“We’ll think of something,” said Bill, pulling me into his arms.
I snuggled close to him and murmured, “If you so much as mention the Handmaidens, I’ll—”
My threat hung unfinished in the air because at that moment Willis, Sr., emerged from the study, flanked by the Donovans, whose tired faces were wreathed in smiles. Bill and I broke apart and gazed at his father inquiringly.
“Lori? Bill?” he said. “Please allow me to introduce my new cook and housekeeper, Deirdre Donovan, and my new gardener cum handyman, Declan Donovan.”
“Y-you hired them?” I stammered, unable to believe my ears.
“I believe I have stated that such is the case,” Willis, Sr., replied. “I will telephone Mrs. Trent later today to inform her that her services will no longer be required. I would appreciate it if you would let it be known throughout Finch and the surrounding countryside that the Donovans—and the Donovans alone—will be responsible for engaging whatever daily or weekly help they might require.”
My amazement gave way to admiration as I caught the meaning behind Willis, Sr.’s words. You sly old fox, I thought. From now on the Handmaidens will have to go through Deirdre to get to you.
“Bill,” Willis, Sr., continued, “will you please show Mr. and Mrs. Donovan where to park their vehicle and assist them in conveying their possessions to their quarters?” He turned to the young couple. “Your pantry is not yet stocked, I fear, but we shall amend the oversight as soon as the shops open. In the meantime, please regard the downstairs kitchen as your own. Take from it whatever you need. You will find a wide selection of comestibles from which to choose.”
His last comment was true, if understated. The kitchen was fairly bulging with party leftovers.
“Thank you, sir,” said Declan. “With all of the confusion, we never did get around to having supper.”
“Would you like me to prepare something for you, sir?” Deirdre inquired. “A midnight feast, perhaps, featuring a few of your favorite dishes?”
“I suggest that you tend to your own needs this evening,” said Willis, Sr. “We can discuss mine after we’ve all had some rest.” He caught my eye and said meaningfully, “Lori? Your presence is required in the study.”
“Good night, sir,” said Declan. “And thank you again.”
“Thank you, sir,” Deirdre echoed.
Willis, Sr., nodded cordially.
“Welcome aboard,” Bill said as he led the Donovans out of the library. “I think you’ll like your new digs. You’ll be the first to live there.”
I watched them go, then returned to the study with Willis, Sr. He resumed his seat behind his desk, but I remained standing, with my arms folded, eyeing him doubtfully. Part of me wanted to do a merry jig, but another part urged restraint until I’d heard the whole story.
“What happened?” I asked. “I’ve never known you to make up your mind so quickly. What did the Donovans do? Offer to work for free?”
“I can assure you that my decision was not made with undue haste.” Willis, Sr., opened a desk drawer and removed several sheets of fax paper, which he placed upon the desk. “Mrs. Trent sent the Donovans’ completed application form to me yesterday morning. Having spent most of the day contemplating their qualifications, I was well-prepared to conduct an interview. I saw no reason to prolong either their suspense or yours by subjecting them to unnecessary cross-examination.”
“A job application isn’t the same as a face-to-face meeting,” I pointed out.
“Their demeanor and their appearance impressed me favorably,” said Willis, Sr. “You need have no doubts about my decision, Lori. I am convinced that the Donovans and I will enjoy a long and pleasant working relationship.”
“Right.” I held out my hand. “May I see their application form?”
“Not now,” he said firmly and returned the papers to the drawer. “My stamina, though remarkable for a man of my age, is not limitless. It has been a long day and it is not yet over. Please, I beg of you, telephone Mrs. Pyne.”
Four
I jumped to obey Willis, Sr.’s plaintive command, whipping out my cell phone and rapidly punching in the tearoom’s number. Rainey Dawson answered on the first ring. The dialogue that followed could have come straight from a cheesy spy novel.
“The coast is clear,” I murmured.
“Gran’ll be right over,” Rainey said tersely.
And that was it.
I relayed the information, such as it was, to Willis, Sr., and parted the drapes to watch for Sally’s arrival, but turned away from the window when Bill came into the room.
