At last, I found the Pargetters. Several branches of the family lived on several different farms near Skeaping village, and they seemed to announce everything in the newspaper. When they weren’t getting married, producing offspring, or burying the dearly departed, they were winning point-to-points, growing enormous vegetables, and breeding champion rams. They were notably absent from the arrest reports, but they were involved in no fewer than seven successful lawsuits, all of which had to do with property rights. One branch of the family supplied the Skeaping harvest festivals with homemade cider, while another provided the ale.
I uttered my own rapturous “Yes!” when I discovered a few lines announcing the birth of a girl, Cecilia Rose Pargetter, on 17 June 1845, the second child and first daughter of George Pargetter and his wife, Anne. The announcement confirmed that Cecilia’s parents did not live in Skeaping Manor. They were the Pargetters of Leyburn Farm, and Leyburn Farm was, like the other Pargetter farms, in the general vicinity of Skeaping village. I did not, however, find out if Cecilia became an accomplished horsewoman or if she cultivated gigantic turnips in later life, because my segment of the search extended no further than December 1845, when she would have been six months old.
Albert Anscombe’s family, by contrast, kept their names out of the local paper. Sir Stanley and Lady Margaret Anscombe were mentioned occasionally, lumped in with other guests at various charity dos in Upper Deeping, but they didn’t announce Albert’s birth or any other family event in my issues of the Dispatch. I suspected that, as minor gentry, they preferred to place their announcements in the Times.
I finished combing through my bound volumes before the others finished combing through theirs. While I was rereading my notes, my stomach informed me that it was lunchtime. I was about to run out for an emergency bag of roasted chestnuts when the cellar door opened and a pudgy young man in a tweed jacket and twill trousers strode up to the desk, carrying a picnic hamper.
I recognized him immediately as Desmond Carmichael, the bespectacled journalist who’d opened the cellar door for Kit and me when we’d needed to consult the archives. Desmond greeted Lilian warmly, but a broad grin split his round, shiny face when he spotted me.
“Lori!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t expect to see you here. How’s the shoulder?”
“It still aches a bit in wet weather,” I responded.
Tilly eyed me with concern. “I didn’t realize you were injured, Lori.”
“It’s nothing,” I assured her.
“Nothing?” Desmond snorted derisively, then turned to address Tilly. “You’re in the presence of a celebrity. Lori was shot by a maniac on Erinskil Island in Scotland five years ago. The story was in the Times!”
“My claim to fame,” I said dryly.
“You were shot?” Tilly said, looking horrified.
“Only once, and it healed,” I said.
Tilly looked at each of us in turn, then shook her head, saying in awestruck tones, “You do lead such interesting lives.”
“I’ll try to remember that the next time I wipe Bess’s nose,” I said. “What’s in the hamper, Desmond?”
“Tea,” he replied. “Orders from on high. Mrs. Dalrymple’s exact words were ‘Make sure they take a tea break, Des! Lilian may be able to live on air, but her friends will be gasping for a cuppa.’”
“Antonia knows me too well,” Lilian said, smiling.
Desmond passed the hamper to her. “I’ve supplemented the tea with gingerbread from the Christmas market.”
“You’re my hero,” I told him.
“Mine, too,” said Lilian. “Please thank Antonia for me.”
“Will do, Mrs. Bunting,” he said. “If there’s anything else you need, please feel free to ring me.”
Desmond accepted our heartfelt if somewhat bleary-eyed thanks and left. We made room on the desk for the hamper, which was elegantly furnished with everything we needed for a tea break, including two insulated flasks of Earl Grey.
“Is Antonia the publisher?” I asked Lilian as she filled our cups.
“Antonia Dalrymple bought the Dispatch twenty-five years ago,” Lilian replied, “and she’s supported it ever since. No editorial interference, no tooting her own horn, just a steady infusion of much-needed cash from her ample reserves. She believes strongly that every community should have its own newspaper.”
“She’s my kind of rich person,” I said with an approving nod. “She’d rather support a free press than buy designer dresses.”
