With a wizardly flourish, I produced a rabbit from the toy bag. Not a lettuce-nibbling rabbit, but a small pink-flannel bunny with black button eyes, hand-stitched whiskers, and a grape-juice stain on his snout that brought to mind a little girl who’d been every bit as rambunctious as Rainey.
“His name is Reginald,” I continued, “and as you can see, he doesn’t have anyone to play with.”
“I’ll play with him!” Rainey scrambled to her knees and reached for my pink bunny. “Reginald,” she began, “my name is . . .” She hesitated, gazed intently at Reginald’s face, then looked up at me, round-eyed with astonishment. “He already knows my name. And he wants to show me where the hedgehog lives.”
“Hedgehog?” said Francesca.
“Reginald says there’s a hedgehog family living in the wall, round back of the church. He says I simply must see them.” Rainey jumped to her feet and galloped away, Reginald flopping and braids flying as she dodged between headstones. I looked deeply into Rob’s eyes and hoped that Reg would one day fire my son’s imagination as vividly as he was firing Rainey Dawson’s.
“Did you tell Rainey about the hedgehog?” Francesca asked.
I looked at her uncertainly. “ There’s a hedgehog?”
Francesca nodded. “My brothers found the burrow years ago. It’s right where Reg—where Rainey said it’d be, in the wall, round back of the church.”
“Is that right?” I shouldn’t have been surprised. Aunt Dimity had made Reginald for me, and I had reason to believe that she’d put something besides strong cotton into her needlework. It would have been easier to explain to Rainey than to Francesca that Reg wasn’t your average pink-flannel bunny, however, so I feigned nonchalance. “Maybe the vicar told Rainey about the hedgehog.”
Francesca rolled her eyes. “ The vicar knows as much about hedgehogs as I know about his evensongs.”
“You don’t go to Saint George’s?” I said.
“My family’s Roman Catholic,” she replied. “But my father and brothers used to mow the grass and rake the paths here.” She nodded toward the low wall. “My father planted the roses.”
“They’re gorgeous,” I said. “The parishioners must have been delighted.”
“Some were.” Francesca shifted Will in her arms. “You sign Mrs. Kitchen’s petition?”
“Yes,” I admitted. I would have said more, but Hurricane Rainey had returned.
“Lori! Francesca! Look who I found!”
I looked up, fully expecting to see Rainey juggling a pair of hapless hedgehogs. Instead, she was bobbing cheerfully in the wake of a tall, not unattractive man.
He was slender and deeply tanned, dressed in khaki shorts, a short-sleeved blue shirt, and a crumpled, battered digger hat that looked as though it had been through several wars. His face was long and narrow, the skin drawn tightly across high cheekbones and a wide, thin-lipped mouth. He wore hiking boots and carried a small khaki rucksack on his back. A pair of half glasses dangled from a lanyard around his neck.
“He was looking at the wall paintings,” Rainey shouted breathlessly, “because Katrina and Simon made a muddle of the schoolhouse, so he couldn’t spend the whole day at Scrag End field, and he didn’t want to meet the hedgehog, but he wanted to meet you.”
“ Thank you, Rainey.” The man’s resonant voice was like a cello accompaniment to Rainey’s trumpeting. “You’ve explained the situation admirably.”
He ducked under the cedar’s drooping branches, blinked at the sudden change from light to shade, caught sight of my exposed breast, and flushed crimson.
“I do apologize.” As his head snapped to one side, his eyes met Francesca’s, and the flood of color drained from his face. He froze in place and at the same time seemed to melt, swaying slightly as a soft, involuntary moan escaped his lips.
“Dr. Culver,” said Rainey. “Why are you staring at Francesca?”
“Francesca,” whispered Dr. Culver.
9.
Rainey peered up at the tall archaeologist with a look of helpful concern. “I thought you wanted to meet Lori.”
The crimson tide returned to Adrian Culver’s face. He averted his gaze from Francesca, found himself staring once more at my maternal splendor, and was finally reduced to examining a buckle on his rucksack. My heart went out to him. Bill’s father was similarly ill at ease when he inadvertently caught sight of one of his grandsons dining au naturel.
“Are you sick, Dr. Culver?” Rainey asked, hugging Reginald to her chest.
