“Would you like a cup of tea?” Amelia inquired.
“No, thanks,” I said, eyeing her uncertainly.
“You must sample Mrs. Thistle’s brown bread,” Willis, Sr., urged. “I do not exaggerate when I say that it is by far the best brown bread I have ever tasted.”
“You’re too kind, Mr. Willis,” said Amelia.
“Not at all,” said Willis, Sr.
“Mr. Willis arrived mere seconds after I rang you, Lori,” Amelia explained, topping up Willis, Sr.’s cup. “He brought a lovely orchid to brighten my empty windowsill. Little did he know that he would be called upon to bar the gate to barbarians.”
“Have you…?” I wasn’t sure how to pose my question, so I left it dangling.
“Have I introduced myself properly to your father-in-law?” Amelia placed the cherry-red teapot on the table and clenched her hands together in her lap. “I was on the verge of doing so when I was distracted by the rumpus on the green. It sounded as though World War III had begun, so of course I crept to the window to find out what was going on and once there I couldn’t tear myself away. In the end it proved to be a delightfully one-sided battle, with my neighbors vanquishing all who stood before them. Then Daffodil came to the door and…and rendered my introduction superfluous.” She bit her lower lip and looked shyly at Willis, Sr.
“Are you Mae Bowen?” he asked.
“I am,” she replied, lowering her eyes.
“My late wife commissioned you to paint a watercolor for me,” he said.
Amelia looked up, an arrested expression on her face. She gazed intently into Willis, Sr.’s gray eyes, then nodded.
“Jane Willis,” she said. “Spring crocuses in the snow.”
“Yes,” he said softly. “Thank you.”
The silence that followed had more layers than a wedding cake. I sat stock still and pretended to be invisible, but I needn’t have bothered. Amelia and Willis, Sr., were in a world of their own. As far as they were concerned, I was invisible.
The magic moment ended when a mighty fist crashed against the front door.
“I’ll get it,” I said, jumping to my feet. “If it’s Daffodil, I’ll give her a good pruning.”
The mighty fist did not belong to Ms. Deeproots, however, but to Peggy Taxman, who stood, arms akimbo, at the head of a small but determined-looking delegation that included Sally Pyne, Henry Cook, Dick Peacock, George Wetherhead, Mr. Barlow, and Buster.
As I searched my mind for an appropriate greeting, each member of the delegation—except for Buster—held up a bright yellow leaflet, which they opened simultaneously to reveal black-and-white portrait photographs identical to the ones I’d seen in the brochures advertising Mae Bowen’s exhibitions.
“Someone,” Peggy boomed, “owes us an explanation.”
Fifteen
“We wish to see the lady of the house,” Peggy thundered. “And we wish to see her now.”
There was no pruning Peggy Taxman. Postmistress, business owner, and chair of the all-important village affairs committee, Peggy ruled Finch with an iron hand, a stentorian voice, and an imposing physique. Though she wore flowery dresses and pointy, rhinestone-studded glasses, she behaved like a human bulldozer, flattening anyone foolish enough to stand in her way.
Since I wanted to see my sons grown to manhood, I stood aside.
The delegation swept past me and into the front room, where they fanned out behind the love seat and peered avidly from their leaflets to Amelia, as if to confirm their suspicions. I scuttled in after them to hover near the fireplace while their fearless leader planted herself in front of the love seat, folded her meaty arms, and surveyed the lady of the house from head to foot. Peggy took great pride in her gossip-gathering skills. She would have been irked to discover that a particularly tasty tidbit had escaped her notice.
“Either you have an identical twin,” she roared, “or you’ve been playing games with us, Mrs. Whoever-You-Are. Which is it?” She brandished a threatening index finger at Amelia. “The truth, this time, and make it snappy. I don’t know how it is where you come from, but we’re honest, law-abiding folk around here and we don’t appreciate being lied to.”
Willis, Sr., flew from his chair as if catapulted and placed himself between Peggy and Amelia. Though Peggy could have snapped him in two over her knee, the fire in his eyes forced her to fall back a step.
“You will speak courteously to Mrs. Thistle,” he said evenly, “or you will leave.”
“If she’s attracting undesirables to our village,” Peggy declared, “we’re within our rights to question her.”
“You are not questioning her,” Willis, Sr., countered. “You are badgering her. I will not permit—”
“Thank you, Mr. Willis,” Amelia intervened. “I’d prefer to speak for myself.”
“As you wish,” said Willis, Sr., but he shot another fiery glance at Peggy before returning to his chair.
“I won’t attempt to refute Mrs. Taxman’s allegation,” said Amelia, looking from one villager to the next, “because it’s true: I haven’t been entirely forthright with any of you. I can only apologize most sincerely and hope that the reason for my dishonesty will make sense to you, once you’ve heard it.”
Amelia then displayed an uncanny understanding of Finch’s power structure by surrendering to Peggy’s demands. She told the truth and she made it snappy by presenting a remarkably succinct account of who she was and why she’d moved to Finch, complete with props—the memoir’s pages—and affirming nods from her backup band—Willis, Sr., and me. When she finished, she lowered her eyes and meekly awaited the villagers’ verdicts. Surprisingly, given the fact that Peggy Taxman was in the room, Mr. Barlow was the first to speak.
