Aunt Dimity and the Summer King

by Nancy Atherton

  “Marigold’s actions support my view,” I replied firmly. “When Amelia came to Finch to look at Pussywillows, Marigold didn’t just show her the cottage. She took her on a grand tour of the village and introduced her to Peggy Taxman and Sally Cook and anyone else they bumped into.”

  It sounds like a sensible thing to do. One doesn’t simply move into a cottage. One moves into a community.

  “It is a sensible thing to do,” I agreed, “if you’re trying to scare off potential home buyers.”

  I’m afraid I don’t follow you, my dear.

  “The villagers made a good impression on Amelia,” I said. “She came away from Marigold’s tour feeling as if she’d met a delightful array of colorful, candid characters who took pride in their small community. Which is great, right?”

  I would think so.

  “Unfortunately,” I said, “most people aren’t as tolerant as Amelia. Most people wouldn’t enjoy a run-in with Bossy Peggy and Gabby Sally. The tour would give most people the impression that the villagers are a bunch of opinionated blabbermouths who are too stiff-necked to get along with a neighboring village.”

  A neighboring village . . . ? Did Marigold Edwards take it upon herself to tell Amelia about the Finch-Tillcote feud?

  “Marigold gave Amelia an explicit warning about the feud,” I said. “Why would she even bring it up? If you were trying to sell a cottage in Finch, would you tell a prospective buyer that her future neighbors are actively pursuing a vendetta?”

  If I were an estate agent, would I disclose the existence of a local feud to a client? Probably not.

  “There you are,” I said triumphantly. “Marigold is sabotaging her own sales and I think I know why.” I made a wry face and continued reluctantly, “You may find it hard to believe, Dimity, but I got the idea from Bill’s aunts.”

  I find it almost impossible to believe that you would agree with them on any point whatsoever, but I’m listening.

  “Marigold is working for a developer.” I shuddered as I recalled the chilling scenario Charlotte and Honoria had outlined in the drawing room at Fairworth House. “Marigold’s job is to drive down property values in Finch so her big-shot developer client can buy up cottages cheaply. He’ll annoy the villagers by making a ridiculous amount of noise and mess refurbishing the cottages, and when they complain—”

  Which they will.

  “—he’ll plant the idea of living in a quieter place,” I went on. “He’ll wave a lot of money around and before you know it, the whole village will be in his hands, only it won’t be a village anymore. He’ll turn it into a . . . a summer retreat.” I spat out Honoria’s detestable phrase, but it still left a bad taste in my brain.

  A bit of noise and dust wouldn’t drive the villagers out of Finch, Lori.

  “A huge amount of noise and dust combined with a tempting offer might do the trick. Most of the villagers are living on fixed incomes,” I continued. Though it pained me to parrot Charlotte, I couldn’t deny the truth in her taunt. “People living on a fixed income might find it difficult to turn down a developer’s cold, hard cash.”

  Mr. Barlow seemed to think that Peggy Taxman would purchase the empty cottages.

  “Peggy won’t be able to compete with a professional developer,” I said scathingly. “No, Marigold Edwards is laying the groundwork for someone a lot richer and more experienced than Peggy Taxman. I’m going to find out who it is and put a spoke in his wheel. Or her wheel. It could be a woman.”

  What spoke do you propose to put in his or her wheel?

  “No idea,” I said, “but I’ll think of something.”

  I’m sure you will. Your meeting with Marigold Edwards should prove to be quite instructive.

  “Don’t worry, Dimity,” I said. “I’ll wangle the truth out of her.”

  I have the greatest respect for your wangling skills, Lori, but before you employ them on Finch’s behalf, may I make a suggestion?

  “Fire away,” I said.

  You have thus far spoken with three people about Marigold Edwards.

  “Mr. Barlow, Lilian Bunting, and Amelia,” I said, nodding.

  It’s a rather small sample upon which to base such a momentous conclusion, don’t you think? I suggest you spread your nets wider. Chat with Peggy and Sally and the rest of your neighbors. Ask them to describe their encounters with Marigold’s clients.

  “Why bother?” I said. “I already know what they’ll say. They’ll claim they behaved with perfect propriety.”