“She has some very nice dresses as well,” Lilian said with a chuckle.
* * *
—
THE TEA AND THE GINGERBREAD fueled a surge to the finish line. In less than an hour, the bound volumes were back on their cobwebby shelves and we were seated at the desk, notebooks in hand, ready to give our reports. In accordance with Lilian’s master plan, I went first.
“Cecilia Pargetter was born into a large and prosperous farming dynasty on June 17, 1845,” I said. “Her parents owned Leyburn Farm near Skeaping village, and her numerous relatives were extremely active members of the community. Their names are all over the Dispatch.” I glanced at my notes and continued, “My issues of the Dispatch told me next to nothing about the Anscombes, which leads me to believe that they were too hoity-toity to bother with a local rag. They attended charitable events in Upper Deeping, but I found no evidence to suggest that the two families ever crossed paths. I imagine the Anscombes were too full of themselves to rub elbows with farmers. Over to you, Tilly.”
Tilly’s report was nearly identical to mine, minus the editorial comments, and Lilian had little to add to the sum total of our knowledge. By the age of fifteen, Cecilia had six additional siblings, but she hadn’t yet made a mark on her vibrant little world.
At the age of sixteen, however, everything changed. Emma’s notes were lengthier than ours, because her segment of the time line began when Cecilia was old enough to enter the wider world.
“The Pargetters of Leyburn Farm were nothing if not aspirational,” Emma began. “In 1861, they sent Cecilia to Miss Shuttleworth’s Academy for Young Ladies in Cheltenham to learn the ins and outs of polite society. Coincidentally, Albert Anscombe received his regimental commission in 1861. I spotted his name in a list of locals who signed up to serve queen and country. It was a regular feature in my issues of the Dispatch.”
“England was embroiled in a great many wars during the Victorian era,” Lilian observed.
Before Tilly could launch into a learned dissertation on Victorian-era wars, Emma went on hastily, “Cecilia must have been an apt pupil at the academy. When she was seventeen, she took the London season by storm. She wasn’t presented at court, but she was the belle of quite a few balls. It seems likely that she and Albert met at one of them, because they became engaged in May 1863.”
“The banns weren’t read until 1865,” I said. “I wonder why they had such a long engagement?”
“It’s possible that Albert’s parents needed time to adjust to the idea of their son marrying a farmer’s daughter,” said Lilian. “Cecilia had evidently acquired the proper social skills at the academy, but she could do nothing to change her less-than-desirable lineage.”
“Perhaps the Anscombes were sizing her up,” Tilly suggested. “They might have needed some reassurance that she could rise above her lowly station in life and be a credit to their family.”
“Arrogant twits,” I muttered.
“Whatever their intentions,” said Emma, “the Anscombes invited Cecilia to stay with them at the manor on a number of occasions after her engagement.” There was a note of quiet satisfaction in Emma’s voice as she looked up from her notebook and said, “We’ve done it. We’ve placed her inside Anscombe Manor.”
“If you can place her in India,” said Lilian, “I’ll pay for lunch.”
“Get ready to pay,” said Emma.
&n
bsp; “You’re kidding,” I said, sitting bolt upright. “Can you really place Cecilia in India?”
“I can,” Emma replied. “Albert joined his regiment in India in September 1864. Cecilia went to India to visit him in January 1865, accompanied by one of her aunts. She returned to England in early April and”—Emma hesitated—“and I’m sorry to say it, but she died a month later. She was only nineteen.”
Tilly sighed, Lilian bowed her head, and I uttered a soft groan.
“Her parents must have been devastated,” I said.
“I imagine Albert was as well,” said Emma. “He sailed home for his wedding only to find that his bride-to-be was already in her grave.”
“Do you know how she died?” Tilly inquired.
“The obituary mentions a distressing illness.” Emma shrugged. “It could be anything from chicken pox to cholera.”
“Well,” said Lilian, “at least we know why the banns of marriage weren’t read for a third time in St. George’s.”
