Aunt Dimity and the Summer King

by Nancy Atherton

  “They certainly are,” I agreed. “I had to do a lot of ducking and dodging when I changed my sons’ nappies.”

  “It was the same for me when Colin was little,” said Harriet, as if she’d spent half of her young life tending babies. She finished repacking the diaper bag and looked up at me imploringly. “May I hold her now?”

  “Of course you may,” I said. “If you talk softly to her, she may fall asleep. She’s had a hectic day.”

  Harriet sat back on the sofa and Arthur placed Bess in her arms. Harriet didn’t even look up when a burly, middle-aged woman entered the library with the tea.

  The tea set wasn’t exactly a set. The chubby blue teapot, the glass sugar bowl, and the china creamer looked as though they’d been picked up for a song at a thrift store, as did the three mismatched teacups and the plate piled high with pinwheel cookies.

  “Chamomile,” the woman announced, “as you requested, Mr. Hargreaves.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Ellicott,” said Arthur.

  Mrs. Ellicott placed the tea tray on a library table and left the room without saying another word.

  “Mrs. Ellicott isn’t talkative,” said Arthur, “but she’s a superlative cook.”

  “I made the biscuits,” Harriet announced. “I’m experimenting with cacao beans.”

  “They’re safe to eat,” Arthur said, offering the plate of cookies to me.

  “They’re delicious,” I said, after I’d tried one. “Your experiment was successful, Harriet.”

  “Still a bit grainy,” Harriet said, observing the plate reflectively. “I’ll try a finer grind next time.”

  Harriet was too absorbed in Bess to drink her cup of tea, but Arthur sipped his and I guzzled mine thirstily while he gave me a tour of the library. Though I loved books, I was drawn to the framed technical drawings of catapults, water wheels, and primitive flying machines.

  “Quentin did most of the drawings,” Arthur told me. “He was a skilled draftsman and an inventor. He would imagine a structure, draw it, then build experimental models. He bought a large estate so he could pursue his dreams in peace.”

  My ears pricked up.

  “Do you like to conduct experiments?” I asked. “My father-in-law has seen bright lights in the sky above Hillfont. He’s heard explosions, too. He thinks you’re a fireworks fanatic.”

  “I’m fond of fireworks,” Arthur acknowledged, “but I believe your father-in-law may have experienced the side effects of my son’s experiments in rocketry. They’re quite safe,” he added. “Phillip is a cautious and conscientious young man. The European Space Agency is lucky to have him.”

  “How old is he?” I asked. “Twelve?”

  “Phillip is thirty-two,” Arthur said, smiling.

  “A senior citizen,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Honestly, Arthur, I’m beginning to think that every member of your family is a genius.”

  “All children are geniuses,” he said, “given half a chance.”

  I thought he was underestimating his progeny. Bill and I gave Will and Rob as many chances as we could grab for them, but I doubted that anyone, including me, would classify them as geniuses.

  “Who’s the map collector?” I asked, moving on to a section of wall covered with a wide array of framed maps, some of which appeared to be quite old.

  “I am,” said Arthur.

  “You’d get along with my friend Emma Harris,” I said.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, nodding, “the other American.”

  I looked at him in surprise.

  “Do you know Emma?” I asked.

  “I’ve never met her,” said Arthur, “but I’ve heard of her riding school. I believe she’s the only American riding instructor in the entire county. Her fame precedes her.”

  “She’s good with horses,” I said. I allowed my gaze to rove over maps of places I’d never been—Stockholm, Albuquerque, Moscow, Tokyo, Mexico City—then pointed at one that seemed familiar. “Is that Boston Harbor?”

  “Well spotted,” said Arthur. “It’s a Revolutionary War map drawn in 1775. A colleague presented it to me after I gave a series of lectures at MIT. It was a gag gift, from a resident American to a departing Englishman.”

  “Good joke,” I said. I was impressed by the colleague’s generosity. His gag gift had probably cost an arm and a leg. “What were your lectures about?”

  “I delivered them so long ago that I can hardly remember,” Arthur replied, “but I think they had something to do with science. They were terribly tedious.”

