Aunt Dimity and the Heart of Gold

by Nancy Atherton

  If anyone could track down Cecilia Pargetter of Skeaping parish on the internet, it was Emma, but though she tapped and muttered for a solid twenty minutes, she came up empty. By the time she returned to the sofa, she needed the consoling cup of tea Lilian poured for her.

  “Don’t throw in the towel just yet,” Lilian told her. “I’ve thought of another resource we can utilize.”

  “What’s that?” said Emma.

  “The Upper Deeping Dispatch,” Lilian replied. “It’s a local newspaper, and Skeaping is a local village. The Dispatch prints announcements about all sorts of things, including births, deaths, and—”

  “Marriages!” Emma exclaimed, spilling her tea.

  “Kit and I used the archives once,” I said. “We found exactly what we needed, but we weren’t searching for information from the mid-nineteenth century. How long has the Dispatch been in operation?”

  “It was established in 1821,” said Lilian.

  “Nearly twenty years before Albert Anscombe was born,” said Emma, whose number skills were superior to Kit’s.

  “They haven’t digitized the older editions yet,” said Lilian, “but we can search the original newspapers by hand.”

  “Is the Dispatch open today?” Emma asked as she blotted the spilled tea with a napkin. “Or is it closed for the holidays?”

  “The archives are always open to me,” Lilian said, smiling. “The newspaper’s owner and publisher is a dear friend of mine. When she became aware of my interest in local history, she gave me a set of keys to the building. I can explore the archives whenever I like.”

  “I’m afraid I won’t be able to explore them with you today,” Tilly said reluctantly.

  “I’ll have to bow out, too,” I said.

  “So will I,” said Lilian. Before Emma could accuse us of being traitors, Lilian assumed the businesslike manner that made her so effective at defusing quarrels during committee meetings. “Will everyone be free tomorrow? Good. It would be best if we traveled together in one car.”

  I nodded. “Parking spaces are at a premium during the Christmas rush in Upper Deeping.”

  “Lori will drive,” Lilian stated firmly. “My car is out of commission, and you’ll forgive me for saying so, Emma, but Bill’s Mercedes is more comfortable than your Land Rover.”

  “Do you hear me arguing?” Emma asked.

  “I’ll pick you and Tilly up at ten,” I said, “then swing into the village to fetch Lilian. We’ll be in Upper Deeping”—I remembered the fog and revised my estimated time of arrival—“when we get there.”

  “Wear old clothes,” Lilian advised. “The archives aren’t dusted regularly, or ever, really.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t bring any old clothes with me,” Tilly said apologetically.

  “I’ll find some for you,” said Emma.

  I raised my teacup and said, “A toast to better luck tomorrow!”

  “To better luck tomorrow!” the others chorused, raising their cups.

  We’d begun to discuss lunch when the doorbell rang. Lilian left the library to answer it, and Tilly, looking flustered, consulted her wristwatch.

  “That will be Mr. Barlow,” she said.

  “It can’t be twelve o’clock!” I cried, though the chiming mantel clock begged to differ. I grabbed my shoulder bag and jumped to my feet, but I knew it was already too late to make it to the cottage before Bill left for the train station. I would have sullied Tilly’s chaste ears with rude remarks about the fog if Bill hadn’t chosen that moment to call my cell phone.

  “We’re at Anscombe Manor,” he said. “Where are you?”

  “The vicarage,” I replied.

  “Stay put,” he said. “I’m on my way.”

  “Honestly, Bill,” I said, “you are the best—”

  “I’d have to be a pretty lousy husband to forget how easily you lose track of time,” Bill interrupted. “Be ready to leave when we get there, okay?”

  “I will,” I promised, and ended the call.

  While I’d been on the phone with my husband, Tilly had gone to meet her swain. I dropped my phone into my bag, said a quick good-bye to Emma, and raced to the hall closet to fetch my jacket. When I got there, I found Lilian standing in the front doorway, watching Mr. Barlow escort Tilly through the garden.

  “It seems there’s more than one reason to get a haircut,” she observed quietly.