“And we’ve proved that Cecilia could have given the besan ladoo recipe to the cook and set up the Hindu altar after she returned from India,” said Tilly.
They were speaking with an air of finality that baffled me.
“Yes, but we still don’t know who M. is,” I pointed out. “We still don’t know who gave the golden heart to Cecilia.”
“We may never know,” said Tilly. “I doubt that such a gift would be mentioned in the Dispatch.”
“There must be another way to find out who gave it to her.” I planted my elbows on the desk and leaned forward, saying urgently, “I can’t prove it, but I’m convinced that Cecilia Pargetter was expressing her love for M. when she created the Hindu altar. He clearly meant a lot to her. He may have meant more to her than Albert did. Do you really want to consign the great love of her short life to oblivion? I think Cecilia would want someone to remember his name.”
“If what you’re saying is true—and it’s a big if,” said Emma, “how do you propose we go about identifying M.?”
“Give me a minute.” I sank back in my chair and folded my arms. “I’ll think of something.”
I’d exceeded my self-imposed time limit by several minutes when the cellar door opened again and Desmond reappeared.
“Afternoon, all,” he said amiably. “Mrs. Dalrymple asked me to ask you if the flasks need a refill.”
“Thanks, Desmond,” said Lilian, “but I think we’ve finished here.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?” he inquired, but before anyone could answer, he added, “What were you looking for?”
“We were gathering information about two Victorian families,” Lilian told him. “The Anscombes of Anscombe Manor and the Pargetters of—”
“Skeaping,” Desmond interrupted. “The Anscombes are parvenus compared to the Pargetters. The Pargetters have been around since before the Norman conquest.”
“Are they still around?” I asked, warmed by the faintest flicker of hope.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “George Pargetter won the wonky parsnip competition at the agricultural show in August. Tickled him pink. You’d never guess he’s one of the richest landowners in the county.”
“George Pargetter?” I said, peering at him incredulously. “George Pargetter of Leyburn Farm?”
“That’s the chap.” Desmond nodded. “There’s always been a George Pargetter at Leyburn Farm, and they’ve always won prizes for their vegetables. If you’re done, I’ll take the hamper. Would you like me to lock up after you?”
“We’ll take care of it,” said Lilian. “And thanks again, Desmond. The gingerbread was delicious.”
Desmond departed with the hamper and I leaned forward again.
“Cecilia’s father was named George,” I said excitedly. “She grew up at Leyburn Farm.”
“We’re not going there, Lori,” said Lilian, preempting my proposal.
“We have to go there,” I insisted. “This is a family with a strong sense of tradition. They recycle family names. They grow newsworthy vegetables, just as their ancestors did. It’s not far-fetched to assume that they hang on to family heirlooms as well. Cecilia’s letters or her diaries might be stashed in an old steamer trunk in the attic”—I blinked as a brilliant thought blinded me—“possibly the same steamer trunk she used when she traveled to India! Can you think of a better place to look for clues about M.?”
“It’s the week before Christmas,” Lilian reminded me. “Now is not the time for us to introduce ourselves to the Pargetters and ask if we might rummage through their attic.”
“I don’t know,” Emma said, pursing her lips judiciously. “Christmas can be stressful. They might welcome a distraction.”
Lilian regarded her dubiously. “Don’t tell me you agree with Lori.”
“But I do agree with her,” said Emma. “I’m not as convinced as she is that M. was Cecilia’s one great love, and I’m not as confident as she is about discovering M.’s identity in an old steamer trunk, but I’d rather do something than nothing. I think we should visit Leyburn Farm. If the Pargetters are too busy to see us, we’ll leave.”
“And come back again after the holidays,” I murmured.
“What do you think, Tilly?” Lilian asked.
Tilly looked alarmed to be asked for her opinion, but she gave it with only a faint quaver in her voice. “I’m sorry, Lilian, but I’m afraid that I, too, would like to find out who M. is. We’ve come so far. It would be a pity to give up now.”