  “Tedious?” I said, raising my eyebrows. “I seriously doubt it. You’re the least tedious person I’ve ever met.” I bent to examine a faded, yellowing, hand-drawn map that hung low on the wall. “Is that . . . Finch?”

  “Indeed,” said Arthur. “It’s from the fifteenth century—1485, to be precise.” He patted an oak portfolio cabinet. “I have a map of every village within a fifty-mile radius of Hillfont Abbey.”

  “Finch hasn’t changed much,” I said.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Arthur. “I haven’t been there in years.”

  “Why not?” I asked, straightening. “I realize that the cart track is rough and likely to flood if you burst into tears while you’re on it, but if Bess and I could handle it, you could.”

  “I seldom leave Hillfont,” he said.

  “You go to Tillcote,” I countered.

  “I don’t go there often.” He sighed tiredly as he looked from one map to the next. “I gave lectures in each of those cities and many more, Lori. Traveling taught me to appreciate the comforts of home.”

  We’d reached the fireplace. A heraldic shield held pride of place above the mantel shelf. The shield’s design was unlike any I’d seen before. Yellow bars divided its sky-blue ground into three equal sections, and each section was emblazoned with a different creature: a bulldog, a bee, and a unicorn.

  “That’s our coat of arms,” Harriet said, speaking for the first time since Bess had fallen asleep in her arms. “My great-great-great-great-grandfather made it up because he couldn’t be bothered with inherited knighthoods and peerages. He believed that we each of us make our own way in the world, based on our talents and our hard work. The coat of arms is on our flag, too.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  “The bulldog stands for tenacity, the honeybee stands for hard work, and the unicorn represents the power of the imagination,” she explained, as if she’d learned the words by heart. “Ideas start up here”—she tapped the side of her head—“but they won’t go anywhere if you don’t work hard to make them real. And you need to stick with them until you do make them real or until you find out they won’t work. That’s where the tenacity comes in.”

  I had a hunch that Harriet was more of a bulldog than a unicorn, but since she was a Hargreaves, I expected her to surprise me.

  “Athletes may dream of winning an Olympic medal,” Arthur said, carrying on where his granddaughter had left off, “but they won’t win medals by dreaming. They have to put in the hard yards.”

  “Hard work and tenacity,” said Harriet, nodding decisively. “That’s how a dream becomes real. Grandad, would you hold Bess?”

  “I’d love to,” he said, adding in an aside to me, “Harriet’s not the only one who misses having a baby in the house.”

  He took Bess from Harriet and Harriet ran from the room, using the same door Mrs. Ellicott had used. Bess nestled into Arthur’s arms without waking. I would have taken the opportunity to survey the library’s books if I hadn’t glanced at the tall case clock in the corner. It reminded me that Bill would be picking the boys up from school in an hour.

  “Arthur,” I said, turning to face him, “I now know why you’re the Summer King. I was in desperate need of a little warmth when I got here and you gave me a big bucketful.”

  “Dare I ask what
chilled you?” he inquired.

  I gazed at him in silence for a moment, then asked, “Do you believe blood’s thicker than water?”

  “Blood’s messier,” said Arthur. “Its relative density depends on whether it has coagulated or not.”

  “I’m not talking about real blood, Arthur,” I said gently. “I’m talking about family loyalty.”

  “Oh, I see,” he said, as if he’d genuinely misunderstood me. “No, I’ve never subscribed to that particular maxim. I love and admire most of my relations, but there are one or two I’d like to drop-kick across the Channel. My eldest nephew, for example—a shifty lad. He went into finance, of course. He’s creative, yes, but not in a good way.” He raised his eyebrows. “Are you having second thoughts about a member of your family?”

  “I’d like to drop-kick my husband’s aunts across the Atlantic,” I said. “They’re proper ladies—well-born, well-dressed, and never a hair out of place. They like to remind me that I’m not the well-bred debutante they had in mind for their nephew.” I heaved a discouraged sigh. “Let’s just say that I’m not looking forward to dining with them at Fairworth on Saturday.”

