It would be a case of forbidden love, of course, like Romeo and Juliet, only much darker. Gamaliel would have to conceal his feelings in public or risk losing his livelihood and quite possibly his life.
“But he gave vent to them in private,” I said as my imagination took flight. “He couldn’t keep his feelings bottled up, so he wrote about Mistress Meg in the dead of night, and he hid his writings because, though he couldn’t love her openly in his lifetime, he wanted someone, someday to know about the rector and the witch.” I heaved a wistful sigh. “If it isn’t true, it should be.”
I, too, would prefer a tragic love story to a horror story, but we shan’t know which one is true until we find the rest of the memoir. Wasn’t it clever of Grant to make the connection between the olive branch and the dove?
“I think the vicar wishes he’d made the connection,” I said. “After all, the Bible is his bailiwick.”
Theodore Bunting is too generous to begrudge Grant his moment of glory.
“He is,” I acknowledged. “It’s a pity he’ll have to miss the fun at Dove Cottage.” Visions of true love danced in my head as I added, “Amelia wants William to be there.”
Did she ask for him specifically? In front of everyone?
“Yep,” I replied.
The Handmaidens will hear of it before nightfall and they will NOT be pleased.
“Millicent Scroggins has already given Amelia the cold shoulder,” I said. “She must have seen William coming out of Pussywillows this morning.”
What was William doing at Pussywillows?
“Courting Amelia in his own, understated way.” I laughed. “He gave her a local trail guide, told her about his wild orchids, and invited her to explore his property.”
Good grief. The Handmaidens have been angling for personal invitations to Fairworth ever since William moved in. I hope Amelia keeps hers under her hat. If word of her good fortune reaches Elspeth Binney’s ears, Amelia may not be allowed to enter Dove Cottage, much less search it. Elspeth, as you know, has quite a few jealous bones in her body.
“Elspeth will roll out the welcome mat for us,” I said, recalling the last telephone call I’d made before entering the study, “because William has volunteered to be a member of the Dove Cottage search team.”
Well done, Lori! Elspeth may feel free to snub Amelia, but she won’t turn William away.
“It was Charles’s idea,” I admitted.
Underhanded, but effective. As a matter of interest, has Amelia accepted William’s invitation?
“Not yet, but she will,” I said complacently. “She’s fond of orchids.”
Fourteen
A weak sun shone through the veil of high clouds covering the sky on Friday morning, but the temperature remained on the chilly side and the air felt as damp as a wrung sponge. Will and Rob were upstairs brushing their teeth and hunting for misplaced schoolbooks while Bill and I lingered over a second cup of tea at the kitchen table.
My husband seemed to be in a receptive mood and the boys were safely out of earshot, so I decided to voice an idea that had occurred to me in the night. Someone had to do something about Myron Brocklehurst, I told myself, and Aunt Dimity was in no position—literally—to stand up to him.
“Bill,” I said, “would you do me a favor?”
“If you want me to run a background check on Myron Brocklehurst,” he said, “I’ve already put the wheels in motion.”
I blinked at him in surprise, then shook my head wonderingly.
“You should trade in your law books and take up mind reading,” I told him. “How did you know I wanted you to check up on Myron?”
“I didn’t,” said Bill, feeding Stanley a leftover scrap of bacon. “It was my idea.”
“What prompted it?” I asked, intrigued.
“I saw Myron with Bree yesterday, in front of Crabtree Cottage,” he replied, “and I didn’t like what I saw.”
“How did you know it was Myron?” I asked.
“Pure logic.” Bill stroked Stanley’s back to signal the end of treat time, then rested his elbows on the table and went on matter-of-factly, “Mae Bowen moves to Finch and two days later a solitary stranger appears, dressed like a latter-day flower child. Who else could it be but Mr. Bowenist himself, Myron Brocklehurst? I also found a photo of him on the Bowenist website,” he added with a sly grin.
“So much for pure logic,” I said, rolling my eyes. “What did you dislike about him?”
“His smile,” said Bill. “His smug, superior smile. But I suppose driving a shiny red Ferrari would put a smile on any man’s face.”
“He has a Ferrari?” I said.
“A brand spanking new Ferrari,” Bill clarified. “What kind of guru drives one of the world’s priciest sports cars?”
“We already know he’s rich,” I pointed out.
“Yes,” Bill said reflectively. “I wonder how he got that way? Don’t worry, Lori,” he went on. “I’ve made a few calls, sent a few e-mails. I’ll let you know what I dig up.”
“Thanks.” I stacked Bill’s breakfast plate on top of mine and gazed down at it for a moment before asking, “Has your father spoken to you about Amelia?”
“No,” he said. “Why? Is she throwing herself at him?”
“Guess again,” I said.
Bill stared at me in disbelief. “He’s throwing himself at her?”
“I wouldn’t say he’s throwing himself at her,” I said, “but he certainly appears to be leaning in her direction.”
“Does he know she’s Mae Bowen?” Bill asked.
“No, and we’re not going to tell him,” I stated flatly. “It’s Amelia’s secret, not ours.”