“I can see why the Donovans had car trouble,” he announced.
“They drive a blue Renault camper van that should have been sent to a junkyard years ago. When I climbed inside to show Declan where to park, I was afraid my foot would go through the floor.”
“Perhaps it will look better in the light of day,” Willis, Sr., suggested.
“I doubt it,” said Bill, easing himself into his armchair.
“Did you assist the young people with their luggage?” asked Willis, Sr.
“I carried a suitcase from the van to the elevator,” Bill replied, “but Declan said he could take it from there. I think he felt awkward, having his boss’s son lug gear for him, so I left him to it. Deirdre’s already busy in the kitchen. They must be starving.” He leaned back in the chair, stretched out his long legs, and loosened his tie. “Have you called Sally?”
“Yes,” I said. “Rainey told me that Sally would come right over, so she should be here in five or ten min—” I broke off as the doorbell rang.
“Good grief,” said Bill, frowning. “She must have run all the way.”
I glanced at him and knew at once that we were thinking the same thought: Sally Pyne? Run?
I set off at a trot to answer the door. I should have been exhausted, but curiosity had banished my fatigue. I felt like a cub reporter on the verge of landing her first big scoop: Legal Eagle in Covert Confab with La Señora. I wasn’t sure if Sally’s pickle could live up to the hype surrounding it but I was champing at the bit to find out what it was all about. When it came to being a dyed-in-the-wool busybody, my neighbors had nothing on me.
I was halfway down the central corridor when Deirdre Donovan strode into the entrance hall from the morning room. She’d evidently discovered that Fairworth House offered a number of different routes to the front door, which meant that she’d already begun to explore her new domain. I gave her full marks for using her initiative and stood back to allow her to carry out what was now her duty rather than mine.
Deirdre had exchanged her scuffed pumps for a spotless pair and swapped her summer dress for a crisp white blouse and a high-waisted pencil skirt that flattered her curves. This picture of perfection opened the front door to a panting and perspiring Sally Pyne, who was clad in a mud-spattered brown sweat suit that made her look like a freshly harvested potato. If Deirdre was surprised to find a distraught and disheveled woman on the doorstep, she didn’t show it.
“Good evening,” she said pleasantly. “May I ask who’s calling?”
Sally’s mouth fell open, but no sound came out.
“Hi, Sally,” I called, rushing forward. “Please allow me to introduce you to William’s new housekeeper, Mrs. Donovan.”
“H-housekeeper?” Sally managed. “Since when?”
I could almost see Sally’s nose twitch as she caught the scent of fresh gossip. Although the poor woman was clearly beside herself with worry, she simply couldn’t resist the urge to snoop.
“Since very recently,” I replied shortly. “I’ll take Mrs. Pyne through, Deirdre.”
“Shall I serve tea in the study?” Deirdre inquired.
“Yes, please,” I said gratefully. “As soon as possible.”
Deirdre nodded and took off for the kitchen, her heels clacking loudly on the marble floor.
Sally Pyne looked as though she needed a pick-me-up. Her round face was beet-red
, her short silvery hair stuck out in disorderly wisps all over her head, and a crumpled handkerchief dangled from the pocket of her sweatpants. I put my arm around her plump shoulders and guided her gently up the corridor.
“How recently?” she asked, clinging doggedly to the subject of Willis, Sr.’s new housekeeper.
“Less than an hour ago,” I replied. “They got lost on the way to Finch.”
“They?” Sally said sharply.
“Deirdre and Declan Donovan,” I explained. “They’re a married couple. Declan will look after the garden.”
“Irish?” she asked.
“He seems to be,” I said. “I’m not sure about her.”
Sally nodded distractedly. “Is her beauty spot real?”
“I haven’t tried to rub it off,” I said, rolling my eyes, “but I’m fairly sure she was born with it.”
“Exotic looking,” Sally muttered.
“Striking,” I commented, parroting Bill’s words.
“Same thing,” she retorted.
“Here we are,” I said, and ushered her into the study.