“Well, I’m blowed,” he said, pushing his tweed cap back and scratching his head. “A world-famous artist, here in Finch, with zealots chasing after her while she chases after a rector’s secret scribbles about a witch.” He gave a short bark of laughter. “If you hadn’t shown us those old bits of parchment and if I hadn’t met those lunkheads with the van, I’d say you were making it all up, Mrs. Thistle.”
“I’m not,” said Amelia. “Have any of you found a similar piece of parchment hidden in your homes?”
Heads were shaken and noes were muttered with an unmistakable air of regret. No one, it seemed, liked to be left out of a treasure hunt.
“It must be unpleasant to be pursued by such persistent admirers,” George Wetherhead observed thoughtfully.
“Unpleasant?” Sally Pyne scoffed. “If a pack of pea-wits was pestering me, I’d plaster them with cream pies, straight to the noggin.”
“You’d be wasting good pies,” said Henry Cook.
“You’d be arrested for assault,” said George Wetherhead.
“Maybe,” Sally retorted, “but I’d make my point.”
“Seems to me they’re the ones should be arrested,” Dick Peacock grumbled. “Breaking in on your husband’s funeral, and you with a handicapped brother to tend? It’s outrageous!” He stuck his thumbs in his massive waistcoat and jutted his bearded jaw pugnaciously. “If I’d been there, I’d’ve taught ’em a thing or two about respecting a woman’s privacy.”
“I’m with Dick,” said Henry. “They may call it devotion, but it’s stalking, plain and simple.”
“You’re amazing, all of you,” Amelia marveled. “I inform you that your quiet village may be disrupted at any moment by a band of pseudo-holy hooligans and you respond by worrying about me.”
“Oh, we enjoy a bit of disruption now and again,” Dick assured her. “Keeps the blood circulating, doesn’t it?”
“I’d like another chance to educate that self-righteous little blonde,” Sally said with relish.
“Don’t you fret, Mrs. Thistle,” said Mr. Barlow, bending to scratch Buster’s ears. “If they come back again, we’ll send ’em packing. You’re one of us now, and we look after our own.”
“Mae Bowen,” Peggy murmured, sinking onto the love sea
t. Since Peggy rarely murmured, her words silenced the ongoing chatter more effectively than a cannon’s blast. “My mother and I went to a Mae Bowen exhibition in London once. I’d never seen such loveliness. The sunflowers were like old men on a bench by the seaside, basking in the warmth. The poppies were like children laughing. The damask rose was an old, old woman remembering her first dance.”
The rest of the villagers exchanged bewildered glances, but I understood what had softened Peggy’s voice and touched her soul. Mae Bowen’s paintings, I thought, could turn a tyrant into a poet.
“I’m sorry I was short with you, Mrs. Thistle,” Peggy said, eliciting sharp intakes of breath from those who’d heard her apologize about as often as they’d heard her murmur. “I don’t blame you for deceiving us,” she went on. “You lied to protect yourself from people who’d destroy what they pretend to worship. And you weren’t just trying to protect yourself. You were trying to protect the gift God gave you.” Peggy nodded solemnly. “Like Mr. Barlow said, we’ll do what we can to keep the bloodsuckers at bay, but you’re not making it easy for us!”
Peggy’s bellow made Amelia jump, but the villagers relaxed, as if they welcomed a return to normalcy.
“I…I’m n-not very adept at c-clandestine operations,” Amelia stammered. “Using my married name was a stupid thing to—”
“Your name isn’t the problem,” Peggy interrupted. “Your choice of guests is.”
“My choice of guests?” Amelia repeated uncomprehendingly.
“I’ve seen William pop in and out of your house like a jack-in-the-box,” said Peggy, eyeing her shrewdly, “and if I’ve seen him, others have, too.”
“What others?” asked Amelia.
“Four others,” Sally announced, her blue eyes glinting with mischief.
Willis, Sr., stood abruptly. His cheeks were flushed and he looked at no one but Amelia.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Thistle,” he said stiffly. “I should have foreseen the difficulties my presence might create for you. Had I been thinking clearly, I would have been more circumspect. As it is, I have been unpardonably myopic.” He winced and put a hand to his brow, as if his head ached. “My neighbors will, I am certain, elucidate the situation. If you will excuse me…” He made a crisp half bow and left the cottage without uttering another word.
“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” Amelia cried, staring after him in dismay. “Everyone in Finch must know that Mr. Willis is a perfect gentleman. Why should his presence in my home create difficulties for me?”
Sally Pyne scampered around the love seat, plopped herself onto Willis, Sr.’s vacant chair, and leaned eagerly toward Amelia, looking as though Christmas had come early.
“It’s those four cats who helped you to unpack,” she said. “You remember? Millicent, Elspeth, Selena, and Opal?”
“Of course I remember them,” said Amelia. “They were extremely kind to me.”
“They were taking your measure,” Mr. Barlow observed, sitting on the arm of the love seat. “Sizing up the competition.”
“The competition?” Amelia said faintly.
