“Oh, and before I forget,” she added, “if you want the jams and the cordials and the calf’s foot jelly and the other things my great-grandaunts put by for you, you’d better come to the house to pick them up because I don’t have a car and I don’t know where any of you live.” She brushed her hands lightly over the coffins’ topmost blossoms and concluded gruffly, “Your turn, Vicar.”
The whispers began again at an elevated volume as Bree returned to her pew but ceased when Theodore Bunting cleared his throat, drew himself up to his full and considerable height, and regarded his flock through narrowed eyes.
“Many people who live to a ripe old age die alone,” he told us, “not through any fault of their own, but because they have outlived their friends and their family. Ruth and Louise Pym, however, never lost the knack of making new friends, and they treated each new friend as member of their family.” His stern gaze came to rest on Peggy Taxman as he stated portentously, “We would do well to follow their example.”
Peggy, who had been scowling disapprovingly at Bree’s choppy haircut, must have felt the vicar’s eyes on her because she looked up at him suddenly, turned beet-red, and buried her face in her hymnal.
The vicar, having made his point, went on. “There are those here among us today who may be angry with God for depriving us of such good and kindly souls. To them Ruth and Louise would undoubtedly say, ‘Don’t be silly. It’s high time the dear Lord took us to His bosom, and we’re quite ready to join Him, thank you very much.’ They lived long and meaningful lives and they left this earth well prepared to meet their Maker. I believe steadfastly that they are at this very moment planting flowers round the gates of Heaven and greeting each new arrival with a cup of tea.”
The vicar paused to spread a sheet of lined paper atop his notes.
“In closing, I will read a message Ruth and Louise asked me to convey to each and every one of you.” He smoothed the sheet of paper, then read aloud, “ ‘Dear friends and neighbors. If you fail to show our great-grandniece the same loving kindness you have always shown us, we will smite you.’ ”
There was a moment of absolute silence followed rapidly by a variety of sounds. Bill and I had to bite our lips to keep from laughing out loud, but Peggy Taxman huffed indignantly, Sally Pyne tittered, and Mr. Barlow burst into a hearty guffaw. While a wave of poorly suppressed laughter rolled through the church, Rob and Will asked what “smite” meant and Bree demonstrated by giving her own knee a resounding smack.
“Let us rise,” intoned the vicar. “Please turn to Hymn 457: ‘For the Fruits of His Creation.’ We will honor Ruth Pym and Louise Pym not merely by singing their favorite hymn, but by inscribing its words on our hearts. Let us learn from the example set by our sisters in Christ to be grateful for God’s gifts, to do His will by helping our neighbors, and to recognize the good in all men.”
Voices filled the church, rang out over the village, and rebounded from the surrounding hillsides as the congregation sang the old harvest hymn, reaching a crescendo in the final verse:
For the wonders that astound us,
For the truths that still confound us,
Most of all, that love has found us,
Thanks be to God.
I closed the hymnal and gazed at Bree, wondering if she’d caught the allusion the Pyms had surely known was there. Love had found them in the nick of time, I thought, filling their hearts for a few shining hours and allowing them to truly rest in peace. Thanks be to God.
“Everyone stayed for the burial,” I said. “The churchyard was so packed that Mr. Barlow had to string Day-glo flags around the graves to keep people from falling into them.”
Night had come and the rain had resumed. Bill, the boys, and Willis, Sr., were upstairs and asleep. Although I was dazed by a debilitating bout of jet lag, I couldn’t rest until I’d told Aunt Dimity about the Pym sisters’ funeral. I hadn’t forgotten that they’d been her oldest friends on earth.
I sat in the tall leather armchair before the hearth in the study, with the blue journal propped open on my knees. Reginald, flanked by the pair of adorable kiwis I’d bought in Queenstown for Will and Rob, seemed content to be back in his special niche in the bookshelves, but a dreamy gleam in his eyes told me that a part of him was still roving the Land of the Long White Cloud. I smiled at him, then looked down at the familiar handwriting that had appeared on the journal’s blank page.