Bill and Willis, Sr., stood as Sally and I entered the room, but Sally didn’t acknowledge them. Silently, and with downcast eyes, she lowered herself into the button-backed leather chair I’d placed before the walnut desk. I sat in the chair I’d arranged next to hers, the better to hear every syllable that passed between her and my father-in-law.
“Good evening, Mrs. Pyne,” said Willis, Sr., and he and Bill resumed their seats. “Or shall I say, ‘Good morning’?”
Sally pulled the handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “What must you think of me, coming here in such a state, at such an hour?”
“I presume that you would not make such an assignation frivolously,” said Willis, Sr. “Please, calm yourself, Mrs. Pyne. You are among friends. What is said in this room is said in the strictest confidence.”
“B-but that’s the t-trouble,” Sally wailed. “There’s no such thing as p-privacy in F-Finch!” She shook her head, buried her face in her handkerchief, and burst into tears.
There was a knock at the study door and Deirdre Donovan appeared, carrying a silver tray laden with a handsome Georgian silver teapot, a splendid Rockingham tea service, and a large box of plain white tissues. I looked from the box of tissues to Deirdre’s pokerfaced expression and wondered if she was accustomed to dealing with hysterical visitors who arrived unannounced in the dead of night. If so, I thought, she must have worked in some very interesting households.
At a signal from Willis, Sr., she placed the tray on the Sheraton sideboard. Without being asked to do so, she moved his wastebasket from behind his desk to a spot near Sally’s feet and set the box of tissues within Sally’s reach, then stepped back and gazed expectantly at her employer.
“Will that be all, sir?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Donovan,” Willis, Sr., replied. “I will not require your services again until breakfast time.”
“What time would that be, sir?” she asked.
Willis, Sr., considered Sally Pyne before replying, “Nine o’clock, I think.”
“Very good, sir.” Deirdre left, closing the door behind her.
I served the tea. Bill and Willis, Sr., sipped theirs, but Sally tossed hers back as if it were a shot of whisky. The hot, sweet drink seemed to bolster her courage. She mopped her face with a handful of tissues, dropped them in the wastebasket, straightened her shoulders, and lifted her chin, as if steeling herself to face an unpleasant task.
“Now, Mrs. Pyne ...” Willis, Sr., spoke in the soothing tones of a highly successful attorney. “When you are quite ready, please feel free to describe the nature of the problem that appears to be troubling you.”
Sally took an unsteady breath and asked in a quavering voice, “Have you ever been to Mexico?”
“Yes,” Willis, Sr., answered. “I have been fortunate enough to visit Mexico on a number of occasions.”
“I never expected to go there,” she confessed. “I’ve been entering contests ever since I was a girl and I’ve never won anything, so I never thought I’d win something as grand as a trip to the Mexican Riviera! It seemed so wonderful when the World Trek lady—”
“World trek?” queried Willis, Sr.
“The travel magazine that sponsored the contest,” Sally explained. “When the lady from World Trek rang to tell me I’d won, it was like a dream come true, except that I never dreamed of such a thing happening to me.” She sniffed. “If I’d known what would come of it, I would have torn up the ruddy entry form and thrown it out with the rubbish!”
“Oh, dear,” Willis, Sr., said sympathetically. “May I ask why?”
Sally seized another tissue and blew her nose.
“When I was in Mexico, everything was so ... different,” she said with a forlorn sigh. “The sun and the sea and the palm trees and all the bright colors ... and I was different, too. I made a whole new set of clothes for the trip—resort wear, they call it in World Trek—because I wanted to fit in. I didn’t want to look like a plain Jane who runs a teashop in a village no one’s ever heard of. I wanted to look ... glamorous ... like someone who was used to cabanas and palapas and lounging by the pool all day. And I did.” She turned to me. “You saw the things I made, Lori. They’re lovely, aren’t they?”
“They’re splendid,” I agreed, recalling the embroidered peasant blouses, the muslin skirts, and the flowing dresses Sally had shown me before her departure. “You’re an amazing seamstress.”
Sally reached out to give my hand a grateful squeeze, then turned back to Willis, Sr.