“William’s never once paid any of them a visit,” said Sally, “but he’s beaten a path to your door nearly every day since you arrived. He may give them a nod in passing, but he’s given you a book and one of his pet orchids and who knows what else? Don’t you see, Mrs. Thistle? They’re full up to the brim with jealousy!”
“Jealousy?” Amelia exclaimed, looking appalled.
“They’re green-eyed cats,” said Mr. Barlow, “with delusions of grandeur.”
“Each one of ’em wants to get her feet under William’s table,” said Dick, “and crown herself queen of Fairworth House.”
“Rich widowers are thin on the ground in Finch,” Henry explained. “William’s quite a catch.”
“He’s also out of reach,” Sally stated flatly, “but nothing will persuade their ladyships to lower their sights.”
“Hope springs eternal,” said George Wetherhead.
“It did,” Sally allowed sardonically, “until Mrs. Thistle came to town and swept William off his feet.”
“I’ve done no such thing,” Amelia protested.
“Whether you’ve done it or not is beside the point,” roared Peggy, seizing control of the conversation. “It’s what folk believe that counts. Millicent, Elspeth, Selena, and Opal believe you’re a threat, Mrs. Thistle. If they can get rid of you, they will. You can’t depend on them to keep their flapping mouths shut when the cult nuts come back. They’ll shop you to the petal pushers quick as blinking. They’ll see it as a heaven-sent opportunity to drive you out of Finch and away from William.”
Looking stricken, Amelia rose to her feet and crossed to the mantel, where she stood with her back to the room, twisting her hands together and gazing at the silver-framed photograph of her late husband. I couldn’t imagine what was going through her mind. My neighbors had dropped an awful lot into her lap all at once. If I’d been in her shoes, my brain would have been reeling.
“I can speak with Millicent and the others,” Peggy offered, “but I doubt they’ll listen, even to me. It’s like the Good Book says, Mrs. Thistle. Jealousy is as cruel as the grave.”
Amelia’s hands fell to her sides. She drew herself up to her full and inconsiderable height and turned to face Peggy, Sally, Henry, Dick, George, Mr. Barlow, Buster, and me. She seemed composed and oddly determined, as if she’d made a momentous decision and would act upon it, regardless of the consequences.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Taxman,” she said calmly. “I’ll speak with the ladies myself. I’ll go to each of them this afternoon, as soon as they return from their art class, and I will explain to them that I do not intend ever to remarry. Once they realize that I have no…” Her brow wrinkled briefly as she searched for the right words, then smoothed as she found them. “…no matrimonial ambitions with regards to Mr. Willis, I’m sure they’ll continue to be as helpful to me as they were when I first arrived in Finch.”
“Elspeth Binney isn’t here,” said Dick Peacock. “She’s staying in London with her niece. She won’t be back until tomorrow.”
“Don’t you worry about Elspeth,” Sally said sagely. “Millicent, Opal, and Selena have her number in London. They’ll fight for the chance to break the good news to her. If I know them, they’ll be on the phone to her before Mrs. Thistle is halfway home.”
“Will you tell them the rest of it?” Mr. Barlow asked Amelia. “About you being Mae Bowen and the witch’s tale and the parchment pages and all?”
“Of course.” Amelia smiled ruefully. “I expect they’ll be relieved to know that I came to Finch to find something other than a husband.”
Sixteen
I left Pussywillows with the others, but I didn’t stick around to hear them review the morning’s revelations. Instead, I hopped into the Range Rover and drove to Fairworth House.
I was worried about Willis, Sr. I didn’t know whether he’d be upset with me for failing to tell him about Mae Bowen or with himself for making her the object of lurid local speculation or with the villagers for treating his private life like a public spectacle, but I knew he’d be upset about something and I didn’t want him to be alone.
Deirdre Donovan answered the door, dressed as always in a pristine white shirtdress to which she had added a fitted black blazer, presumably to ward off the autumn chill.
“Where’s William?” I asked.
“He’s catching up on some paperwork in the study,” she replied. “He asked not to be disturbed.”
“I thought he might,” I said uneasily.
“Why?” Deirdre bent closer to me and lowered her voice. “Has something happened that I should know about?”
“Affairs of the heart,” I told her. “His heart.”
Deirdre’s eyes opened wide with surprise, but a delighted smile curved her lips as she said, “How wonderful!”
“I hope so,” I said anxiously and headed for the study.
I found Willis, Sr., seated behind his walnut desk in the window-lined room, fountain pen in hand, poring over the papers in a slim file folder. He acknowledged my entrance with a faint smile that vanished instantly as he returned his attention to his work.
“I can see that my request for privacy has been ignored,” he observed, without looking up.
I shrugged. “Privacy is overrated.”
“Mrs. Thistle,” he murmured, “would disagree with you.”
“William?” I said, approaching the desk cautiously. “Are you okay?”
“I have been a consummate fool and I have made an utter mess of things,” he replied, putting a line through one sentence and circling another, “but I will survive.” He gestured for me to take a seat in a chair facing the desk, but continued to annotate the papers as he observed, “The group discussion that followed my departure from Mrs. Thistle’s residence was, I have no doubt, both lively and informative.”
Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch Page 15