  Perhaps they did. The only way to know for sure is to ask them. If the encounters went well, you may have to rethink your suspicions. If they went badly, your suspicions will be vindicated. Either way, you’ll be better prepared for Friday’s meeting.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll take Bess for a stroll through the village tomorrow. I’ll chat with whoever met Marigold’s clients. And I’ll try not to let my suspicions get in the way of the facts.”

  Excellent. Now, about Charlotte and Honoria . . . What on earth inspired them to discuss Finch’s fate with you?

  “They were discussing it with each other,” I said. “And they weren’t simply discussing Finch’s fate—they were inventing it. They can’t imagine why anyone would live in Finch year-round, so they came up with a story about a developer transforming it into a summer retreat. When they finished taking potshots at Finch, they took aim at Amelia.”

  Was William present?

  “Most of the time,” I said. “When he was in the room, the Harpies pretended to be concerned about Amelia because they have it on good authority that all artists are drunk, drug-addicted lunatics.”

  What utter nonsense. I hope William leapt to Amelia’s defense.

  “He calmly explained to them that Amelia isn’t a drunk, drug-addicted lunatic,” I said. “I would have gone after them with a hatchet, but I’m a little more excitable than William.” I smiled mirthlessly. “I’m also on to their game, which he isn’t.”

  What did they say about you?

  “Let’s see . . .” I counted on my fingers. “I’m old, I’m fat, I’m a lousy dresser, and I’m ruining Bill’s career by forcing him to stay away from the office because I’m also a lousy wife and an incompetent mother. Oh, and Bess should be called Elizabeth because only ignorant peasants like me use nicknames.”

  What kept you from going after them with a hatchet?

  “I didn’t have a hatchet,” I said. “I had Bess, though, and she was terrific. Once she started howling, the aunts couldn’t get rid of us fast enough.”

  Why was Bess howling?

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “She had a full belly and dry diapers and she certainly wasn’t lonely.”

  Perhaps she objected to her great-aunts’ unkind remarks.

  “Bess is barely fifteen weeks old, Dimity,” I said, giggling. “If she understood a word they said, we may have a genius in the family after all.” I stretched my legs out on the ottoman and got ready to astound Aunt Dimity. “Speaking of geniuses, you’ll never guess where we went after we left Fairworth House.”

  I presume you went to the Emporium to purchase a hatchet.

  “You’re not even close,” I said, laughing. “Bess and I went to Hillfont Abbey to visit the Summer King. The faux abbey matched your description. It’s a whimsical country house loosely based on a historical model, but it’s more than that, Dimity, much more. . . .”

  I told Aunt Dimity everything I’d told Bill, but in far greater detail. My eyelids were drooping by the time I finished my epic tale, but it was such a pleasure to talk about Arthur Hargreaves instead of Bill’s aunts that I couldn’t bring myself to stop.

  “I’ve never met anyone less uppity than Arthur,” I concluded. “He’s as unpretentious as his mix-and-match tea set and he’s the exact opposite of mean-spirited. If Peggy Taxman could see him with Bess, she’d change her mi
nd about him. And his allegedly mysterious corporate connections aren’t mysterious at all. He traveled the world, giving lectures to students who later became CEOs. It’s as simple as that.”

  He has since turned into a recluse, however, so Charles and Grant weren’t entirely wrong to refer to him as the Hermit of Hillfont Abbey.

  “If Crabtree Cottage were half as interesting as Hillfont Abbey,” I said, “Charles and Grant would become the Hermits of Crabtree Cottage. I can understand why Arthur loves his home. Besides, someone has to look after the children.”

  You’ve always had a hungry mind, Lori. It sounds as though Arthur fed it.

  “That’s it,” I said enthusiastically. “You’ve hit the nail on the head, Dimity. Arthur’s like a walking, talking encyclopedia, but he wears his knowledge lightly. He dispenses it with a diffidence and a sense of humor that makes you forget how much you’re learning. He must have been a fantastic lecturer. I could listen to him all day, only he wouldn’t let me because he’s as curious about people as I am.” I sighed happily. “I don’t think I could ever be bored at Hillfont Abbey. I don’t think anyone could.”

