edge. She and Charlotte sat in a pair of Chippendale armchairs facing Amelia, who was seated in a Chippendale side chair, with the tea table at her knee.
Willis, Sr., stood near the white marble fireplace, gazing benevolently at his sisters, but Amelia looked slightly shell-shocked. I wondered how many cunningly disguised insults Charlotte and Honoria had hurled at her in the past half hour. If my experience was anything to go by, they would have thrown quite a few.
“Lori!” Amelia exclaimed, with a note of desperation in her voice. “I’m so pleased to see you. I’ll fetch Bess’s bouncy chair.”
She left the room as quickly as her short legs could carry her. I didn’t expect her back anytime soon. Her rapid departure made me feel a little less guilty about my own.
“Hello, Aunt Honoria. Hello, Aunt Charlotte,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. “Welcome to England.”
Willis, Sr.’s sisters could have been twins. They were, by choice, thin to the point of emaciation. They wore their silvery hair in short, rigidly coifed styles and dressed in vintage Chanel suits and shoes. Though they limited their makeup to the merest touch of powder and lipstick, they drenched themselves in their favorite Chanel perfume. Bill had once referred to them as “a sweet-smelling pair of vultures.”
Aunt Dimity and the Summer King Page 11