“Rainey . . .” I reached for the sprig of wysteria she’d liberated from the vine on Bill’s office, and pointed to a headstone that was awash in a fragrant froth of climbing roses. “Would you please put the wysteria on that headstone?”
Rainey turned to see where I was pointing. “But it’s got flowers already,” she objected. “Why do you want me to—” She broke off to listen to Reginald, then took the wysteria from my hand and without another word trotted off.
“Take your time,” I called after her. “Reginald likes to visit that grave.”
“I know,” she called back.
Adrian Culver watched Rainey’s departure, then fixed his gaze at a neutral point halfway up the cedar’s trunk. “Ms. Shepherd . . .” he began.
“Please, call me Lori,” I said. Most of the time it was easier to use my first name than to explain that I hadn’t taken Bill’s last name when we’d married. “And allow me to introduce my friend, Francesca Sciaparelli.”
“Afternoon, Dr. Culver.” Francesca’s greeting was cool enough to chill lava.
“Please, you must call me Adrian. Both of you.” The poor man must have felt faintly ridiculous proclaiming his identity to the sky, because he dragged his digger cap from his head and cautiously lowered his gaze.
Abruptly, Francesca hefted Will to her diaper-draped shoulder and got to her feet. “I’ll pay my respects to Miss Westwood, as long as I’m here. I don’t want Rainey trampling the roses. My father planted ’em special.” She patted Will’s back and swept past Adrian Culver, without so much as a “Nice to have met you.”
Adrian stared after her, nonplussed. I, too, was taken aback by her bluntness, but I had no time to stare. The twins had, as always, finished their meals simultaneously, so I shifted Rob to my lap and closed down the mess hall. Adrian ventured a hesitant glance in our direction.
“Miss Sciaparelli wouldn’t by any chance be related to Mrs. Kitchen, would she?” he inquired politely.
“ They can’t stand the sight of each other,” I replied.
Adrian slung his rucksack onto the ground and sank onto the bench. “Did I somehow offend Miss Sciaparelli? Or is she always so . . . formal with strangers?”
His choice of words hinted at a gallant nature. I’d have described Francesca’s behavior as downright rude.
“She may be tired,” I said. “She’s been stuck here for an hour with my twins. Francesca’s been helping me look after them.”
“I’m amazed to hear that you require her assistance,” Adrian said. His wide mouth turned upward in a smile. “Simon and Katrina led me to believe that you’re inde fatiguable. They’ve come to regard you as our guardian angel.”
“That’s because they’re laboring under a grave misapprehension,” I informed him.
Adrian’s high forehead wrinkled. “It was you who chased Mrs. Kitchen from our door yesterday, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” I acknowledged.
“And Mrs. Kitchen was affability itself when I stopped by the Emporium yesterday evening. I thought you were responsible for her change of heart. Naturally, when she suggested that I sign—”
“What did you sign?” I interrupted.
“Her list of creditors. At least, that’s what she—” Adrian’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he studied the expression on my face. “What have I done? Signed a confession to some unspeakable crime?”
I patted his arm. “Let’s just say that, if I were you, I’d think twice about signing anything P
eggy Kitchen put in front of me. This time it was only a petition calling for the bishop to evict you from the schoolhouse, but next time—”
Adrian’s bark of laughter made Rob jump. “I should have known!” he exclaimed, slapping the digger hat against his thigh. “ That woman is a national treasure. She’ll be prime minister before she’s through.” He shook his head ruefully. “I shan’t hear the end of it from the bishop.”
“You know him?” I said.
“He and I share a common interest in antiquities.” Adrian cocked his head to one side. “Do you know, someone else asked me about the bishop today—a chap I met at the pub. Bill Willis, his name was. Some sort of expat Yank barrister. Do you know him?”
“He’s my husband,” I said, but Adrian’s attention had wandered. He leapt to his feet as Francesca returned, and stood, cap in hand, to offer her his seat. She passed him by without a second glance.
“Time Rainey was off home,” she said as the little girl came trailing up behind her. “Shall I give her a lift?”
Adrian immediately volunteered to walk with Rainey. “I should be getting back in any case. My assistant’s brought rather more equipment than we need, and I’ve had the devil’s own time sorting the essentials from the extraneous.”