  “If I were the vicar,” I murmured, “I’d get ready to read the banns again in St. George’s.”

  Fifteen

  We had a wonderful time on the steam train. The fog fell away as the gleaming black engine climbed out of the river valley, and the sun emerged from its cloudy cloak to kiss the rolling hills and the patchwork fields. Bill and I savored the views when we caught a glimpse of them, but we spent most of our time enjoying our children’s enjoyment.

  The driver allowed Will and Rob to ride with him in the engine, and glory of glories, the stoker permitted them to shovel coal into the firebox. Bess lurched like a drunken sailor as she marched up and down the aisle, peering curiously at our fellow passengers. I maintained a tight grip on her hands to keep her from tumbling under their feet until she clambered onto our empty seat and settled in for a nap. Lulled by the train’s rocking motion and by the clickety-clack of the wheels rolling over the track, I came very close to following her example.

  Our visit to Santa’s grotto began well. The boys were far too mature to even consider sitting on his lap, but they weren’t too old to accept the train-engine-shaped pencil sharpeners and the gaily wrapped chocolates Santa’s helpers presented to them. Their sister’s encounter with Santa was more problematic.

  Bess would have nothing to do with the white-bearded one until he ignored her, at which point she strode boldly up to him and attempted to pull off his beard. It would have been funny if the beard had been fake, but unfortunately, it was not. Her victim knew better than to put up a struggle, and I disentangled her fingers before she did any lasting harm. Even so, I wouldn’t have blamed Santa’s helpers if they’d given my darling daughter a lump of coal. They were too kind to punish a toddler for acting her age, however, and she walked away with a little red teddy bear.

  After a blissfully uneventful dinner at a restaurant in Winchcombe, we returned to the vicarage, where I’d left Bill’s car. I kept an eye out for Mr. Barlow and Tilly while I transferred from one vehicle to the other, but if they were strolling hand in hand across the village green, I couldn’t see them. With no ears to sully, I expressed my opinion of the fog in fulsome terms as I followed my family home.

  While the boys played with the train set their grandfather had given them the previous Christmas, I took Bess upstairs for story time in the nursery. She was so tuckered out by then that a short story sufficed. After she was nestled all snug in her crib, I joined my menfolk on the living room floor.

  Bill listened attentively while I told him about the progress we’d made in our search for Cecilia. When I mentioned the upcoming trip to the Upper Deeping Dispatch, he agreed that it was necessary, if only to keep Emma from grinding her teeth down to stubs. He was undaunted by the prospect of spending more time on his own with the children.

  “We had a big day today,” he said, “so tomorrow will be low-key. The stables will do. Rob and Will can exercise their ponies, and Bess and I can commune with Toby.” Toby was an elderly pony whose easygoing disposition made him a great favorite among very, very young equestrians. “We’ll have lunch at the tearoom, I think. Henry Cook needs the company.”

  I kissed him soundly, then repaired to the study for an early chat with Aunt Dimity. As Bill had said, it had been a big day. I didn’t think I could stay awake until midnight.

  Reginald’s black button eyes reminded me of the gleaming black locomotive as I knelt to light a fire in the hearth. He seemed pleased to hear about Bess’s little red bear,
and amused by my description of her wrestling match with Santa. My bunny had a kind heart, but he also had a mile-wide mischievous streak.

  After giving his pink flannel ears a twiddle, I sat in a tall leather armchair facing the hearth, collected my thoughts, which were many and varied, and opened the blue journal to a blank page.

  “Aunt Dimity?” I said. “Cupid is alive and well in Finch.”

  I smiled as Aunt Dimity’s elegant script began to unfurl across the page.

  Good evening, Lori. I presume you’re referring to Cupid’s arrow striking Mr. Barlow.

  “I’m referring to Mr. Barlow himself,” I told her. “He’s invited his grown-up nephew to spend Christmas with him. It must have been a last-minute invitation, because I didn’t know about it until today.”

  Are you implying that he issued the invitation after he heard about Bree’s broken engagement?

  “I wouldn’t put it past him,” I said. “He’s awfully fond of Bree.”

