Though the women’s fashions reflected different eras, their features were strikingly similar. The artist had elected to paint all the faces from the same angle, as if to underscore the resemblance. Each woman had high cheekbones, a strong, straight nose, shapely lips, and almond-shaped eyes, and each had a prominent mole near the corner of her right eye.
“Mama painted it,” Aunt Augusta said, gazing affectionately at the family tree. “She wrote the names as well. It was the sort of thing women did in those days—needlework and painting and calligraphy. Busy hands are happy hands, she used to say.”
“Your mother was a gifted artist,” said Willis, Sr., with heartfelt sincerity.
“Papa used to tease her,” said Aunt Augusta. “He scolded her for putting her own face into every portrait. But Fairworthy women have always looked alike. It’s what comes of inbreeding.” She chuckled heartily and looked from image to image, as if she were reacquainting herself with old friends.
I studied her upturned face in the firelight. Though her skin had lost its luster, her bone structure all but shouted her allegiance to the Fairworthy clan, and when she tilted her head to one side, I discerned a faded mole half hidden in the wrinkles near her right eye.
Deirdre crossed to stand beside Willis, Sr.
“I know from old family photographs Aunt Augusta brought with her that I look almost exactly as she did when she was my age,” she said. “When Aunt Augusta told me that the faces in the family tree looked like hers, I panicked, because it meant that those faces would also look like mine.”
“Deirdre was afraid,” said Declan, leaving his chair to put a protective arm around his wife. “She was afraid that, when you saw the resemblance, you’d realize that she was a Fairworthy.”
“Once you made the connection,” said Deirdre, “you’d be bound to wonder why I’d returned to Fairworth without declaring my true identity, and you’d suspect me of having ulterior motives.”
“Which you had,” Willis, Sr., pointed out.
Deirdre clasped her hands together pleadingly. “Yes, but we never meant—”
“Please forgive the intrusion,” Henrique broke in. His slight frown deepened to a scowl as he got to his feet and strode over to plant himself, arms akimbo, before Deirdre and Declan. “I am a guest in this house and I do not wish to interfere, but I can no longer hold my tongue. I must ask you: Why do you speak only to Señor Willis? Why do you make no apology to Lady Sarah? It is she who employs you, no? It is her trust you have betrayed.”
“Never mind, Henrique,” Sally said lightly. “I leave all of my staffing problems to Cousin William.”
She darted over and began to tug her gallant defender back with her to the chaise longue, but she’d taken no more than a step when she looked up, gave a horrified squeal, and spun in a queer little pirouette that left her huddling behind Henrique.
I scanned the room to see what had frightened her and beheld a vision that made my blood run cold.
Peggy Taxman and the four Handmaidens stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their arms folded and their faces like thunder, peering beadily through the window at Sally Pyne.
“Oh, dear,” said Willis, Sr. “The jig, it seems, is up.”
Twenty-Two
“Good God, what’s gotten into the woman?” Aunt Augusta turned her head to leer saucily at Henrique. “Pinch her bottom, did you, Señor?”
Henrique looked affronted. “Señora, I would never—”
“Shall I answer the door, sir?” asked Deirdre.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Donovan. I shall attend to it. Mr. Donovan? Christopher?” Willis, Sr., always used Kit’s given name rather than his nickname. “Please bring five chairs from the dining room and arrange them in a row at a right angle to my daughter-in-law’s chair. Mrs. Donovan? I believe we shall need a larger pot of tea. Please, Mrs. Pyne, have a seat and attempt to control your emotions. Lori, close your mouth. I shall return in due course.”
He flicked an index finger at the apparitions in the window to indicate that he would meet them at the front door, then left the room. Kit and Declan went in search of chairs and Deirdre went to the kitchen. Henrique coaxed Sally to return with him to the chaise longue. I closed my mouth and stumbled dejectedly to my chair.