  “Until then,” Arthur said, “I suggest you dismiss them from your mind.”

  “I wish I could,” I said, “but they’ll be here for the next three weeks, taking polite potshots at me. William loves them, so I can’t shoot back and I can’t let Bill defend me, either.” I shook my head. “It’s going to be a long three weeks.”

  “Come here when you can,” said Arthur. “Let us cheer you up.”

  “You already have,” I said, “and I’m grateful, but it’s time for me to go. The rest of my family will be home soon and I have to get dinner on the table for them.”

  “I understand,” he said, “but I hope you’ll stay for just a few more minutes. Harriet will want to say good-bye to Bess.”

  “Bess will want to say good-bye to Harriet, too,” I assured him. “Or she would, if she were awake.”

  Arthur walked up and down the library, crooning softly to my sleeping daughter, while I searched the sofa and the floor space around it for stray diaper bag supplies. I found a rattle wedged between the cushions and had just added it to the bag when Harriet returned, clutching something in her hands. I thought she would run straight to Bess, but instead she ran to me.

  “For Bess,” she said, and she presented me with a stuffed animal.

  It was a unicorn. Its delicate horn was made of a shiny, smooth, golden fabric and its mane and tale were as fine and fluffy as thistledown. Its shiny black eyes reminded me of Reginald’s, but its necklace of crocheted buttercups would always remind me of Arthur.

  “Her name is Bianca because she’s pure white,” said Harriet. “Bianca’s how you say ‘white’ in Latin. And I made her necklace. It’s like Grandad’s crown.”

  “It’s lovely,” I said. “Bianca’s lovely, too.” I stroked Harriet’s inexpertly trimmed hair. “Thank you, Harriet. Bess will thank you herself as soon as she learns to speak English.”

  “What I want Bess to learn,” Harriet said solemnly, “is that everything—everything—starts with the imagination.”

  Sixteen

  Arthur guided me back through the maze of courtyards and gardens and waved good-bye to me from the arched opening in the outermost inner wall. Bess and I crossed the broad meadow where the ultralight stood and left the Summer King’s realm through the wrought-iron gate.

  After I closed the gate behind me, I paused to take a last look at Hillfont Abbey, half expecting it to vanish in a puff of glittering stardust. I felt slightly dazed, as if I were awakening from a dream. I ran my fingers lightly through Bianca’s fluffy mane to remind myself that Hillfont wasn’t a marvelous mirage, but a real place filled with remarkable, but real, people.

  Bess and I were still in the orchid wood when she woke. She should have been hungry, but she was content to watch the world pass by as we followed the path back to Fairworth House. Declan Donovan was sweeping the front stairs when we arrived. He spotted us, set his broom aside, and trotted over to lift the pram into the Range Rover while I put Bess into her car seat.

  “Taking off, are you?” he asked. “Can’t say that I blame you. William’s sisters are a right old pair of tartars, aren’t they? Amelia hightailed it to Pussywillows as soon as they retired to their rooms to sleep off their jet lag. She had what my wife calls a strategic headache.”

  “Trust me,” I said. “It was a real headache.” I eyed the house warily. “If I’d spent another minute with those two, my head would have exploded. I don’t know how Deirdre is going to cope with them.”

  “Don’t you worry about Deirdre,” said Declan. “She’s tough as nails, my wife.”

  “She’ll have to be,” I said. “Would you please tell William that Bess and I have gone home, Declan? I don’t want to risk running into the tartars.”

  “I’ll let him know,” Declan said.

  I thanked him, climbed into the Rover, and cruised slowly down Willis, Sr.’s graveled drive. Part of me was focused on the roadway, but the rest of me was still lost in a dream.

  • • •

  “Lori?” said Bill. “Can you hear me?”

  “What?” I said, blinking vaguely at him.

  We were in the living room. I was sitting on the couch, folding clean diapers, and Bill was ensconced in his favorite armchair, with Stanley purring blissfully in his lap. Will, Rob, and Bess were, presumably, upstairs and asleep. I had no clear recollection of anything that had happened since Bill had brought the boys home from school.

