“What about Stanley?” Will asked, turning to Bill. “Who’ll feed him in the morning?”
“Stanley has plenty of water and a big bowl of dry food,” Bill answered. “He’ll survive the night without us.”
“All of our pets will survive the night without us,” Grant put in. “Truth be told, our pups could do with missing a meal or two. Charles insists on feeding them from the table.”
“Dad feeds Stanley from the table,” Will said with a sympathetic nod.
“Your father is a compassionate man,” Charles said loftily.
“Will we go to church before we go home tomorrow?” Rob asked me.
I looked questioningly at the vicar. Tall, thin, and gray-haired, with a long, mournful face and a mild disposition, Theodore Bunting gave Rob’s question careful consideration before replying, “Since every able-bodied member of the parish is here, we may as well hold the morning service here as well. With our hosts’ permission, of course.”
“Permission granted,” said Derek.
“Are we agreed, then?” Lilian asked, surveying those of us who didn’t live at the manor. “Shall we accept Emma’s invitation to spend the night in Anscombe Manor?”
“Of course we shall, with heartfelt thanks,” said Charles. “What fun! Our Christmas party has officially become a slumber party!”
Rob and Will thrust triumphant fists into the air before refilling their pockets with sausage rolls, collecting apples to give to the horses, and racing out of the great hall.
“Slow down on the ice!” I hollered after them. “And boots off before—”
“We know, Mum!” they hollered back.
There was a flurry of activity as everyone pitched in to make the bedrooms ready for occupancy. Bill and I elected to sleep in Bess’s ground-floor room, but the others clambered up and down various staircases, carrying pillows, blankets, sheets, towels, new toothbrushes, and borrowed nightclothes to their chosen bedchambers.
The exercise restored lost appetites. When we eventually reassembled in the great hall, no one ignored the food table. Even the designated drivers were free to avail themselves of the mulled wine and Derek’s punch, though they exercised due caution with the latter.
My tartlets disappeared with gratifying speed, and Emma’s besan ladoo were a huge success. Though the Indian sweets resembled pale-brown balls of dough, Emma explained to anyone who asked that they were made of chickpea flour cooked with clarified butter, then mixed with white sugar and finely chopped nuts. She also explained that the recipe’s simplicity had come as a relief after the rigors of preparing a complete Christmas dinner.
The ice storm made the great hall seem cozier than ever, but Mr. Barlow chose to stand near the windows, scanning the frozen world for the slightest sign of a thaw. Bree’s young face became marginally less haggard as the evening progressed, and though she declined an invitation to play charades, she did her best to look as if our antics amused her. Mindful of her heartache, no one mimed romantic scenes.
It was nearing midnight when Mr. Barlow disrupted the proceedings.
“Will you look at that!” he exclaimed. “Some fool’s coming up the drive!”
I peered past him through the windows and saw, blurred by needles of sleet, a pair of headlights advance at a snail’s pace around the final bend.
A chorus of voices asked, “Who is it?”
“Don’t know,” said Mr. Barlow. “Looks like an old Peugeot. No one in Finch drives a Peugeot, but—” He broke off with a gasp. “Oh, my Lord, they’ve gone into a ditch.”
Wordlessly, Derek and Bill ran after Mr. Barlow as he snatched up his jacket and dashed out of the great hall to give aid to the storm’s first victim.
Five
Once the rapid-response team hit the ice, it couldn’t afford to move rapidly. Clustered once more at the windows, we watched in anxious silence as Derek, Bill, and Mr. Barlow shuffled cautiously across the frozen terrace. Derek must have had a few flashlights close at hand, because three bright beams bobbed with excruciating slowness down the broad stone staircase and up the curving drive. It was the most languid rescue mission I’d ever witnessed.
The car had taken a nosedive into the drainage ditch. It sat lopsidedly, its rear end pointing upward, its headlights mired in mud. I couldn’t tell a Peugeot from a pomegranate, but I could see by the glow of a hanging lantern that the small four-door sedan didn’t belong to anyone I knew. I wondered who the driver was and why he’d braved the elements to come to Anscombe Manor.