Was the luncheon equally well attended?
“Villagers only at the luncheon,” I reported, “and they couldn’t complain about the food, because they’d prepared it. Bree made the most of her resources and served the casseroles and the soups well-wishers had dropped off when her great-grandaunts first fell ill. Horace Malvern’s cheeses went over big.”
The girl has an admirably practical turn of mind. Ruth and Louise would have approved of her economies.
“Will and Rob are positively gaga over Bree,” I said. “They cornered her at the luncheon to ask little-boy questions about her nose ring and she came straight out and told them that the hole was too small to allow for . . . leakage. You should have seen Peggy Taxman’s face when the boys explained it to her. I could feel Ruth and Louise smiling down on their successors.”
What was the general mood at the luncheon?
“Reminiscent,” I replied, after a moment’s thought. “Everyone recalled something the Pyms had done for them, whether it was teaching them to make marmalade or embroidering their child’s christening gown. And there isn’t a gardener within fifty miles of Finch who hasn’t grown plants from cuttings the Pyms passed on to them. Mr. Barlow came out with the gem of the day, though.”
Do tell.
“He said, and I quote: ‘It’s a good thing they packed it in before the ground froze. It’s hard graft, digging up frozen dirt. But they were always considerate that way.’ ”
Truer words were never spoken, both about the difficulty of digging graves in winter and about the Pyms’ unwavering thoughtfulness.
“Nell told me that they passed away peacefully,” I said.
You must take some credit for their tranquility. Bree’s presence was a great comfort to them. As for the rest . . . Ruth and Louise were no strangers to death, Lori. Nearly every young man they knew, including their only brother, died in the Great War. When the Second World War began, still more young men disappeared from the village, never to be seen again. Ruth and Louise buried their parents, attended countless wakes, laid out the bodies of neighbors they’d known since childhood, and held more deathbed vigils than most doctors. When Death came for them, I’m sure they greeted him as an old friend.
“I’d like to think so.” I paused to listen as a gust of rain flung itself against the diamond-paned window above the old oak desk, then said, “Bree’s more upset than she’ll admit.”
Of course she is. She spent just enough time with her great-grandaunts to realize how painful it would be to lose them. You must look after her, Lori. She is, as you were, a stranger in a strange land. You must do for her what Cameron Mackenzie did for you.
I touched my greenstone pendant and smiled.
“I’ll be a good native guide,” I promised. “I learned from a master.”
I believe Ruth and Louise would have enjoyed their funeral.
“The villagers certainly did,” I said. “They were a lot more cheerful than I expected them to be. I thought the funeral would cast a pall over Finch.”
It did, but the shadow is passing. Bree has, of course, sped the recovery process by giving the villagers something new to talk about, and Kit and Nell have done their part by giving them something to look forward to.
“A May wedding,” I said, “to allow a decent interval for mourning.”
After the mourning, life will go on. And what better way is there to celebrate life than with a wedding?
Twenty-one
The hedgerows were covered with supple young leaves that hid dozens of newly made nests. Bumblebees hovered over fresh clumps of cl
over in lush pastures dotted with lambs. The first crop of silage was ready for mowing, the rape fields were ablaze with gaudy yellow blossoms, and there wasn’t a cloud in the soft blue sky as I drove Willis, Sr., to St. George’s Church on a beautiful morning in May.
My father-in-law and I were alone in the car because Bill, as best man at the wedding, had left early for Anscombe Manor to lend his support to the groom. Will and Rob had gone ahead with him to prepare their ponies for the wedding procession. They and the other members of their prize-winning junior gymkhana team would escort the orange-blossom-bedecked white carriage in which the bride and her father would make the short journey from the manor house to the church.
“Lori,” Willis, Sr., said suddenly, “I have made a decision.”
“It’s too late to change your tie again, William,” I said, “and I don’t know why you’d want to. We agreed—after much trial and error—that the pearl-gray one was perfect.”