It’s over, I thought numbly. The fantasy world we’d constructed to safeguard Sally’s reputation was about to be reduced to rubble. The web of lies we’d woven would be ripped to shreds, Sally would be exposed as a fraud, and Henrique would realize that the woman he loved had deceived him. Sally’s heart would be broken beyond repair. She would leave Finch in disgrace, taking her jam doughnuts and her delightful granddaughter with her. One more day, I told myself, and we would have been home-free. Aunt Dimity’s absurd and glorious scheme, the greatest act of deception ever perpetrated on the good people of Finch, had come painfully close to succeeding, but it had in the end crashed and burned.
I was only distantly aware of movement as Kit and Declan arranged the five dining room chairs as per Willis, Sr.’s instructions, then resumed their seats. Some time later, Deirdre returned, pushing a tea trolley laden with an ornate silver tea urn and five additional cups and saucers. For a while, no one spoke. Then Aunt Augusta shifted restlessly in her chair and craned her neck to search the room.
“Where’s Ernest?” she asked querulously. “Gone to bed, has he? Party pooper.”
I, too, began to wonder what was keeping Willis, Sr., but before I could voice my concerns, the door to the entrance hall opened and the four Handmaidens shuffled in, followed by Peggy Taxman. Bringing up the rear, like a shepherd chivying a flock of recalcitrant ewes, was Willis, Sr. He gestured wordlessly for the newcomers to be seated in the dining room chairs, then crossed to stand with his back to the fireplace, facing them. His night attire did nothing to diminish his air of authority.
Though they eyed Frederick, the family tree, Henrique, and Aunt Augusta with undisguised curiosity, Elspeth, Opal, Selena, and Millicent seemed strangely subdued, almost cowed, and Peggy’s lips were clenched so tightly that she might have had lockjaw. They accepted their cups of tea with soft words of thanks, then subsided into what was, to my knowledge, a wholly unprecedented silence.
Willis, Sr.’s gaze never wavered from their faces as he began, “Most of you are familiar with Mrs. Hodge of Hodge Farm.”
Kit and I exchanged puzzled glances. Like him, I couldn’t imagine what Annie Hodge had to do with anything.
“You may not be aware of the fact that Mrs. Hodge’s brother-in-law is a member of the Upper Deeping fire brigade,” Willis, Sr., continued. “When the brigade was recalled earlier this evening, Mrs. Hodge’s relative stopped at Hodge Farm to inform her and her husband that the fire at Fairworth House had, mercifully, been a false alarm. Mrs. Hodge then used the telephone to relay the essential points of their conversation to Mrs. Taxman, who in turn, relayed them to Miss Scroggins, and so on and so forth.”
“Busybodies,” muttered Aunt Augusta.
The corners of Willis, Sr.’s mouth twitched, but he went on as if Aunt Augusta hadn’t spoken.
“Though assured that reports of a fire at Fairworth House had been greatly exaggerated, these greathearted and thoughtful women—”
Aunt Augusta snorted derisively.
“—felt compelled to see for themselves that all was well with their dear friend, Lady Sarah.” Willis, Sr., eyes swiveled briefly toward Sally, then focused implacably on the five women opposite him. “They convened an impromptu meeting during which they debated the advisability of visiting Lady Sarah so late at night and decided unanimously that she would welcome their support and encouragement regardless of the lateness of the hour.” He stopped talking, raised an eyebrow, and cleared his throat loudly.
“Yes, William.” Peggy Taxman spoke stiffly, as if the words were choking her. “We’re . . . pleased ... to know ... that you’re well ... Lady Sarah.”
“Very pleased, Lady Sarah,” echoed the Handmaidens, looking daggers at Sally.
; “You see, Lady Sarah?” said Willis, Sr., beaming like a manic game show host. “Your loyal friends—”
“Stop it, William.” Sally’s face was a mask of anguish. “You’ve been impossibly kind, but I can’t . . . I can’t do it anymore. I can’t tell any more lies.”
Willis, Sr.’s artificial smile vanished. He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed to Sally, saying gravely, “As you wish, Mrs. Pyne.”