  I’m not sure your neighbors will agree with you. Will you tell them that you strode willingly into enemy territory?

  “Enemy territory,” I scoffed. “Arthur Hargreaves isn’t my enemy. If the villagers give me the stink-eye for saying so, so be it. Their disapproval won’t keep me away from Hillfont.”

  Their disapproval might, however, interfere with the friendly chats you intend to have with them tomorrow.

  “True,” I acknowledged. “It’s awkward to chat with people who’ve turned their backs on you. I’ll save my scandalous news for another day.”

  A wise decision. I’m somewhat surprised that Arthur made no mention of the feud.

  “I think he’s as oblivious to it as his great-great-grandfather was,” I said. “And I’m not going to be the one who brings it up with him. It makes the villagers look moronic.”

  Blind prejudice is moronic. The only way to combat it is with education.

  “Everyone’s a teacher,” I said, smiling fondly as I repeated Arthur’s words. “Maybe my job is to teach my neighbors to stop being such idiots.”

  I pressed the Test button on the baby monitor, to make sure that it was still working.

  Is something wrong, Lori?

  “I think it’s called twitchy mommy syndrome,” I replied. “I thought Bess would be fussy after her action-packed day, but I haven’t heard a peep out of her.”

  Perhaps she’s conserving her lung power. She may need to rescue you from Bill’s aunts again.

  “If Bess can plan that far ahead,” I said, “we definitely have a genius in the family.” I stifled a yawn, then glanced again at the monitor. “If you don’t mind, Dimity, I think I’ll look in on my little genius before I turn in.”

  I don’t mind in the least. You, too, have had an action-packed day. I look forward to hearing the conclusions you draw from tomorrow’s tour of Finch.

  I didn’t think my tour of Finch would alter my opinion of Marigold Edwards one iota, but I was too groggy to debate the point.

  “I’ll let you know what I find out,” I said. “Good night, Dimity.”

  Good night, Lori. Sleep well.

  The curving lines of royal blue ink faded slowly from the page. I returned the blue journal to its shelf, twiddled Reginald’s ears, turned off the lights, and went upstairs to the nursery.

  The baby monitor hadn’t misled me. Bess was sleeping as peacefully as I would be as soon as my head hit my pillow. I glanced at Bianca, wondering if the white unicorn had the same calming effect on my daughter that my pink bunny had always had on me. Smiling, I gazed down at Bess.

  “If you did rescue me from the aunts,” I whispered to her, “keep up the good work. As long as we have your howl, we won’t need my hatchet.”

  Seventeen

  Bill had opened up a can of worms when he’d suggested that Didier Pinot reexamine his will. The busywork he’d concocted for the sole purpose of avoiding his aunts had, much to his dismay, turned into real work. He couldn’t stop at home after Tuesday’s school run because he had to rush in to the office to discuss further changes Monsieur Pinot wished to make.

  “Hoist by his own petard,” I said to Bess. “Or, to put it another way, it serves Daddy right!”

  It was nearly eleven o’clock. Bess and I were in the Range Rover and on our way to Finch. I’d hoped to leave for Finch earlier, but the clean-dirty diaper cycle and a series of volcanic eruptions from Bess had delayed our departure. I was in my third blouse of the day. Bess was in her fourth onesie.

  The weather couldn’t have been lovelier. A brief rain shower in the small hours had left the world gleaming. I made a mental note to thank the Summer King for his handiwork the next time we met.

  Guilt assailed me as we passed Willis, Sr.’s gates. Had I been Amelia, I would have had three weeks’ worth of debilitating headaches, but she was less devious than I was. The aunts were no doubt torturing her over brunch at Fairworth House.

  Raindrops glistened on the bushy bay tree that concealed the entrance to the old farm track. I assumed the track had flooded overnight and felt a rush of gratitude to Willis, Sr., for suggesting a safer route to Hillfont Abbey.

  I slowed to a crawl when we reached the humpbacked bridge, in part because the bridge was dauntingly steep and narrow, but mainly because the view from its tallest arch was so pretty. Finch lay before me, basking in the midday sun. Its honey-hued stone buildings, with their crooked chimneys and lichen-dappled roofs, faced one another across the cobbled lane encircling the village green, like a cluster of gossips leaning in for the latest news.

