“Nor do I,” I agreed, “but if something can be done to help them . . .”
“Nothing can be done,” Emma said with an air of finality. “Dr. Finisterre can make them comfortable, but apart from that . . . It’s only a matter of time.”
I groaned softly and put a hand to my forehead. “How much longer does Dr. Finisterre think they have?”
“He can’t say for certain,” Emma answered. “They could last for another six months or they could be gone tomorrow. I broke the news to Nell and Kit as soon as I got back to the manor—about a half hour ago. They immediately decided to put the wedding on hold.”
“Naturally,” I murmured.
“They’re at the Pyms’ house now,” Emma continued. “I imagine Dr. Finisterre is putting them in the picture as we speak. I’ve asked him to keep me in the loop. I’ll let you know if there are any . . . developments.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Emma cleared her throat. “I know that we have a lot to talk about, Lori, but it’ll have to wait. Now that the wedding’s been postponed, I have a long list of telephone calls to make. The guests, the caterers, the string quartet—”
“I’ll make the local calls for you,” I offered. “I know every number in Finch by heart.”
“Thanks, but I think it would be better if I spoke with everyone personally,” said Emma. “I’m the stepmother of the bride. The guests will expect to hear the bad news from me.”
“Of course they will,” I said. “If I you need help with anything else, or if you just need a break, don’t hesitate to call.”
“I won’t.” Emma stopped speaking for a moment. Then she said quietly, “I knew they wouldn’t live forever—no one can—but it seemed as though . . .” Her words trailed off.
“I know,” I said consolingly. “I can’t believe it, either. I guess it’ll take a while to sink in.”
“I guess so,” said Emma. “Well. I’d better start making those phone calls.”
“I’m here if you need me,” I reiterated. “Any time, night or day.”
“I’ll be in touch,” she said, and hung up.
I laid the phone on the table and stared blankly at the kitchen wall, trying to conceive of a world without the Pym sisters in it. It was like trying to imagine a garden without flowers. I might have sat motionless until nightfall if I hadn’t been roused from my reflections by the sound of my husband’s voice.
“The ham smells delicious,” said Bill, bending to look into the oven. “Do you want me to mash the potatoes? ”
I swung around in the chair to look at him and his smile faded abruptly.
“What’s wrong, Lori?” he asked, glancing at the abandoned telephone. “Has someone died?”
“Not yet,” I said, peering anxiously through the back door. “Where are the boys?”
“In the garden. Father is reading the county cricket scores to them.” Bill sat in the chair next to mine and leaned toward me, his elbows on his knees. “What is it, Lori? What’s happened?”
“Oh, Bill . . . ,” I began, and the whole tragic tale came pouring out. When I’d finished recounting everything Emma had told me, I looked at him helplessly. “How are we going to tell the boys? They adore Ruth and Louise. What are we going to say to them?”
“We’ll keep it simple,” said Bill, “and we’ll answer their questions as best we can. They’re bound to ask questions. They always do.”
“Do you think we should tell them right away?” I asked.
“I don’t see how we can avoid it,” he replied. “They’ll know something’s wrong as soon as they see your face. But we don’t have to tell them that the Pyms are on their deathbeds. We’ll say that they’re seriously ill. There’s no need for us to cross the final bridge until we come to it.” He took me by the hand and got to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”
Will and Rob received the news of the Pyms’ illness in thoughtful silence. The questions Bill had predicted didn’t start to flow until we were halfway through an unusually solemn dinner.
“Are Miss Ruth and Miss Louise as old as Toby?” Will asked, spearing a green bean with his fork.
Toby was a sweet-natured pony who’d taught dozens of Anscombe Riding Center pupils the rudiments of horsemanship before being put out to pasture at the ripe old age of twenty.
“Miss Ruth and Miss Louise are much older than Toby,” Bill replied.
Will nodded and dipped his green bean into his mashed potatoes.
“Toby was sick once,” Rob observed, “but he got better. Will Miss Ruth and Miss Louise get better? ”
“They might,” said Bill.