I could sense that Lilian was wavering, so I went in for the kill. “It would give you another excuse, er, I mean, reason to avoid visiting Opal Taylor.”
“All right, then,” she said. “We’ll go.” She raised a hand to keep me from cheering. “But not today. My eyes are tired, I’m filthy, and we haven’t had lunch yet. Besides, I think we should ring the Pargetters before we drop in on them.”
“Do you honestly believe that they’ll listen to us over the phone?” I said incredulously. “They’ll take us for prank callers and hang up before we get past ‘My friends and I found this priest hole. . . .’”
“You may be right about speaking to them in person,” Lilian conceded. “We may sound deranged, but we’ll look sincere.”
“Shall I pick the three of you up tomorrow?” I asked. “Same time, same places?”
“Works for me,” said Emma. “I’ll do the navigating. It shouldn’t be too hard to figure out where one of the richest landowners in the county lives.”
“Don’t forget to bring the heart,” I told her. “We can use it as bait. If a fist-sized hunk of gold doesn’t grab their attention, I don’t know what will.”
“And if the telephone rings before you arrive,” said Lilian, “I’ll let Teddy answer it!”
Eighteen
As a tribute to Albert and Cecilia, we had lunch at an Indian restaurant in Upper Deeping. True to her word, Lilian footed the bill. I kept my promise to myself by procuring a bag of roasted chestnuts from the market in the square before we left town. In keeping with the spirit of the season, I shared them with my companions on the way home.
It was dark by the time I walked into the cottage, but since the sun had set at four o’clock, it wasn’t unreasonably late. To avoid contaminating Bill and the children with archival filth, I took a quick shower before I hugged them.
Bill had gotten dinner under way by defrosting a beef stew I’d made and frozen for just such occasions. While it heated through on the stove, I played knock-down-the-wall with Bess and listened to Rob and Will’s lively account of their relatively low-key day. Kit hadn’t allowed them to gallop pell-mell across the countryside on Thunder and Storm, but he had given them permission to exercise their ponies on the groomed bridle trails.
When Bess realized that her brothers were talking horses, she chimed in with “Toby! Daddy! Toby!” which, Bill explaine
d, meant that Bess had “ridden” the good-natured pony around the indoor ring while Daddy held on to her and Nell held on to the bridle. Bess was clearly under the impression, however, that she’d won a race at Ascot.
After lunch at the tearoom, they’d taken a walk by the river, where they’d spotted a blue heron, a pair of tufted ducks, a flock of wigeons, and the entrance to a water vole’s burrow. Rob had claimed victory in the stone-skipping championship with a beauty that left no fewer than seven rippling circles in its wake before it splashed down. When the sun had begun to sink toward the horizon, they’d returned to the cottage to change out of their wet wellies and to warm their cold feet before the fire.
The hearty stew put the finishing touch on a day filled with fresh air and exercise. Bess nearly dozed off during dinner, and the boys were in bed and asleep by eight o’clock. Bill was tuckered out, too, but before he went upstairs he cuddled up with me on the sofa and filled me in on a few tidbits he’d gleaned from Henry Cook at the tearoom.
“Despite being bedridden,” he said, “Elspeth Binney caught a glimpse of Mr. Barlow opening the lytch-gate for Tilly Trout before they went into the church yesterday.”
“Elspeth’s cottage is across the lane from the churchyard,” I reasoned. “The fog may have obscured the view from her bedroom window, but a glimpse is all it takes to start tongues wagging in Finch.”
“They’re wagging, all right,” Bill said with a laugh. “Elspeth picked up the phone and shared her scoop with the rest of the Handmaidens, who shared it with every other busybody in Finch. As soon as Sally Cook heard the news, she began pestering Henry to buy a new suit for Mr. Barlow’s wedding. Then Tommy Prescott showed up and she began to talk about Bree’s wedding!”
Since I’d engaged in similar flights of fancy—and since I was a Finch-trained snoop—I felt compelled to defend Sally.
Aunt Dimity and the Heart of Gold Page 15
