“It’s not a glamorous virtue,” Tilly said, “but I do share it with Cissy. Like her, I was glad to be a dutiful daughter. I took pride in knowing that my mother and father could rely on me. My story would be more interesting if I’d done as Cissy did, and sacrificed my heart’s desire on the altar of duty, but I did no such thing. My heart’s desire was to make my parents comfortable in their own home for as long as possible. And in that, I succeeded.”
I detected no note of pride in her voice as she turned her head to gaze into the fire.
“Tilly,” said Lilian, “why do you wear a mourning brooch?”
“Because I’m in mourning,” Tilly replied. “My mother and father died six months ago, within a few hours of each other. I wrapped up their estate last week. It was like saying good-bye to them all over again.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Lilian. “You’ve suffered a devastating loss.”
“My pastor has been a great help,” said Tilly, “but I couldn’t bear the thought of staying in Oxford for my first Christmas on my own. The house would have been too empty without them. I’d always wanted to see Tewkesbury Abbey, so I made a last-minute reservation, packed a bag, and . . . and you know what happened next.”
“I don’t,” Mrs. Hilliard protested.
“I took a wrong turn during an ice storm,” Tilly explained, “and I slid into a ditch at Anscombe Manor.”
Mrs. Hilliard’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Are you telling me that the four of you haven’t been friends forever?”
“We’re old friends,” I said, making a circling motion that included Emma, Lilian, and myself, “but Tilly’s new to the neighborhood.”
“I’ll never be an old friend,” Tilly said with an ominous sniff, “because I don’t live in the neighborhood.” She seized another handful of tissues to soak up the tears that had begun to fall again. “I’ve had such a splendid time since Mr. Barlow rescued me. I’ve never discovered a secret chapel before, or explored a priest hole, or held a solid gold heart in my hand. I’ve never had tea and crumpets with a true gentleman, or read a Victorian newspaper, or snacked on roasted chestnuts in a car. I’ve never seen a young man as beautiful as Tommy Prescott, or solved a mystery as sad and perplexing as Cissy’s. You’ve made the impossible possible for me, and now it’s all coming to an end and I’ll go home and I won’t ever see you again.”
“You’ll have to introduce me to Tommy Prescott one day,” said Mrs. Hilliard with a suggestive leer.
“You’re trying to make me laugh again,” said Tilly, “but I c-can’t because I haven’t even gotten to the most dreadful part.”
“Which is?” Mrs. Hilliard coaxed.
Tilly blew her nose, then sat motionless, staring at the floor, as if she couldn’t bring herself to look anyone in the eye. “I’ve never had friends before, either, but since I crashed into your ditch, Emma, I’ve been surrounded by people who seem to care about me. I don’t mind if I never solve another mystery. It’s you and Lori and Lilian and M-Mr. B-Barlow I’ll miss most.”
I was basking in the warmth of the moment when Emma ruined it with an exasperated snort.
“What a lot of fuss about nothing,” she said impatiently. “You’re not being deported to Outer Mongolia, Tilly. No one’s locking you in a convent. You aren’t vanishing into a black hole. You live in Oxford, for pity’s sake, and if you don’t want to go back there, you don’t have to. Haven’t I told you a million times that you can stay at Anscombe Manor for as long as you like?”
Tilly looked doubtful. “You have, but—”
“Or,” I interrupted, “if you’d prefer to have a place of your own in Finch, Pussywillows is available. It’s a sweet little cottage. My mother-in-law lived there before she married my father-in-law.”
“There’s a cottage available in Finch?” Tilly said, as if she hadn’t registered my unsubtle hint about Pussywillows’ hallowed place in matchmaking history.
“Take it,” Mrs. Hilliard advised. “A cottage in a village filled with people who care about you is worth a hundred empty houses in Oxford.”
“It’s a big step,” said Tilly.
“Think of it as running with the bulls in Pamplona,” I suggested. “Scary, but exciting.”
“And we’ll be there to catch you if you fall,” said Emma.
“That’s what friends are for,” said Lilian.