“Since I looked the part,” she went on, “I thought I might as well act the part as well. I tarted up my accent and ordered fancy drinks and let the camareros wait on me hand and foot.” She shrugged helplessly. “You know how foreigners are when they hear any sort of English accent. They think we’re all lords and ladies living in castles and taking tea with the queen every other Wednesday. They made it easy for me to ... to pretend to be grander than I am. It was just a bit of fun,” she said, eyeing Willis, Sr., defensively. “There’s nothing wrong with pretending to be someone else for a little while, is there?”
“It depends on what happens as a result of pretending,” Willis, Sr., replied judiciously. “There can, of course, be serious consequences to assuming a false identity.”
“You’re so right.” Sally nodded dejectedly. “Because on the second day of my trip, Henrique came along—Señor Henrique Cocinero.” Her tear-streaked face softened as the exotic name rolled off her tongue.
I stared at Sally, enthralled. If she’d gone off the rails with a man, it would be the biggest scandal to hit Finch since Peggy Taxman had accused my former nanny of burgling the vicarage. Bill shifted his position in his chair, but I kept as still as a statue, for fear of distracting her. I was dying to know what, if anything, had happened between her and Señor Cocinero.
“Henrique is quite well-off,” Sally went on. “He wears lovely white suits and Panama hats and he knows good tequila from bad and he’s a real gentleman, too, with polished manners and perfect grooming and ... and he took a fancy to me, so—just for fun—I went on pretending that I was the Honorable Lady Sarah Pyne, a wealthy widow who loves to travel.” Sally managed a faint smile. “And it worked! Henrique actually believed that I came from the same sort of world he came from. We had the most wonderful time together. He took me with him to Coba, to climb the Mayan pyramid I told you about. We went kayaking across a laguna and snorkeling near a coral reef and ...”
As Sally recounted her by-now familiar list of adventures, my doubts about her veracity slowly melted away. If love made all things possible—and I had reason to believe it did—then surely a holiday romance could propel a plump, silver-haired teashop owner to the top of a pyramid and beyond.
“... and he bought this for me.” Sally fished a delicate silver chain from the collar of her grubby sweatshirt and displayed a snowflake-shaped silver pe
ndant embellished with a curious golden symbol. “It’s the letter S in the Mayan alphabet,” she explained. “S for Sarah.”
“A striking adornment,” said Willis, Sr.
“I told Henrique I’d treasure it always,” she said wistfully, tucking the chain out of sight. “The nine days I spent with him were the happiest days of my life.”
“And yet,” Willis, Sr., observed, “you do not appear to be happy.”
Sally reacted like a guilty schoolgirl, ducking her head and fixing her gaze on the floor.
“I haven’t quite told you everything,” she said, in a subdued voice.
“I thought not,” said Willis, Sr. “Pray continue.”
Sally cleared her throat. “You must understand, William, that once Kit and Nell were married, the only topic of conversation in Finch was Fairworth House. It was Fairworth House this and Fairworth House that, all day long, so naturally, Fairworth House was very much on my mind when I went away to Mexico.” She kept her head down and clasped her hands together in her lap. “Which is why, when Henrique asked me where I lived, I told him ... I told him ...”
“You told Señor Cocinero that you live in Fairworth House?” Willis, Sr., hazarded.
“It just popped out!” Sally blurted, blushing furiously. “I didn’t mean any harm by it, but one thing led to another and before I knew it, I’d told him that Fairworth was my family’s ancestral estate and I ... I invited him to drop in if he ever came to England.” She looked pleadingly at Willis, Sr. “It seemed like the sort of thing rich people did. How was I to know that he’d accept my invitation?”
Sally burst into tears again. I patted her back, offered her tissues, and exchanged astonished glances with Bill, who was sitting in rapt attention on the edge of his chair.
“I had a letter from him this morning,” Sally managed shakily, when her sobs had subsided.
“How?” Willis, Sr., inquired.
“Beg pardon?” asked Sally.
“How did he send a letter to you?” he clarified. “If Señor Cocinero addressed a letter to Lady Sarah Pyne of Fairworth Hall, surely it would have come to me rather than to you.”
Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree Page 4