“My decision is unrelated to sartorial matters,” he informed me loftily.
“Good,” I said, with grim determination. “Because we’re not turning around.”
“I have decided to buy Fairworth House,” he said.
I hit the brakes to keep from swerving into a hedge. The maneuver put no one’s life at risk because our lane was the exact opposite of a major highway and Willis, Sr., had braced himself for a reaction he’d apparently anticipated. When the car came to a full stop, I rounded on him and babbled incoherently for several seconds.
“When did you . . . ? Why haven’t you . . . ? You . . . buy . . . what? ”
“Fairworth House,” he replied calmly. “The ancestral home of the Fairworthy family. It is situated—”
“I know where Fairworth House is,” I interrupted. “It’s within spitting distance of Finch. I thought the place was derelict.”
“It is in need of refurbishment,” Willis, Sr., acknowledged, “but I should be able to move into it by the end of August. I hope you will permit me to stay at the cottage until then. I would like to be on hand to oversee the work.”
“Of course you can stay at the cottage,” I exclaimed, and leaned over to give him a hug. “Oh, William, this is the best news I’ve heard in ages. Bill and the boys will go crazy when they find out. Why didn’t you wait until we were all together to make your announcement? ”
“I learned only a few hours ago that my negotiations had been successful,” he explained. “My son and my grandsons are playing vital roles in what you have on numerous occasions called the fairy-tale wedding of the century. I did not wish to distract them from their duties.”
“But . . . why now?” I asked. “We’ve been trying to persuade you to move here since . . . forever. What changed your mind?”
“If Ruth and Louise Pym taught me anything,” he said, “it is that life—even a life that lasts for more than a hundred years—is short. I intend to spend what time is left to me with those I love.”
I beamed at him, restarted the car, and smiled all the way to St. George’s Church, where I, along with every other lady on the guest list, armed myself with a dainty but serviceable hanky. The men, though they would have denied it, used bandannas or pocket squares, depending on the nature of their formal attire.
It is an inarguable fact that more tears were shed at the wedding than at the funeral. Cameron, I knew, would have appreciated the irony, but I suspected that even he would have needed a handkerchief had he seen Nell gliding weightlessly down the aisle on Derek’s arm.
She seemed to bring her own light with her into the church. Her veil floated like a silvery mist around her halo of golden curls, and her gown was a gossamer dream of silk beaded with seed pearls and bordered with wisps of breathtakingly delicate lace. Her eyes shone like midnight-blue sapphires and her flawless oval face glowed with a love so pure that it should have made angels sing.
As she drifted past me I saw something of the Pym sisters in the tiny honeybees they’d embroidered in white along the edge of her veil. Their industrious hands had rarely been at rest during their lifetimes, and they’d beautified everything they’d touched. They would have been pleased right down to the toes of their sensible shoes to see their ethereal creation worn by a young woman they’d loved so dearly.
The fairy princess had become the fairy queen, and her chosen king was waiting for her. Kit stood at the altar rail, with his violet eyes fixed blissfully on Nell, freed at last by her radiance from the shadows of the past that had haunted him. The connection between the two shining souls was so strong it was almost palpable. They stood side by side before the vicar to say their vows, and when Kit lifted Nell’s veil and touched his lips to hers, the rapturous sighs that swept through the church nearly extinguished the altar candles.
There was much nose blowing and eye wiping‚ by men as well as women‚ as the happy couple made the return trip up the aisle, but merriment prevailed when we showered them with birdseed—which, according to the vicar, was more ecologically sound than rice—and applauded the carriage as it and its mounted escort clipclopped jauntily away from the church.
Bill, Willis, Sr., and I paused to pay our respects to the Pym sisters before we drove to the reception. The twin graves were awash with fragrant spring blossoms and marked with one headstone into which had been carved the sisters’ favorite verse from the Bible. They’d chosen a simple and well-known verse that, I believed, reflected their greathearted view of the cosmos.