“What if they don’t get better? ” asked Rob. “Will they die like Misty’s foal? ”
A forkful of juicy ham turned to sawdust in my mouth. Misty’s foal had died of pneumonia the previous spring. It had been the boys’ first direct encounter with death and it had made a big impression on them.
“Yes,” Bill said gently. “I’m sorry to say it, sons, but if Miss Ruth and Miss Louise don’t get better, they will die.”
“I would miss them if they died,” said Rob, digging into his applesauce.
“So would I,” said Bill, “and so would your mother and your grandfather. We would all miss them very much.”
“We should go and see Miss Ruth and Miss Louise before they die,” Will decided.
“We will,” said Bill, “but not tonight. They need to rest tonight. If Dr. Finisterre says it’s all right, we’ll go to their house after school tomorrow. Okay?”
“Okay,” the boys chorused.
It wasn’t until I was tucking the twins into bed that they asked about the wedding. When I informed them that it had been postponed because of the Pym sisters’ illness, they gazed reflectively at the ceiling.
“Maybe Nell can make Miss Ruth and Miss Louise better,” said Will.
“She made Storm better when he had his cough,” Rob reminded me.
Storm, Rob’s much-loved gray pony, had come down with a mild case of colic a week ago, from which he had since recovered.
“Nell gave Storm medicine,” Rob went on, “and she walked him around and around his stall.”
“And he got better,” said Will.
“I’m sure that Nell will do everything she can for Miss Ruth and Miss Louise,” I said. “But sometimes people die even when you do everything you can for them.”
“Like Misty’s foal,” said Will.
“Like Misty’s foal,” I confirmed.
“Read us a story, Mummy,” Rob said.
I didn’t waste time asking for a “please.” I simply reached for our copy of Winnie-the-Poohand read it aloud to my little boys, hoping they would drift off to sleep thinking of Tigger and Piglet and Roo rather than Misty’s foal.
Bill and Willis, Sr., were in the living room when I came downstairs. No one, it seemed, was ready to go to bed. Bill sat in his favorite armchair with Stanley, our black cat, curled blissfully in his lap. Willis, Sr., stood peering into the darkness beyond the bay window with his back to the room. I sank into a corner of the chintz sofa and gazed into the fire Bill had lit in the hearth after dinner.
“Did they have more questions?” Bill asked.
“They’re hoping for a miracle cure from Nell,” I replied.
“Aren’t we all? ” said Bill, stroking Stanley’s glossy fur.
Willis, Sr., turned away from the window and crossed to hold his well-manicured hands out to the fire. While Bill and I were clad in blue jeans and wool sweaters, my father-in-law was attired in a three-piece gray suit, a white shirt, and a silk tie. Willis, Sr., hadn’t yet gotten the hang of retirement.
“You spoke the simple truth at the dinner table,” he said to Bill. “I will miss the dear ladies most sincerely when they’re gone. I’ve never met anyone else quite like them.”
A mischievous memory flitted through my mind and I surprised myself by grinning at my father-in-law. “Do you remember the first time you tried their raspberry
cordial?”
“I do indeed.” Willis, Sr., smiled ruefully and left the fire to sit in the armchair opposite Bill’s. “It sounded like an innocent, wholesome refreshment, but—”
“—it had a kick like an Army mule,” Bill put in. “Delectable, but deadly.”
“The two of them tossed it back as if it were mother’s milk,” I marveled.
“Whereas I coughed and sputtered like a badly tuned automobile,” said Willis, Sr. “The experience was highly instructive.”
“Instructive?” Bill asked. “In what way?”
“It taught me never to underestimate the apparently harmless drinks served by elderly, churchgoing ladies,” said Willis, Sr. “Their damson wine was a force to be reckoned with as well. I soon learned to accept nothing but tea from their fair hands.”
“And cream cakes,” I said.
“And seed cake,” Bill added.
“And chocolate eclairs,” I went on, “and macaroons and meringues.”
“Ah, those excellent meringues . . .” Willis, Sr., heaved a reminiscent sigh.
Our stroll through memory’s bakery came to a screeching halt when the telephone rang. Bill answered it and I braced myself for the announcement none of us wanted to hear, but after exchanging a few brief words with the caller, he held the phone out to me.