“Should we ring the emergency services?” Grant asked.
“It’ll take forever for an ambulance to get here,” Charles pointed out.
“Let’s find out if the driver’s injured before we dial nine-nine-nine,” Lilian advised. “We wouldn’t want an ambulance crew to risk their lives for a false alarm.”
“Even if the driver isn’t injured,” said the vicar, “he may be in shock.”
“I’ll fetch some blankets,” said Cassie.
“I’ll get the first-aid kit,” said Kit.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” said Nell.
“An excellent notion,” said Lilian, nodding at Nell. “A cup of strong, sweet tea is the best remedy for shock.”
While the rest of us watched the drama unfold outdoors, Peter added logs to the fire, moved an armchair closer to the hearth, and placed a small round table beside the armchair. Hamlet raised his head to observe him placidly, then returned to doggy dreamland.
“They’ve reached the car,” Grant narrated for Peter’s benefit. “They’ve opened the door. They’ve extracted the driver.”
“Extracted?” Peter said in alarm.
“They’ve helped him to climb out of the car and the ditch,” Grant clarified. “He doesn’t seem to be hurt. Correction: She doesn’t seem to be hurt. She can walk, at any rate.”
“Any passengers?” Peter asked.
“They haven’t pulled anyone else out of the car,” Grant informed him.
The driver appeared to be a short, plump woman, but I couldn’t tell whether she was young, old, or middle-aged. Derek and Bill offered their strong arms to steady her as they began their slow-motion journey back to the manor, and she clung to them as if her legs had turned to jelly.
Mr. Barlow stayed behind with the car. After crouching low to examine the undercarriage, he straightened, shook his head, and crawled through the driver’s-side door to retrieve a black purse from wherever it had landed. He then popped the trunk and removed a small suitcase. After closing the trunk and the door, he trudged behind the trio, toting the purse and the suitcase. He’d clearly decided that the car was too damaged to drive.
“It looks as though you’ll have another guest at your slumber party, Emma,” Charles commented.
“Not a problem,” she said. “I’m just glad she didn’t slide off the road in a spot where no one could help her.”
“Perish the thought,” the vicar said with a shudder.
Kit returned with the first-aid kit, and Cassie followed him with two red-and-gray-striped wool blankets draped over her forearms. They crossed to stand beside me at the windows while Derek and Bill guided the luckless driver up the perilous stairs.
“I don’t recognize her,” said Cassie.
“She’s not from Finch,” said Peter, taking the blankets from his blossoming wife. “And she’s not one of our students.”
“I don’t think she’s one of our parents, either,” said Cassie.
“Who is she, then?” said Kit. “And what brought her to Anscombe Manor?”
“I’ve been asking myself the same questions,” I said.
“She’ll answer them soon enough,” Grant said, and as he turned to face the vestibule, the rest of us turned with him.
Derek and Bill towered over their damsel in distress as they escorted her into the great hall. She was
at least a foot shorter than they were, and she was definitely middle-aged. Her round face was lined with a faint web of wrinkles, but apart from a dab of lipstick, she wore no makeup. She was dressed plainly but neatly in a black beret, a knee-length black wool coat, black tights, and extremely sensible black rain boots. Her tightly curled iron-gray hair stuck out around the edges of her beret like lamb’s-wool trim.
She drew a dainty white handkerchief from her coat pocket with a trembling hand and dabbed at her red nose while she apologized to her saviors.
“I’m s-sorry to be such a b-bother,” she stammered through chattering teeth. “I’m sorry to put you to so much t-trouble.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” said Derek.
“You’re safe now,” Bill assured her.
“Let me take your hat and coat,” said Emma, stepping forward.
When the woman fumbled with her coat buttons, Emma undid them for her, then removed both coat and beret, passing them to Derek. Before Peter wrapped a striped blanket around the woman’s shoulders, I caught a glimpse of a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, a baggy black cardigan, and a black wool skirt. Her only adornment was an intricately carved jet brooch pinned like a cameo at her throat.