  Peacock’s pub, Taxman’s Emporium, and the greengrocer’s shop sat with their backs to a rising landscape of shadowy woods and sheep-dotted pastures, while Sally Cook’s tearoom, the vicarage, and the old village school edged the water meadows that dropped down to the willow-draped banks of the Little Deeping. Homely cottages rubbed shoulders with the small business establishments. The geraniums, petunias, pansies, and impatiens in their carefully tended window boxes added splashes of vibrant color to the mellow scene.

  Mr. Barlow lived at the foot of the bridge. He was in front of his house, working on the vicar’s black sedan, when I entered the village. I waved to him and he raised an oily wrench in response, then motioned for me to pull over. I stopped the Rover beside the vicar’s car, rolled down my window, and prepared myself for the first friendly chat of the day.

  “Met William’s sisters this morning,” he informed me, resting his arms on the window’s sill. “He brought ’em in after breakfast to show ’em the village. Snooty pair of cats, aren’t they?”

  Mr. Barlow was as bad as I was at mincing words.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” I said.

  “Don’t think I want to,” he declared.

  “Was Amelia with them?” I asked.

  “No,” said Mr. Barlow. “She had to leave bright and early for Oxford. Something to do with setting up a new exhibit of her paintings.”

  Since Amelia had said nothing to me about a new exhibit, I suspected that it was a fabrication invented for the sake of self-preservation. She might lack my flair for duplicity, I told myself, but she wasn’t a masochist.

  “Been meaning to tell you,” Mr. Barlow went on, “I was wrong about Peggy buying Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage. She wanted to, right enough, but Jasper put his foot down.”

  “I’ll bet he put it down softly,” I said.

  “His soft ways work with Peggy,” Mr. Barlow reminded me. “They had enough on their plate, he told her, with the Emporium and the greengrocer’s. No need to go looking for more.”

  “Thanks for letting me know about Peggy,” I said. “Has anyone looked at the empty cottages today?”

  “Not yet,” he said.
“Haven’t seen hide nor hair of Marigold Edwards for a couple of weeks.”

  “She must be having a hard time lining up prospective buyers,” I said. “Have you met any of her clients?”

  “I’ve met all of ’em,” he replied. “Marigold always tracks me down when she’s showing a cottage. Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Who else can tell her clients about the cottages’ quirks?”

  “Quirks?” I said alertly. “You told me that Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage are as sound as a bell.”

  “They are, but every house has its quirks,” Mr. Barlow said easily. “It’s best to know about them beforehand. Take Rose Cottage, for example. The pipes knock when you run the hot water, the back door sticks in damp weather, and the chimney flue will need replacing in a year or two.”

  “And Ivy Cottage?” I asked.

  “Whoever takes it on will have to take on the garden as well,” Mr. Barlow replied. “If they don’t, the whole village will have something to say about it. It’ll be a lot of work, I tell ’em, but it’s the kind of work that gives a real gardener pleasure.” He straightened. “Better get back to my own work. Mrs. Bunting’ll need the car this afternoon for meals-on-wheels. Nice talking with you, Lori.”

  “Nice talking with you, Mr. Barlow,” I said and I meant it. It was clear to me that Marigold Edwards used Mr. Barlow’s expert knowledge to underscore the empty cottages’ shortcomings. As I restarted the engine, I murmured, “Strike one.”

  I parked the Rover in front of the Emporium, took Bess from her car seat, and carried her inside.

  “ ’Morning, Lori!” Peggy Taxman boomed from behind the shop’s long wooden counter. “ ’Morning, Bess!”

  I always expected Bess to flinch at the sound of Peggy’s voice, but she seemed to find it hilarious.

  “Got a postcard for you from Jack and Bree,” Peggy went on. She let herself into the post office cage at the counter’s far end and handed the postcard to me through the cage’s little window. “They’re in Wellington—that’s in New Zealand—and the weather’s atrocious. Gale force winds, Bree says, blowing straight up from the Antarctic.”