“It’s Kit,” he said. “He wants to speak with you.”
I jumped to my feet and took the phone from Bill.
“Kit? ” I said. “Where are you?”
“Nell and I are still at the Pyms’ house,” he replied. “I think you should be here, too. Ruth and Louise have been asking for you.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes,” I said. I cut the connection, tossed the telephone to Bill, and headed for the front door.
“Lori?” said Bill, dislodging a reluctant Stanley from his lap and following me into the hallway. “Where are you going?”
“Ruth and Louise are asking for me.” I pulled a woolen jacket from the hat rack and thrust my arms into it. “I’ll take the Rover.”
“Do you want me to drive?” Bill asked.
“I want you to stay here,” I said, grabbing my keys from the telephone table, “in case there’s more bad news to break to the boys.”
I gave him a quick kiss, called good night to Willis, Sr., and sprinted through the crisp night air to our canary-yellow Range Rover. As I turned the key in the ignition and backed the Rover down our graveled drive, I tried in vain to prepare myself for what might be my last visit with the Pyms.
Three
The fields on either side of our narrow, twisting lane were shrouded in darkness and hidden from view by hedgerows, but I was conscious of their presence nonetheless. Harvesttime had come to my corner of the Cotswolds. All too soon, I told myself, the reaper would swing his blade and the ripe sheaves would be gathered.
“Stop being so melodramatic,” I muttered irritably as I cruised past Anscombe Manor’s winding drive. “The crops around here will be harvested by brawny men in big machines, not by a black-robed skeleton wielding a scythe.”
Still, it was hard to ignore the season’s symbolism.
I negotiated the lane’s most hazardous bend, and the Pym sisters’ house came into view, shining like a jewel nestled in velvet. Light poured from each lace-curtained window beneath the shaggy thatch, giving the redbrick walls a mellow glow. I was surprised to see how many lamps were burning in the house—I’d expected it to be as dimly lit as a sick room—until I noticed the vehicles parked on the grassy strip between the lane and the Pyms’ front garden. The row of cars told me that Kit Smith and Nell Harris weren’t the Pym sisters’ only visitors.
Kit’s small pickup was there, as were Mr. Barlow’s paneled van, the vicar’s black BMW, Miranda Morrow’s sky-blue Beetle, Sally Pyne’s ancient Vauxhall, and the Peacocks’ old Renault. I thought I’d received an exclusive invitation to appear at the Pyms’ bedsides, but it looked as though I’d have to wait in line.
I parked the Rover behind the vicar’s sedan, then made my way through the wrought-iron gate and into the leaf-strewn garden. As I passed the dried flower stalks shivering forlornly in the neglected beds and borders, I wondered who would make the garden bloom again once the Pym sisters were gone. Since the pair had outlived their blood relations, their house would be sold to a stranger. Would the newcomer preserve the old-fashioned plants the sisters had so lovingly tended, or would he dig them up and replace them with a modern, low-maintenance lawn? It hurt my heart to think of plain grass claiming victory over the Pyms’ snapdragons, hollyhocks, and sweet peas, so I pushed the unwelcome image to the back of my mind and hurried forward.
I was halfway up the graveled path when the front door opened and a line of villagers spilled onto the front step, with Lilian Bunting, the vicar’s scholarly wife, in the lead.
“We’re agreed, then,” she said, gazing intently at a small notebook she held in one hand. “I’ll devise a rota for cooking, shopping, and general housekeeping duties. Mr. Barlow and Derek Harris will keep the house, the shed, the fences, and the garage in good repair. Miranda will look after the garden and Emma Harris will make sure that none of the fruit goes to waste. Peggy Taxman has already volunteered to deliver their mail directly to the house and Jasper Taxman will see to it that their bills are paid on time. My husband will, of course, tend to their spiritual needs.”
“I have the easiest job of all, it seems,” murmured the vicar.
“You never know,” said Mr. Barlow. “Old ladies can be full of surprises.”