“Mrs. Pyne?” said Henrique.
“Yes, Mrs. Pyne,” said Sally, her voice trembling. “That’s who I am, Henrique. I’m not Lady Sarah. I’m Sally Pyne, the widow who runs the teashop in Finch. I’m the stupid fool of a woman who put on airs and graces in Mexico, just for a bit of fun, then kept playacting because she knew that a man like you would never waste his time on a plain lump of a woman like me.”
Henrique attempted to speak, but she waved him to silence.
“Fairworth House is William’s home, not mine,” she said, blinking back her tears. “He concocted this whole scheme to protect me from them.” She pointed a shaking finger at Peggy Taxman and her companions. “If you’d come to the tearoom, Henrique, if they’d found out how foolishly I’d behaved in Mexico, they would have hounded me until my dying day. I couldn’t’ve stood it. I would’ve had to leave Finch and start over somewhere else and I don’t want to live anywhere else.” Her chest heaved as she gulped for breath. “So now you know. You know who I really am and you know what I’ve done. I’m not proud of myself and I won’t blame you if you walk away.”
“Walk away?” said Henrique. “And lose my backgammon partner? Are you stark staring mad, woman?”
“No, that would be me,” said Aunt Augusta.
“H-Henrique,” Sally stammered. “Y-your accent . . .”
“Is as phony as your tiara, my dear,” said Henrique, who suddenly sounded as English as Mr. Barlow. “Since it seems to be a night for confessions, I’ll make one to you. I’m no more Henrique Cocinero than you are Lady Sarah. Henry Cook’s the name. How do you do?” He caught Sally’s hand in his and shook it firmly.
“Henry Cook?” she said faintly, the color draining from her face.
“Born and raised in Putney,” he said. “I’ve worked the Carribean cruise ship circuit for the past thirty years as a general entertainer. You know the sort of thing: acting, singing—”
“Juggling,” I put in, entranced, “magic tricks.”
“That’s the ticket,” he said, nodding amiably. “I retired last year and found myself at loose ends. When I met you I got so homesick that I thought I’d come back to old Blighty and look you up. Now I won’t deny that marrying a rich woman seemed like a good idea at the time, but blimey, I couldn’t’ve done it if it meant being Henrique for the rest of my life. I don’t fancy being loved for my accent.”
“B-but I do love your accent,” Sally faltered.
“This I will do for you whenever you desire it, querida,” Henry purred. “Just not all the bleedin’ time, all right?”
“So that’s why you liked Deirdre’s cooking,” I said, clapping a hand to my forehead. “It really did remind you of your mother’s.”
“After dining on steak and lobster for the past thirty years, a bit of plain cooking hit the spot,” said Henry, patting his ample stomach.
“Are you telling me that we’re both big fat liars?” Sally asked incredulously.
“That’s right,” Henry replied cheerfully. “And I’m not planning on going anywhere unless you ask me to leave.”
Sally gazed into his eyes for a breathless moment, then cupped his round face in her pudgy hands and said, “I’m not asking you to leave.”
“Good,” said Henry. “Because I love you, Sally Pyne, and I intend to marry you.” He kissed her full on the lips, then inclined his head toward the Handmaidens. “And you don’t have to worry about those spiteful old cats. If they try to dig their claws into you, they’ll have to deal with me first.”
“Spiteful?” cried Opal Taylor.
“Old?” protested Millicent Scroggins.
“Cats?” yowled Selena Buxton.
“I’ve never been so insulted in all my life,” huffed Elspeth Binney.
“You ain’t heard nothin’ yet,” said Henry. “Hunting season is over, ladies. My Sally is off-limits.” He stood and drew Sally to her feet. “Fancy a stroll in the garden? You and me have a lot to talk about, starting with this ‘plain lump of a woman’ rubbish. You’re my pleasingly plump little pudding, and don’t you forget it.” He tucked Sally’s hand into the crook of his arm and strode jauntily out of the drawing room, looking as if he’d just won the lottery.