“Well . . .” A slightly stunned smile wreathed Tilly’s round face. “It’s never too late to learn!”
Twenty-two
Mrs. Hilliard invited us to stay for dinner, but we declined. Lilian, Emma, and I felt as if we’d already spent too much time away from home, and Tilly was anxious to take a closer look at Pussywillows. I hadn’t mentioned the cottage’s location, but I thought its proximity to Mr. Barlow’s house might be a selling point.
Emma insisted on leaving the golden heart with Mrs. Hilliard.
“You can put it on Cissy’s altar when you come to the manor,” Emma told her. “Let’s wait until the new year, though. The return of a Pargetter to Anscombe Manor should be a special occasion. It would be a shame to let the holidays overshadow it.”
Mrs. Hilliard didn’t mind waiting. She even agreed to give some thought to the idea of moving the altar from the priest hole to a place of honor in the farmhouse. I had a feeling that the furniture in the sitting room would soon undergo a radical rearrangement.
Mary Charlotte sent us off with goody bags loaded with homemade treats. We were halfway down the long, low hill when the farmhouse’s Christmas lights came on, turning it into a cheerful beacon beaming goodwill to all.
We said very little on the way back to Finch, not, I suspected, because we had nothing to say, but because we had too much to think about. In days to come we would discuss and dissect every aspect of our search for the truth, but at that moment, we were content to contemplate its conclusion in silence. Lilian seemed to speak for the rest of us when she shook her head and uttered the word “extraordinary.”
As we approached St. George’s Church, Lilian asked me to drop her off at Opal Taylor’s cottage instead of the vicarage.
“Are you sure?” I asked, grimacing at her in the rearview mirror.
“Oh, yes,” she replied serenely. “I’ve been recalled to my sense of duty. There’s nothing remotely glamorous about waiting hand and foot on a fusspot like Opal, but what a pinched and useless life we’d lead if our only goal was glamour.”
“No one will ever say your life was pinched and useless,” I told her.
“No one will ever say I was glamorous, either,” said Lilian. She looked down at her goody bag and sighed. “I doubt that I’ll salvage a single gingerbread man for Teddy. Opal has a ferocious sweet tooth.”
Since Opal Taylor’s cottage was across the lane from the churchyard, and since Mr. Barlow could frequently be found working in the churchyard, it came as no surprise to me when he bustled through the lytch-gate, ostensibly to say hello to all of us. I felt duty-bound to use the master control to lower Tilly’s window.
“You’re back late,” he said.
“It’s half past three,” I pointed out.
“So it is,” he conceded as the clock on the church tower began to chime. “I keep forgetting how quickly the light fades in December.”
Lilian opened her door and the interior light came on, illuminating Tilly’s face. Mr. Barlow took one look at her and frowned.
“Why’re your eyes all bloodshot, Miss Trout?” he said. “You haven’t been crying, have you?”
“I’ve been making a great nuisance of myself,” she replied, “but I feel better now. Would you . . .” Her voice quavered and she paused to take a steadying breath before she started again. “Would you care to share a pot of tea with me at the tearoom, Mr. Barlow? I’m told you know every cottage in Finch inside out. I’d like to ask you about one of them.”
�
��Right this minute?” Mr. Barlow said blankly.
Tilly looked disconcerted. “If you’re busy—”
“I’m not,” Mr. Barlow said hastily. “Never been less busy in my life.” He opened her door, then closed it after he’d helped her to her feet. Rapping the roof, he said, “You go ahead, Lori. I’ll see to it that Miss Trout gets back to the manor in one piece.”
He took Tilly’s goody bag from her and offered her his arm. She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and they walked together across the village green. Lilian, who sat half in and half out of the car, chuckled softly.
“Our little Tilly, asking a man out on a date,” she said. “Whatever will she do next?”
“Marry him, I hope,” I said.
“Oh,” said Emma, as if the scales had fallen from her eyes. “Mr. Barlow has a crush on Tilly. I’ve been wondering why he keeps showing up at the manor.”