“You’re right,” said Bill, changing his tune without missing a beat. “It’s better this way. If he falls for Mae Bowen as Amelia Thistle, she’ll be certain it’s because of who she is, not what she does. How is she responding to his advances?”
“Early days yet,” I said.
“She’s keeping her distance, eh? Good for her.” Bill reached across the table and put his hand on mine. “I realize that it won’t be easy for you, love, but try not to meddle. Allow events to unfold at their own pace, even if they don’t unfold at all.”
There was no point in pretending that I didn’t understand what Bill meant—he knew me too well—so I bit back a phony protest and nodded my assent.
“But keep me informed,” he added, “because Father won’t.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled as his gaze turned inward. “I hope it works out, Lori. He hasn’t looked at another woman since Mother died. She wouldn’t have wanted him to be alone for so long.”
I took Will and Rob to school, then whistled my way through a lengthy list of chores, knowing that the more housework I finished on Friday, the less guilt I’d feel for spending Saturday afternoon at Dove Cottage. Apart from that, Bill had brightened an otherwise dull day by responding so well to my news about Willis, Sr. A lesser man might have been troubled by it, but Bill’s heart was big enough to embrace his father’s return to the land of the loving.
I was folding a minor mountain range of clean laundry in the master bedroom when Amelia called.
“They’ve arrived,” she said tersely. “I can see them from my front room.”
“How many?” I asked. I didn’t need to ask who “they” were.
“Seven,” she replied. “Three men and four women. I recognize them. They’re the same yahoos who crashed Walter’s funeral.”
“Is Myron with them?” I asked.
“No,” she said, “but they must be following his orders. They’re going from door to door. I’m sure they’re looking for me.”
A tower of socks toppled onto a snoozing Stanley as I sank onto the bed, thinking hard. I wasn’t concerned about the Handmaidens because they wouldn’t be around to answer leading questions posed by the Bowenists. Elspeth would still be in London, visiting her niece, while Millicent, Opal, and Selena would be in Upper Deeping, attending their Friday morning art
class with Mr. Shuttleworth.
The villagers who were at home, however, would find it hard to resist a friendly invitation to chat about their newest neighbor. Left to their own devices, they would lead the fanatic cohort straight to Pussywillows.
“Okay, Amelia,” I said. “Stay calm, keep away from the windows, and don’t answer the door.”
“I’m not a complete fool,” she snapped. “I may be inept at inventing names, but I know how to hide from a pack of lunatics.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll get to the village as fast as I can.”
I abandoned the laundry, flew down the stairs, snatched my rain jacket from the coat rack, and paused. It seemed foolhardy to face a pack of lunatics unarmed, so I dashed to a drawer filled with loose photographs, stuffed my pockets with old photos of Will and Rob, and ran for the Rover. If Bree’s New Zealand monologue could force Myron Brocklehurst to flee, I reasoned, a pocketful of baby pictures—and their attendant stories—would make his minions wish they’d never come to Finch.
Cackling wickedly, I drove up the lane at a speed that would have made Bill cringe, but I slowed to a crawl when I reached the humpbacked bridge and stopped at its apex to take in the view. To judge by what I saw, I could have left the family snaps at home because my neighbors seemed to have things well in hand.
George Wetherhead stood at the back end of a rusting, daisy-stickered camper van that had been parked smack-dab in the middle of the village green. George appeared to be recording the vehicle’s tag number on a pad of paper, while Mr. Barlow stood with Buster, his cairn terrier, at the van’s front end, haranguing a paunchy, balding man who was, presumably, the van’s driver.
I could scarcely believe what my eyes were telling me, so I opened my windows and rolled forward at a snail’s pace to listen in.
“Have you left your brains at home or were you born stupid?” Mr. Barlow bellowed. “My dog would know better than to park a van on grass after a heavy rain. Who’s going to repair the ruts you’ve made? I’ll tell you, shall I?” He thrust a thumb toward his own chest. “Me! That’s who! But you never thought of me when you pulled in, did you? Never think of anyone but yourself, I’ll wager.”
The paunchy man mumbled words I couldn’t hear, but Mr. Barlow’s response clarified what had been said.
“You? Help me?” Mr. Barlow scoffed. “And spoil your pretty hands? I doubt you’ve ever done an honest day’s work in your life.” He rapped his knuckles on the van’s windscreen. “What do you think you’re doing driving this deathtrap anyway? Bald tires, squealing brakes, blue smoke pouring from the exhaust pipe—unsafe at any speed, I’d say. Your old banger will keep my good friend Constable Huntzicker busy writing citations for quite some time when he gets here, which he will do very soon because I called him ten minutes ago to report you for illegal parking. When he sees what you’ve done to our green…”
Sally Pyne, meanwhile, stood on the teashop’s doorstep, responding to an allegation that had turned her pleasantly pink face beet-red with indignation.