“Really?” I said. “I was under the impression that you’d hoped to extend your stay in Finch.”
Adrian risked a furtive glance at Francesca’s face. “One may hope, of course, but in fact it’s far too early to make long-range plans. I thought I’d explained that to Katrina and Simon, but I must not have made myself clear.” He bent to pick up his rucksack. “They brought enough gear to see us through until spring.”
Adrian slipped the rucksack onto one shoulder and extended his hand. “It’s been a great pleasure to finally meet you, Lori. You must come to Scrag End for a tour. And you, Miss Sciaparelli, if you’re not too busy—”
“I’ve no time for tours,” Francesca snapped, ignoring his proffered hand.
“Why are you cross with Dr. Culver, Francesca?” Rainey asked. “Gran says he’s going to make Finch famous.”
“Will he, now?” Francesca said witheringly.
Adrian opened his mouth to speak, but words seemed to fail him. He stood there, love-stunned and mute, turning and twisting his hat in his hands, trying not to stare at Francesca’s sumptuous curves and failing miserably.
Rainey tugged on his shirt. “I’m not cross with you, Dr. Culver,” she said consolingly. “And Gran thinks the world of you.”
“ Thank you, Rainey,” said Adrian. “Perhaps I’ll take your grandmother up on her kind invitation this evening.” He bowed graciously, first to me, then to Francesca. “Do stop by the dig, Lori. And don’t hesitate to bring your sons. I’m extremely fond of children. Good day, ladies.”
I smiled as he strode off. I knew full well that his eagerness to play host to my sons had less to do with his affinity for children than with his affinity for my nanny. I couldn’t blame him. He was enamored of antiquities, after all, and Francesca was a dead ringer for Venus.
It didn’t take a psych degree to figure out what had happened to Dr. Culver—I could hear Cupid chortling as he restrung his bow—but Francesca’s harsh reaction seemed inexplicable. I didn’t believe for a minute that Will or Rob had worn her out. She hadn’t been peevish with me or Rainey. Her surliness had been directed like a laser beam at Adrian Culver, and I was itching to find out why.
“We’d best be off, too,” she remarked. “ Time I was getting supper ready. Poached salmon suit you?”
“Sounds great.” I said nothing more until we were seated in the Mercedes and ready to go. Then I commented casually, “Adrian seems like a nice guy.”
“He’s a puffed-up popinjay,” Francesca snapped. “What’s more, he’s a liar.” She started the engine and began turning the car around.
Her vehemence startled me. “What makes you say that?”
“Promised the vicar he’d be in and out, no trouble,” Francesca replied. “Forgot to mention his plans to build his own museum, here, in Finch. Calling it after himself, too. The Culver Institute.”
My eyebrows rose. “Who told you about the museum?”
“Mrs. Pyne found a stack of letters when she was tidying Katrina’s room,” Francesca said.
“Sally Pyne read Katrina Graham’s private mail?” I exclaimed, appalled.
“They were right next to her computer,” Francesca declared, “where anyone could see ’em. And they were all about raising money for the Culver Institute.” She tossed her head. “ That’s why Sally Pyne’s tarting up the tearoom and the Peacocks are cleaning up the pub. They think the Culver Institute’ll be good for Finch.”
“Won’t it?” I asked.
“We don’t need any more outsiders coming in here,” Francesca stated firmly. “There’s enough of them running round the village as it is.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said.
Francesca blushed. “I don’t mean you or the Buntings or such. Your kind don’t interfere. But Dr. Culver’ll interfere, right enough. He’ll be as bad as Mrs. Kitchen. Besides,” she continued, “I don’t hold with putting dead folks’ belongings in museums. It’s not right.”
“Didn’t your medallion come from a museum?” I asked.
“It did not,” she declared. “My father made the phalera with his own two hands. He’d never go poking and prying into dead folks’ things. Which is more than can be said for a puffed-up popinjay like Dr. Culver.”
Francesca’s burst of fury abated as she guided the car toward the square. “Bill rang,” she said, making conversation. “Said he and Derek Harris’d have supper at the pub tonight.”