Lilian and I exchanged looks.
“Wow,” I said.
“Sharp as a knife,” said Lilian. “Well, I’d better grasp the nettle before I forget what I just said about the virtues of doing one’s duty. I’ll see you both at Midnight Mass, if not sooner.”
“See you then,” we chorused.
I took off before Opal could open her door.
Emma was lost in pensive silence until we crossed the humpbacked bridge, when she asked, “Does everyone in Finch know about Tilly and Mr. Barlow?”
“Sally Cook’s been pestering Henry to buy a new suit for the wedding,” I replied.
“How did I miss it?” said Emma, looking flabbergasted.
“You’ve been preoccupied by the Cissy saga,” I said cautiously. “Extremely preoccupied. Preoccupied to the point of incivility. To put it bluntly, but with love, you’ve been as cranky as a teething baby ever since Tilly discovered the priest hole. What’s going on with you, Emma?”
“If you really must know, it’s the day nursery,” she said. “The noise is driving me crazy.”
“Nope,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not buying it. You and Derek have been renovating the manor ever since you moved into it, and I’ve never heard you complain about the noise. Try again.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Emma’s lips tighten. For a second I thought she was going to growl at me again, but when she spoke she seemed more ashamed than angry.
“All right,” she said. “It’s not the noise. It’s the constant reminder of what’s to come.”
“What’s to—” I gave her a baffled glance. “Are you talking about your forthcoming grandchild?”
“I’m terrible with babies, Lori,” she said.
“Nonsense,” I retorted. “You were great with Will and Rob when they were little, and you’ve always been great with Bess.”
“They don’t live under my roof,” she said darkly. “Nell was five and Peter was ten when I married Derek. I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to change their diapers or spoon-feed them or listen to them scream at night. Derek has more maternal instinct in his little finger than I have in my entire body. I’m just not cut out to be a grandmother. Having a baby in the house will drive me mad, I know it will.”
“And the Cissy mystery gave you a chance to focus on something other than the blessed event you’ve been secretly dreading for the past five months,” I said. “Right?”
“Right,” Emma said miserably. “Now that we’ve solved it, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“What a lot of fuss about nothing,” I said, imitating the tone of voice she’d used when she’d criticized Tilly.
“Very funny,” she grumbled.
“I couldn’t resist,” I said, “because it is a lot of fuss about nothing. You’re suffering from stage fright, but I promise you, once the curtain goes up, you’ll be fine. I’ve seen you nurse a colicky horse. I’ve seen you clean a newborn foal. I’ve seen you calm a fretful mare. You’re a veritable font of maternal instinct, though I’d advise against using wisps of hay to clean a human baby. Too prickly.”
“Ho ho,” Emma said sarcastically.
“Sorry,” I said, trying hard not to laugh at my own joke. I pulled onto the graveled apron at the foot of the manor’s broad stone stairs and switched off the engine. “What I mean to say is, everyone has fears and doubts before a baby is born. But when you hold your grandchild in your arms, the only thing you’ll worry about is whether you’ll ever be able to find the words to tell her how much you love her. Or him. Or, in my case, them.”
“I wish I could believe you,” said Emma.
“It’s true, whether you believe me or not,” I said. “Besides, as a grandmother, you’ll have the right to play the give-baby-back-to-mommy card. You can pull it out at any time, for any reason, but I doubt that you’ll use it very often. You’re going to be such an obnoxiously hands-on granny that you’ll be lecturing me about the most efficient way to change a diaper.”
“Sounds like something I’d do,” Emma said with a grudging smile.
“I could thump you for not talking to me sooner,” I said. “What’s the point of having a best friend if you can’t dump your worries on her?”
“Sorry,” said Emma. “I’ll do better next time.”
“Next time?” I said, thinking instantly of Kit and Nell. “Is there an announcement you’d like to make to your best friend?”
“Not yet,” she replied, “but Derek’s praying for a houseful of grandchildren. If his prayers are answered, I promise to dump my worries on you before I get cranky.”
“That,” I said loftily, “is what best friends are for.”