“Me? Exploit animals?” she retorted, as the young blonde who’d evidently made the accusation shrank away from her. “I’ll have you know that my cream comes from the happiest herd of cows this side of heaven. Grass-fed, tucked up warm at night in a spotless barn, milked as gentle as you please. The pigs for my bacon don’t volunteer to be slaughtered, I’ll grant you, but they’re treated like members of the family until their day comes and then they’re put down quick and clean, which is a better end than most humans can bank on, believe me. I know my suppliers, missy, and I know how well they treat the creatures in their care, so don’t you tell me I’m part of the systematic degradation of the planet. I’ll have you know…”
As I cruised slowly past the schoolhouse, I heard Henry Cook inform a red-haired woman in a puffy down jacket that it was illegal to pin a poster on the notice board without the parish council’s written permission and that anyone caught doing so would be subject to prosecution and a hefty fine. Since I’d pinned numerous notices on the board without asking for anyone’s permission, Henry’s words came as news to me, but I wasn’t about to get out of the car and contradict him.
Eager to hear more, I rounded the green’s north end and drove up the other side, pausing at Peacock’s pub to watch Dick Peacock use his imposing bulk to hasten the exit of a young couple dressed in matching bellbottoms and denim jackets.
“Herbal tea?” he was saying. “Think I was born yesterday, do you? If you’ve been drinking herbal tea, then I’m a ballet dancer. I don’t know what you’ve got inside you, but I doubt it’s legal because your pupils are pinwheels and you’re talking daft.” He spread his arms wide as if to emphasize his prodigious girth. “Do I look like a daisy? Pah!” He flapped a hand at them dismissively. “My friend Constable Huntzicker will have something to say about your herbal tea when he gets here from Upper Deeping, which he should do quite soon because my good wife is ringing him right now.”
While the young couple beat a hasty retreat to the van to confer with the redhead, the young blonde, and the paunchy driver, Peggy Taxman burst out of the Emporium, dragging a scrawny, gray-haired man after her.
“Mention my petals once more and I’ll have you up on a charge of public indecency,” she thundered. “A man of your age should know better than to speak of such things to a lady. My petals are no one’s business but my husband’s and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll make yourself and your nasty leaflets scarce before he comes out here and bloodies your nose.”
Had the gray-haired man been familiar with Peggy’s husband, he would have recognized how profoundly hollow her threat was. Jasper Taxman would no more bloody a man’s nose than he would speak curtly to his formidable wife, but the stranger took Peggy at her word and sprinted for the van.
I stopped snickering long enough to count heads and realized with a jolt of apprehension that only six Bowenists were clustered around the van. I craned my neck to find the missing minion and gasped in alarm when I saw a pale-faced brunette in a gypsy skirt and a bulky red sweater raise her fist to knock on Amelia’s door.
I cut the engine, leaped from the Rover, and raced across the green, but I was still ten yards away from Pussywillows when my father-in-law opened the front door. Astonished, I skidded to a halt in a pile of wet leaves and waited with bated breath to see how he would handle a direct frontal assault on Amelia’s unsafe haven.
“May I help you?” he asked politely.
“I hope so,” said the brunette. “My friends and I are looking for a woman who recently moved to your village. Her name is Mae Bowen, but she sometimes calls herself Amelia Thistle.”
“And your name is…?” Willis, Sr., inquired.
“Daffodil Deeproots,” the brunette replied with a tranquil smile.
“How very floral,” Willis, Sr., observed. “Is Daffodil a family name or have you adopted it informally?”
“I am a child of the sun and the earth,” Daffodil answered, “and I was christened by the rain.” She batted her eyelashes at Willis, Sr. “My spirit guide told me I would find Mother Mae here. Be a lamb and bring her out, won’t you? Her children crave her wisdom.”
“Your spirit guide is misinformed, Ms. Deeproots,” said Willis, Sr. “I do not know Mae Bowen, nor do I know where she lives. I do, however, know Constable Huntzicker and I would advise you and your companions to leave Finch before he arrives. I have overheard my neighbors’ accusations and I can assure you that the constable takes a dim view of those who drive poorly maintained vehicles, flout parking regulations, imbibe illegal substances, post bills without permits, distribute offensive literature, and practice deception by using assumed names. Good day, Ms. Deeproots,” he concluded pleasantly and closed the door in her face.
Daffodil’s serene smile faltered. She shuffled her feet indecisively, then looked over her shoulder. When she saw her confederates huddled in the van, she trudged across the green to join them.
After a great deal of backi
ng and forthing, accompanied by a chorus of catcalls from disgruntled onlookers, the paunchy driver managed to extricate his vehicle from the rain-softened ground. He’d evidently taken the villagers’ threats to heart, because he headed for the Oxford road instead of Upper Deeping, to avoid a possible run-in with the law. He couldn’t have known—and no one had deigned to tell him—that Constable Huntzicker was enjoying a well-earned holiday in Majorca.
I waited for the van to cross the bridge, then darted over to Pussywillows and tapped on the front door until Willis, Sr., opened it and invited me in. He waited for me to kick off my damp sneakers and perch on the edge of the tweed-covered love seat before lowering himself into the armchair opposite Amelia’s. The items on the coffee table—a teapot, a pair of teacups, and a few slices of buttered brown bread on two crumb-littered plates—suggested that he had been there for some time.
Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch Page 14