“Do f-forgive me,” the woman was saying. “It’s entirely m-my fault. I was on my way to Tewkesbury, but I must have taken a wrong t-turn. I saw your lights and I thought perhaps you might be able to p-point me in the right direction, but now, oh, dear, I d-don’t know what I’ll do.”
“Are you hurt?” Emma asked, studying the woman’s face intently, as if searching for cuts or bruises. “Did you bump your head?”
“No, indeed,” the woman replied. “It was a slow-motion accident. I had ample time to b-brace myself, and I always wear my seat belt. Well, not always, because it would be impossible to w-walk if I wore it all the time, but I always wear it when I drive. My shoulders may be a bit sore tomorrow, but I haven’t b-broken anything.” The woman put a hand to her cheek and peered at us worriedly. “Am I babbling? I think I must be b-babbling. Do forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Emma said soothingly, steering her newest houseguest toward the fireplace. “Come and sit by the fire. We need to warm you up. Poor thing—your hands are like ice.”
“Oh, dear,” the woman said as her wondering gaze traveled around the great hall. “I’ve c-crashed your party.” She gave an unsteady giggle. “Literally as well as f-figuratively.”
“Humor in the face of adversity,” the vicar said with an approving nod.
“It may be closer to hysteria than to humor,” the woman told him as Emma eased her into the armchair. “I f-feel quite strange.”
“Of course you do,” said Emma, chafing the woman’s pink hands. “Can you tell me your name?”
“It’s Trout,” the woman said, and her round face grew as pink as her fingers.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Mrs. Trout?” Emma asked.
“No,” the woman said instantly. “That is, I’m fine, but I’m not . . . I’ve never been . . . What I mean to say is: It’s miss. Miss Trout. Miss Matilda Trout.” She sighed. “But everyone calls me T-Tilly.”
“Tilly Trout?” said Charles, with a glimmer of a smile.
Grant elbowed him in the ribs, but Tilly, who’d seen Charles’s reaction, seemed unfazed by it. If anything, she seemed to expect a roomful of strangers to treat her name as a joke.
“Dreadful, isn’t it?” she said with a resigned air. “I was named after an aunt. I’m sure my parents meant well, but I rather wish Aunt Tilly had taken her name to the g-grave with her.”
“I’m overjoyed that she didn’t,” said Charles. “Your name is as delightful as it is distinctive. I wouldn’t change a syllable.”
“I would,” said Tilly.
“I’m Emma Harris,” said Emma, tucking the second blanket around Tilly’s lap, “and I hope you’ll call me Emma. My family and I live here, at Anscombe Manor.”
“Anscombe M-Manor?” said Tilly. “Is that where I am?”
“It is,” Emma replied. “You’re not far from Tewkesbury, but yes, you did take a wrong turn—an easy mistake to make on a night like this. Where do you live, Tilly?”
“Oxford.” Tilly’s shoulders sank despondently. “I should n-never have left.”
“You couldn’t have known what would happen,” Emma said consolingly. “The ice storm took us by surprise, too.” She glanced over her shoulder as Nell glided gracefully into the hall, carrying a silver tea tray set with a bone china tea service and a big red mug. “Here’s Nell with your tea, Tilly.”
Tilly’s mouth fell open when she caught sight of Nell. She wasn’t the first, nor would she be the last, to be stunned by Nell’s radiant beauty.
“My g-goodness,” Tilly murmured dazedly, “you’re like an angel. If I weren’t so c-cold, I’d think I’d died and gone to heaven.”
Nell didn’t help matters by smiling beatifically as she placed the tea tray on the round table beside Tilly’s chair, but she brought the conversation back down to earth by saying, “You’re very kind, but if you look closer, you’ll see that I have no wings.”
Tilly returned Nell’s smile sheepishly, accepted a mug of strong, sweet, milky tea, and took a prolonged sip.
“Heavenly,” she said when she came up for air. “Wings or no wings, you are an angel.”
The sovereign remedy worked its usual magic. By the time Tilly placed the empty mug on the tea tray, her hands had stopped shaking, her teeth had stopped chattering, and she seemed a little more composed.
“Is there someone you’d like us to call?” Emma asked.