  One assumes he’s fond of his nephew, too. What have you learned about the young man?

  “His name is Tommy Prescott, he lives in Birmingham, he’s single, and he likes to work on cars,” I said. “Mr. Barlow didn’t say it outright, but he hinted that Tommy’s a Steady Eddie who’d rather stay close to home than live out of a suitcase.”

  How old is Tommy Prescott?

  “He’ll turn thirty in April,” I said, adding with a sly grin, “In case you’ve forgotten, Bree will turn twenty-three in March.”

  Not too many years between them, nor too few. Moreover, they share an interest in repairing things, as well as a fondness for home and hearth. Clever old Mr. Barlow. From now on, I shall envision him with a tiny bow and a quiver of arrows.

  “And wings,” I said, laughing. “Don’t forget the wings.”

  I’d never forget the wings! When will Tommy arrive in Finch?

  “He should be here already,” I said. “I’ll try to check him out tomorrow.”

  I look forward to hearing your assessment.

  “If Tommy takes after his uncle,” I said, “Bree would be lucky to have him.”

  She most assuredly would. And he, of course, would be lucky to have her. I thought Mr. Barlow’s company would be good for Bree, but I must confess that I didn’t expect him to find a suitable young man for her before the week was out.

  “I’ll bet he chose Tommy for Bree a long time ago,” I said, “and vice versa. He couldn’t bring Tommy to Finch until Jack was out of the picture, but as soon as Jack was gone, he got on the phone to Tommy. You know what, Dimity?” I watched two flames leap high above the others in the fire. “I’m beginning to agree with you. Jack may have done Bree a favor by breaking up with her.”

  We shall see. I hope Mr. Barlow’s foray into matchmaking hasn’t distracted him from his pursuit of Tilly Trout.

  “He showed her around St. George’s this afternoon,” I said. “I couldn’t sneak into the church to spy on them because—” I broke off as Aunt Dimity’s handwriting flew across the page.

  Because you’re not the kind of woman who sneaks around in order to spy on her friends and neighbors. Correct?

  “Uh, yes,” I said hastily, casting a guilty glance at Reginald. “But I also wanted to ride on the steam train with Bill and the children.”

  The steam train? How jolly! Did you visit Father Christmas, too?

  “We did,” I replied. I launched into a detailed account of our railroading adventure and our ill-fated trip to Santa’s grotto, concluding with “I’ll put mittens on Bess before we go there next year.”

  I’m sure she wasn’t the first child to tug on the poor fellow’s beard, but I’m equally certain that he’ll be relieved to see the mittens. It sounds as though you had a splendid day, my dear.

  “I haven’t told you about the first half of it yet,” I said. “I’m pleased to report that there have been several developments in the Cecilia saga. I no longer believe, for example, that the letters on the gold heart correspond to her initials. I think the C and the M form a monogram linking Cecilia’s name to the name of the person who gave the heart to her.”

  An interesting theory. Do you have evidence to support it?

  “Sort of,” I said.

  Close enough. Proceed!

  I began at the beginning, with the water-damaged papers Emma had uncovered in the Anscombe family archives, then skipped ahead to focus on what I considered to be the most pertinent piece of information Lilian had retrieved from the church records: the incomplete reading of the banns of marriage between Albert Anthony Anscombe and Cecilia Rose Pargetter of Skeaping parish.

  “The banns prove that Cecilia Pargetter was engaged to Albert Anscombe in 1865,” I said. “We know that the engagement gave Cecilia access to Anscombe Manor because she gave the besan ladoo recipe to the cook in 1865.”

  It’s possible that she had access to the manor long before her engagement to Albert. If she and Albert belonged to the same social milieu, they could have known each other since childhood.

  “Children are always getting into places they shouldn’t,” I said, recalling a certain incident that involved my sons, the church tower, and a bag full of water balloons. “Cecilia could have discovered the priest hole by accident when she was a little girl. Years later, when she was a young woman on the verge of marriage, it would have struck her as the perfect place to hide things she couldn’t share with her future husband.”

  Such as gifts from a former beau whose first name began with M?