The rest of the villagers chuckled and a comprehending smile crept across my face. The social machinery that had been set in motion for the wedding of the century had evidently been diverted to the communal mission of caring for the Pyms. While I’d been preoccupied with symbols and hypothetical heartbreaks, my neighbors had concerned themselves with down-to-earth practicalities.
“It looks as though I’ve missed a committee meeting,” I said, striding forward to join the group. “Sign me up for general housekeeping, Lilian. I’m a dab hand with a feather duster.”
“Lori!” she exclaimed, looking up from her notebook. “How nice to see you. Our meeting was quite spontaneous, I assure you.”
“Emma’s phone calls instigated it,” Christine Peacock explained. “As soon as she told me about the Pyms, I left Dick to close up the pub and came right over.”
“Each of us drove over as soon as we heard the news,” said Miranda Morrow. “We wanted Ruth and Louise to know that they’re not alone.”
“Peggy said we’d only be making a nuisance of ourselves,” Sally Pyne noted tartly, “so she and Jasper stayed at the Emporium. If you ask me, she’d rather fill her till than help her friends.”
“The Taxmans offered their highly useful services via the telephone before Teddy and I left the vicarage,” Lilian Bunting pointed out, with a reproving glance at Sally. “I’m sure we’re all very grateful to them.”
“I’m sure we’re all very tired and somewhat overwrought,” the vicar observed mildly. “It’s been a difficult evening. Shall we continue on to our cars? I’ve no doubt that a good night’s sleep will settle our nerves and prepare us for the tasks that lie ahead.”
“Ever the voice of reason,” said Lilian, smiling at her husband. “You’re quite right, Teddy. We’ve accomplished all we can in a few short hours. It’s time for us to leave Ruth and Louise in peace.”
I exchanged good nights with the villagers as they left the garden, but as Lilian passed, I touched her sleeve.
“Don’t forget to add my name to the rota,” I said.
“I’ve already done so,” she said, tapping a fountain pen against the notebook. “I’ll let you know when you and your feather duster will be needed.”
I waved good-bye to my neighbors as they drove back to Finch, then turned to face the solitary figure standing in the doorway.
Kit Smith smiled wearily at me. He was dressed in faded blue jeans, a dark-blue pullover that se
emed to be sprouting bits of hay, and a pair of thick woolen socks. His patched and mud-stained Wellington boots sat beside Nell’s on a rubber mat just inside the doorway.
“Lori,” he said. “Come in.”
I followed him into the foyer. He left me there to hang my coat on the Pyms’ coat tree and add my shoes to those on the rubber mat while he circumnavigated the ground floor, turning off lamps as he went. When he returned to the foyer, I peered up at him worriedly. His violet eyes were so breathtakingly beautiful that, if I hadn’t known him so well, I might not have noticed how tired they were.
“You poor thing,” I said, standing on tiptoe to give him a hug. “You look as though you’ve been through the wringer.”
“It’s been quite a day,” he acknowledged, returning my hug warmly.
“I’m sorry about the wedding,” I said, stepping back from him.
Kit shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. The wedding will happen when it happens.”
“I know, but all the same . . .” I rubbed his arm sympathetically. “Where’s Nell? ”
“Upstairs, with Ruth and Louise,” he replied. “She’s moved into one of the extra bedrooms. She wants to be on hand to nurse them round the clock.”
“Shouldn’t they have a professional nurse? ” I asked.
“They want Nell,” he answered.
“Who wouldn’t?” I said with a wry smile.
“I’ve spent the evening fielding visitors,” Kit informed me.
“I noticed,” I said “Word does travel fast in Finch.”
“That it does,” he agreed. “The freezer’s already filled with the casseroles and soups people have dropped off, not to mention Horace Malvern’s cheeses. The rest of the offerings are in here.” He led the way into the dining room and began naming the items that littered the long walnut table. “Devotional books from the vicar, chrysanthemums from George Wetherhead, hand-knitted shawls from Sally Pyne, fresh eggs from Mrs. Sciaparelli, honey from Burt Hodge’s hives, a packet of Miranda Morrow’s herbal remedies, six bottles of Dick Peacock’s homemade wine, and a pile of mystery novels from Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham.”
Aunt Dimity Down Under Page 2