“No, there’s no one,” said Tilly. Her eyebrows shot up and her expression changed with almost comical speed as she revised her answer. “Yes! Yes, there is! How could I be such a dunderhead? I should ring the hotel in Tewkesbury to let them know I’ll be late. They’ll be expecting me, and I wouldn’t want them to worry. I have the number here somewhere.” She gazed at her empty hands, then patted the blankets, as if she thought the phone number might be hidden beneath them.
“Here you go,” said Mr. Barlow, presenting Tilly with the purse he’d taken from her car. It reminded me of the leather purse my late mother had carried to church on Sundays—black and rectangular, with a gold-colored clasp and a pair of short leather handles. Not fancy, but respectable.
“Thank you,” said Tilly, beaming at Mr. Barlow. “Thank you for rescuing my purse—and me!” After a quick search, she came up with a small brown notebook, which she opened to the first page. “Here it is: The Royal Hop Pole, on Church Street.” She resumed her search. “Now, where did I put my mobile?”
“Relax,” said Cassie, plucking the notebook gently from Tilly’s grasp. “I’ll ring The Royal Hop Pole for you.”
“I’d be very grateful if you would,” said Tilly. “I’d probably start babbling again. Please tell them that I don’t know when I’ll be able to get to Tewkesbury. I’m afraid I’ve broken a strut.”
“A strut?” said Emma, peering confusedly at Tilly’s legs.
“She’s talking about her car,” Mr. Barlow clarified. “What makes you think you’ve broken a strut, Miss Trout?”
“I felt a disturbing tug on the steering wheel during my accident,” Tilly replied, “and my car seemed to sag oddly after it came to rest in the ditch. It could be any number of things, but I suspect a broken strut.” She winced uneasily. “Perhaps two broken struts. My car is rather old. Is there a repair shop nearby?”
Mr. Barlow, who had listened with interest to Tilly’s diagnosis, said, “Don’t you fret, Miss Trout. I’ll haul your car to my place in the morning. You may have a busted strut or two, but I won’t know for sure until I can get her up on blocks.”
“Are you a mechanic?” she asked.
“I used to be one,” he replied, “but I’ve kept my hand
in since I retired.”
“Mr. Barlow is a brilliant mechanic,” Bree said staunchly. “We all depend on him.”
“Then I shall depend on Mr. Barlow, too,” said Tilly.
I expected Mr. Barlow to mutter, “No choice,” but he colored to his roots and said nothing as he placed Tilly’s suitcase next to her chair. Like her purse, it was serviceable rather than showy.
“You saved my suitcase as well,” said Tilly, favoring Mr. Barlow with another smile. “Thank you. Perhaps you can direct me to the nearest hotel.”
“The Peacocks rent a couple of rooms above their pub,” said Mr. Barlow, “but they’re too sick to play innkeeper.”
“Even if they weren’t,” said Emma, “we wouldn’t send you out in this weather, Tilly. You’ll spend the night with us.”
“We’re all spending the night here,” I said cheerfully. “It’s our first annual Christmas dinner and pajama party.”
“If you’re all staying,” said Tilly, “you can’t possibly have enough room for me.”
“Yes, we can,” said Derek. “We have quite a few bedrooms, and one of them will be yours for as long as you need it.”
Tilly’s lower lip quivered and her gray eyes filled with tears. She might have broken down under the weight of so much benevolence if Emma hadn’t asked her when she’d last eaten.
“I had a bowl of soup before I left home,” said Tilly, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. “I intended to have dinner at the hotel, but—” She broke off, looking utterly woebegone.
“I’ll fix a plate for you,” said Emma. “You’ll feel better after you’ve had a proper meal.” When Tilly began to get to her feet, Emma restrained her. “Stay where you are. I’ll bring you a tray.”
Lilian and I exchanged meaningful glances, then accompanied Emma to the cavernous kitchen. She didn’t need our assistance to assemble a proper meal from her copious leftovers, but we felt an urgent need to discuss her unexpected houseguest. Gossip was depressingly thin on the ground in Finch.
Aunt Dimity and the Heart of Gold Page 4