GODIS LOVE;
AND HE THAT DWELLETH IN LOVE
DWELLETH IN GOD,
AND GOD IN HIM.
—JOHN IV:16
“And here comes Aroha herself,” I murmured, smiling as Bree approached.
Bree had spent most of the winter reading the gardening books she’d inherited from her great-grandaunts and discussing the contents with Emma. She couldn’t have learned more about the subject if she’d taken a graduate course in horticulture at Oxford. She’d planted the snowdrops, crocuses, daffodils, and primroses that had bloomed on the Pym sisters’ graves.
Bree had also bought an inexpensive used car from Mr. Barlow, who’d taken a shine to her, and spent time exploring the countryside on her own. She seemed intent on settling in for the long haul, which was, in my opinion, a good thing. I couldn’t wait to see what she would do with her great-grandaunts’ gardens. I somehow doubted that she’d replace their old-fashioned flowers with a practical but dull swathe of lawn.
Will and Rob still found her exotic and intriguing, as did the villagers. She’d fulfilled my expectations and outraged Peggy Taxman’s sensibilities by wearing a slinky fuschia tank dress to the wedding, displaying in one fell swoop her tattoos, her feminine curves, and her shapely legs, which the Sciaparelli boys seemed to think was a very good thing. Bree derived immense pleasure from getting up Peggy’s nose and did so fearlessly and as often as possible.
She swaggered over to straighten Willis, Sr.’s pocket square and to call an ebullient hello to Auntie Ruth and Auntie Louise. After dusting birdseed from their headstone, she followed us to the reception, where she presented the bride and groom with a gift on behalf of her late benefactresses.
“It may be a little premature,” she said. “Then again, it may not.”
The cheeky meaning behind her mysterious words became clear when Nell opened the box and held up an exquisitely embroidered christening gown for all to see. Nell’s musical laughter filled the air while Kit, blushing furiously, hastened to assure the crowd of extremely attentive onlookers that the gift was, indeed, premature, but nonetheless cherished.
Willis, Sr., increased everyone’s joy tenfold by sharing the news he’d already shared with me. He received so many congratulatory hugs that his pearl-gray tie developed a wrinkle, but I forbade him to return to the cottage to exchange it for another. I knew from recent experience that, had he gone, we wouldn’t have seen him again for hours.
Kit and Nell left for their honeymoon at half past eight. No one knew where they were going, but I was certai
n that, wherever they went, they would find paradise. After the big sendoff, Willis, Sr., repaired to the cottage to spend the rest of the evening ironing his tie and reading quietly in front of the fire.
Bill and I tucked a drooping Will and Rob into bed at the manor house, danced until midnight, and sat up until the wee hours with Emma and Derek, sharing memories of love’s first blossoming and hopes for the newlyweds’ future.
I didn’t have a chance to speak with Aunt Dimity until late the next day.
Epilogue
Dimity?” I said, gazing in triumph at the blue journal. “I’ve sold Bill on a family trip to New Zealand!”
Aunt Dimity’s response was swift and jubilant. Bravo! Well done! How on earth did you manage it?
“You won’t believe it, Dimity.” I hunkered down in the tall leather armchair in the study and gave Reginald a meaningful glance. “I hit him with the hard sell, right? I told him that Cameron and Donna are dying to meet Will and Rob. I told him that New Zealand combines the tropical beauty of Hawaii with the cozy beauty of Ireland and the alpine beauty of Switzerland. I told him that the country is the same size as Colorado but that it has more coastline than the contiguous United States. I told him about the fantastic people, the untainted food, the superb wines, the pristine environment, and I threw in the bit about hiking with fantails. And do you know what finally sold him?”
I can’t imagine.
“Frodo’s jacuzzi,” I said.
You jest.
“Nope,” I said. “I had no idea that Bill was a rabid Tolkien fan until fireworks popped in his eyes when I mentioned Frodo’s bathtub. Can you believe it?”
Aunt Dimity Down Under Page 19