  “Exactly,” I said. “I think—and Lilian agrees with me—that M. could be the reason the marriage never took place. The sudden reappearance of an old flame would explain why the banns weren’t read a third time. And if Cecilia broke up with Albert in order to marry M., she would have had to forfeit the treasures she’d placed in the priest hole.”

  Yes, I see. You’ve made the pieces fit together very nicely, my dear, but the picture won’t be complete unless you prove that Cecilia Pargetter married M.

  “I’m way ahead of you, Dimity,” I said. “Emma, Lilian, Tilly, and I are going to Upper Deeping tomorrow to mine the Dispatch’s archives.”

  An excellent plan. Cecilia Pargetter of Skeaping parish was a local girl. The Dispatch should contain a wealth of information about her and her family.

  “I’ll be looking for a marriage announcement that reveals M.’s true identity,” I said. “I can’t wait to find out what the M stands for. Montague? Mungo? Marmaduke? I’m kind of hoping for something more colorful than Matthew or Mark.”

  I suggest that you examine the obituaries as well.

  “Why?” I asked.

  The sudden reappearance of an old flame may not explain why the banns of marriage weren’t read a third time. I’m sorry to say it, but it’s also possible that death intervened. Cecilia could have fallen from her horse or succumbed to any number of diseases. It’s not a cheerful thought, I know, but it’s one that must be considered.

  “If we can’t find a marriage announcement,” I said with a melancholy sigh, “we’ll look for Cecilia in the obituaries.”

  If it’s not too much to trouble, I’d appreciate it if you’d satisfy my curiosity while you’re reading old editions of the Dispatch.

  “Curiosity about what?” I asked.

  I’d like to know if Cecilia traveled to India. When England still had an empire, it wasn’t unusual for girls from well-to-do families to sail to the ends of the earth—properly chaperoned, of course. Cecilia’s parents might have sent her to India to be introduced to her fiancé’s friends and fellow officers. If she did go abroad, her parents would almost certainly have announced her departure and her return in the local newspaper. In those days, the Dispatch would have had a regular column listing the comings and goings of local travelers.

  “Maybe M. was a fellow officer,” I said as my imagination took flight.
“Maybe he and Cecilia fell madly in love while she was visiting Albert in India, but he couldn’t obtain leave to return to England until the banns had already been read twice. Before the vicar could read them a third time, M. charged into St. George’s in his scarlet tunic and declared his love for her, putting an end to one marriage and getting the ball rolling on another.” I smiled ruefully. “I hope so, anyway. A wedding would be cheerier than a funeral.”

  You’ve always had a soft spot for happy endings. To ensure that you, Emma, Lilian, and Tilly have one tomorrow, I’d advise you to consult the weather forecast before you leave in the morning. None of you will be happy if you’re marooned in Upper Deeping by another ice storm!

  I laughed as the handwriting faded from the page, but as soon as I returned the blue journal to its place on the bookshelves, I used Bill’s laptop to scan the forecasts for ice storms.

  Sixteen

  Bill and I woke the following morning to the miraculous sight of sunlight falling through our bedroom windows. It wasn’t falling very hard, but a weak, watery sun was better than no sun at all. Sometime in the night, the fog had lifted, leaving behind a damp but visible world. When Bill bounced out of bed singing “Deck the Halls,” I sang with him.

  To get his low-key day off to a low-key start, I made oatmeal for breakfast, but I sprinkled it with raisins, chopped figs, and chopped walnuts to keep it interesting.

  Between spoonfuls, the boys spoke of nothing but Thunder and Storm, and Bess responded to every question with “Toby!” Bill took the hint and left for Anscombe Manor before I did. I finished my oatmeal and tidied the kitchen at a leisurely pace I enjoyed but seldom experienced.

  Mindful of Lilian’s warning, I dressed in an old flannel shirt and an ancient pair of blue jeans before I hopped into the Mercedes and headed for the manor. The brief journey was less life-threatening than it had been the day before, thanks to the fog’s departure. As I turned into the manor’s curving drive, I gave a grateful thumbs-up to the sun.