I felt a stab of disappointment. I’d been looking forward to swapping gossip with my husband, and Francesca’s late addition was pure gold. If Adrian Culver really was planning to build a museum in Finch, Sally Pyne would have two extremely good reasons to steal the Gladwell pamphlet. An antiquities museum would help her business and at the same time serve as a perpetual irritant to her old foe, Peggy Kitchen.
The more I thought about it, the more excited I became. Sally Pyne wasn’t the only one who’d benefit from having a museum in Finch. Christine Peacock’s pub would prosper. Katrina Graham would have a proper laboratory in which to conduct the experiments she’d cata loged to Simon in Peggy’s shop. And no self-respecting archaeologist would throw away a chance to name a museum after himself. If Adrian, Katrina, or Christine had gotten wind of the Gladwell pamphlet on Sunday night, they’d each have a good reason to make sure it never saw the light of day.
As the Mercedes rumbled through the square, I gazed at Bill’s bicycle and sighed. I couldn’t fault my husband for following my instructions, but I hoped he wouldn’t dawdle at the pub. I was champing at the bit to hear what Adrian had told him about the bishop—and to share with him my burgeoning suspicions.
Dinner had been marvelous: chilled cucumber soup, poached salmon with salad, and homemade lemon sorbet for dessert. I felt a pang of pity for Bill, who’d missed out on the feast, glanced at the clock for the hundredth time, and folded my hands to keep myself from fidgeting.
After supper, I’d taken the boys for a walk, bathed them, and put them to bed. I’d spent an hour or so in the kitchen with Francesca, discussing her terms of employment, a discussion that had consisted mostly of Francesca calmly stating her requirements and me saying okay.
Having dispensed with my duties as chatelaine, I’d stretched out on the couch in the living room to record the day’s events in Lilian Bunting’s red notebook. I wanted to be armed and ready when Bill came through the door.
Francesca sat in the chintz-covered armchair, hemming a skirt. When she glanced up, I nodded and smiled and silently ordered myself not to worry. Bill hadn’t told me when to expect him back from the pub, so he wasn’t late, exactly. His bicycle was equipped with lights and bristling with reflectors, so he’d be safe on the road after dark. There was no cause to—
A car
’s headlights illuminated the bay window and I leapt to my feet. Francesca gave me an odd look as I dashed into the hallway, but I was past caring. It was too late in the evening for casual callers, but policemen bearing bad news—and mangled bicycles—might turn up at any time. Dreading dire revelations, I opened the front door and nearly fainted with relief when I saw Adrian Culver striding up the flagstone path.
“Sorry to bother you at this hour,” he said, “but I didn’t want you to lose sleep over Reginald.”
“Reginald?” I said stupidly.
He held my rabbit out for me to see. “Rainey pleads guilty to rabbit-napping. She asked me to return him to you. Unfortunately, I was detained—first by Mrs. Pyne, then by Mrs. Bunting, and finally, by Mrs. Kitchen.”
For a moment I forgot my own distress. “Sounds like you’ve been through the wringer,” I said, taking custody of my pink bunny. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”
“It’s awfully late,” he said, hanging back.
“Don’t be silly,” I told him. “Francesca’s just brewed a fresh—” I broke off as understanding belatedly dawned. It would have dawned much sooner had I bothered to take note of Adrian’s appearance. He’d left his crumpled hat and rucksack at the schoolhouse and replaced his work-clothes with a pair of gray dress slacks, polished shoes, and an immaculate, though silently rumpled white shirt. If Reginald had been a wrist corsage, I’d have sworn it was prom night.
“Come in,” I said unsteadily. I put Reg on the hall table and ushered Adrian into the living room. “Francesca, look who’s here.”
“Evening, Dr. Culver.” Francesca picked up her sewing basket and got to her feet. “It’s late. I think I’ll go up.”
Adrian wilted visibly as Francesca strode past us, but perked up again when she stopped short.
“You’ve a button missing,” she said to him. She made it sound like an accusation.
“Have I?” Adrian peered down at his shirt, dismayed.
Francesca was not the sort of woman who could let an empty buttonhole stay empty. She heaved an exasperated sigh and began to rummage through her sewing basket. She retrieved a threaded needle and a white button, then turned to Adrian. The reproachful look she gave him was exactly what she’d use on Rob or Will in the future, if they ever returned home from the playground without their sneakers. “Hold still,” she ordered.
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