Emma grinned her old familiar grin and got out of the car. I waited until she’d let herself in through the front door, then headed for home.
I spent the evening thinking of nothing but my family. I listened to Will and Rob describe the model village in Bourton-on-the-Water, I listened to Bess describe the ducks, and I listened to Bill describe Bess’s attempts to throw bread crumbs to the ducks while he kept her from throwing herself into the water. Stanley’s only contribution was to purr contentedly while curled in Bill’s favorite armchair.
Over dinner, we made plans to go to the Falconry Centre the following day and to have lunch at our favorite café in Moreton-on-Marsh.
“Are you coming with us, Mummy?” Will asked.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around much for the past few days.”
“It’s okay,” said Rob. “You’re around now.”
When the children were in bed, and I was sitting on the sofa with my head nestled against Bill’s shoulder, it was his turn to listen. I told him about Leyburn Farm, Mrs. Hilliard, and Mary Charlotte. I told him about Cissy’s doomed love for Madesh. I recounted Tilly’s story and informed him that Pussywillows would be off the market soon, unless Mr. Barlow proposed to his lady fair before she left Oxford. Finally, I shared with him the fears that had turned Emma into a disturbingly recognizable version of me.
“Now we know why Tilly was in such a state when she crash-landed at Anscombe Manor,” he said. “To lose both parents within the space of a few hours— the poor woman must have felt as if she’d lost her moorings.”
“She had lost her moorings,” I said, “but she’ll find new ones. Mr. Barlow will see to that.”
“We’ll all see to that,” said Bill. “I’m glad you talked some sense into Emma. I can’t imagine why she didn’t confide in you months ago.”
“You don’t suppose she was under the impression that I would think less of her because I’m such a perfect mother, do you?” I said.
When we finished laughing, Bill pulled me closer.
“As for Cecilia and Madesh . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to say. Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?”
“Definitely,” I said. “Some people live their whole l
ives without knowing what it is to love and to be loved. Cissy offered the golden heart to Ganesha, hoping that he would remove the obstacles that separated her from Madesh, and Madesh never married. I think they were well aware of how lucky they were to find each other.”
“I hope so,” said Bill. “Do you think Mrs. Hilliard will move the altar to Leyburn Farm?”
“I do,” I said. “We brought the golden heart out of the shadows. She won’t want to hide it again. She’ll want her family to know the true story, the whole story, of the young girl and the doctor who had their moment in the sun.”
We sat in companionable silence, watching the firelight dance on the Christmas tree ornaments, until, finally, Bill stirred.
“If we’re driving to the Falconry Centre tomorrow,” he said, “I’d better get some shut-eye.”
“I’ll be up in five seconds,” I told him.
“Five seconds?” he repeated dubiously.
“Maybe a minute,” I said.
I jumped to my feet, ran into the study, snatched the blue journal from its shelf, and opened it while I was still standing.
“Dimity?” I said.
Good evening, my dear. Was your trip to Leyburn Farm informative?
“It was astonishingly informative,” I said. “I’ll tell you all about it, but not tonight. I need to spend some quality time with Bill.”
Go! I’ll always be here.
“Thank you, Dimity,” I said, and before her graceful handwriting had faded from the page, the blue journal was back on its shelf. I gave Reginald’s ears a quick twiddle, then ran back to grab my husband and pull him under the mistletoe.
No one knew better than I how lucky I’d been to find him.
Twenty-three
Since the Nativity play had been canceled due to the Yuletide Blight’s incursions on cast, crew, and audience, I spent Christmas Eve baking cookies to distribute among my neighbors after Midnight Mass. Mary Charlotte’s goody bags inspired me to get out my mixing bowls, but in addition to the usual gingerbread men, angel cookies, and pinwheel cookies, I made several batches of besan ladoo. A cross-cultural goody bag wouldn’t be as poignant or as lasting as a heart of gold, but it would, I thought, serve as a modest tribute to Cissy and Madesh.
Aunt Dimity and the Heart of Gold Page 19