  “You’ve been on another planet all evening,” said Bill.

  “Have I?” I said, coming out of my reverie. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” he said. “You’re in shock. My aunts have driven you to distraction.” He pursed his lips grimly. “I knew I should have gone there with you this morning.”

  “It’s not their fault, either,” I said. “To tell you the truth, I’d forgotten about them. You were right, by the way. They’re gunning for Amelia.”

  “Of course I was right,” said Bill. He peered heavenward. “Please let them insult Amelia openly, in front of Father.” He lowered his gaze to meet mine. “If you haven’t been reliving a Charlotte-and-Honoria-induced nightmare, where have you been? Because you certainly haven’t been here.”

  “I guess I’ve been at Hillfont Abbey,” I said. “Bess and I spent a couple of hours there this afternoon, with Arthur Hargreaves, and I can’t get it out of my mind. It’s the most extraordinary place, Bill, and the people who live there are beyond extraordinary.”

  “Is that where Bess’s unicorn came from?” Bill asked. “I noticed it in the nursery. I thought Father had given it to her.”

  “No,” I said. “Bianca was a parting gift from an impetuous little girl named Harriet. . . .”

  Bill listened without interrupting while I told him about my visit to Hillfont Abbey. When I finished, he tented his hands over Stanley and scrutinized me.

  “You’re not in shock,” he said. “You’re in love.”

  “No, I’m not,” I protested. “I think Arthur’s amazing, but he’s not—”

  “I’m not talking about Arthur,” Bill broke in. “You’ve fallen in love with the whole Hargreaves family, from Great-Great-Grandpa Quentin to little Emily with her chicken bones.”

  “Am I in love with them?” I folded the last diaper, added it to the stack, and leaned back on the couch to consider Bill’s proposition. “I’m intrigued by them, awed by them, enchanted by them—I may even have been seduced by them—but I’m not sure I’m in love with them. They’re a little intimidating.”

  “Overachievers usually are,” said Bill. “Will you go back?”

  “If your aunts continue to be as horrible to me as they were today,” I said, “I’ll have to go back. Otherwise, I’ll be t
he one committing a double homicide. And I’d hate to spoil your father’s wedding.”

  Bill’s laughter was cut short by a yawn.

  “I’m going to bed,” he said. “Are you coming?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “I have some catching up to do.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Bill. “Dimity will want to hear all about Hillfont Abbey.”

  Stanley jumped from his lap as he stood, and padded after him as he took the stack of folded diapers upstairs. I sat for a moment, collecting my thoughts, then walked up the hall to the study.

  The book-lined room triggered memories of Hillfont’s splendid library.

  “Reginald,” I said, as I turned on the mantel shelf lamps, “I’ve had a strangely satisfying day. It got off to a terrible start, but boy oh boy, did it get better!”

  My pink bunny was all ears as I took the blue journal from its shelf and sat with it in one of the tall leather armchairs that faced the hearth.

  “Dimity?” I said as I opened the journal. “I have so much to tell you that I don’t know where to begin.”

  I smiled as Aunt Dimity’s elegant handwriting appeared, looping and curling gracefully across the blank page.

  May I suggest a starting point?

  “It might help,” I said.

  Marigold Edwards.

  “Marigold Edwards?” It felt as though a thousand years had passed since I’d spoken with the estate agent’s office manager, but after a moment’s thought, the main point of our conversation came back to me. “I have an appointment to see her on Friday.”

  Very good. Were you able to ascertain Amelia’s opinion of her?

  “I was,” I said. “As it turns out, Amelia’s opinion of Marigold Edwards jibes with Mr. Barlow’s and Lilian Bunting’s. In their view, Marigold is pure gold, but in mine, she’s pure tarnish.”

  You were never one to mince words, Lori. Have you discovered a gold mine of evidence that supports your view?

  I glanced at the baby monitor, then leaned back in my chair. I didn’t have a scrap of hard evidence to lay before Aunt Dimity, but the anecdotal evidence I’d amassed had bolstered my belief that there was something distinctly dodgy about Marigold Edwards.