“To love someone as she is,” Willis, Sr., said quietly, “this is the very essence of love.”
The sound of a suppressed sob came from my left and I turned just in time to see Peggy Taxman dash a tear from her eye.
“I’ve known Sally Pyne for nearly fifty years,” she said gruffly. “How could she think I’d hound her out of Finch? I only wanted her to tell the truth about that letter from Mexico.”
“And now she has,” said Willis, Sr. “Thank you for your cooperation, ladies. Though it turned out to be unnecessary, it was greatly appreciated. Please allow me to escort you to the door.”
“Uh, William?” said Millicent, peering inquisitively at Aunt Augusta.
“Not tonight, Miss Scroggins,” Willis, Sr., said with a pleasant smile. “I have contributed enough grist to the rumor mill for now. The rest will have to wait. Mrs. Donovan? Will you please close the draperies?”
He drew a white linen handkerchief from the breast pocket of his dressing gown and gave it to Peggy Taxman as they led the Handmaidens out of the drawing room. Deirdre made short work of the drapes, then returned to her chair to speak in undertones with her husband.
“Lady Sarah is Sally Pyne,” Kit recited softly. “Henrique Cocinero is Henry Cook. Deirdre Donovan’s a Fairworthy and Declan’s a thief. Aunt Augusta’s a stowaway and Peggy Taxman is capable of feeling remorse.” He gave a low whistle. “Lori, you must always let me come with you when you’re staking out a house.”
“Some night, huh?” I said, shaking my head bemusedly as I leaned back in my chair.
“Frederick,” murmured Aunt Augusta. “It’s a good name. Dimity would have liked it.”
“Who?” I exclaimed, sitting bolt upright.
“Dimity Westwood,” she answered dreamily. “She lived in a cottage not far from here. We were great chums, Dimity and I. Used to climb trees together, get into all sorts of scrapes. She gave Frederick to me on my tenth birthday.”
“Dimity Westwood gave Frederick to you?” I said, gaping at her.
“On my tenth birthday,” she repeated, smiling, “to keep me company when I went away to school. He’s been with me ever since.”
My mind went into overload mode until another question raised its hand.
“Did Dimity Westwood give you the seed cake recipe, too?” I asked.
“She copied it from her mother’s cookbook,” Aunt Augusta replied. “It isn’t to everyone’s taste, but I’ve always loved it. Deirdre makes it for me now.” The old woman closed her eyes, rested her head against the back of her chair, and drifted off to sleep.
Before I could even begin to digest what my dazed brain hoped would be the last of the evening’s revelations, Willis, Sr., stepped into the drawing room, closed the door behind him, and resumed his seat in the Chippendale armchair. I tried to read his expression, but it was like trying to read granite.
“I shall now summarize the matters that were under discussion before Mrs. Pyne’s friends came to call.” He pursed his lips and gazed severely from Deirdre to Declan, as though he were about to sentence them both to the gallows. “You accepted positions in my household under false pretenses. You allowed an unstable woman to wander at will through my house, jeopardizing her own safety as well as the safety of every other person under my roof. You burgled Crabtree Cottage, causing Mr. Tavistock great mental and emotional distr
ess, and you concealed the stolen item on these premises.”
“We didn’t intend to keep the family tree, sir,” Declan said desperately. He glanced at Deirdre, who did nothing but hang her head. “We only wanted to buy Aunt Augusta a little more time here at Fairworth. She has so little time left, you see.”
“Yes, Mr. Donovan, I do see,” Willis, Sr., said crisply. “I see that you and your wife have behaved with a reckless disregard for other people as well as the law.”
I stared at Willis, Sr., in dismay. It seemed a bit ripe for a man who’d spent the past four days participating in an all-out fib fest to judge the Donovans so harshly. If they’d been the master criminals I’d taken them for, I would have cheered him on, but their actions had been based on love, not greed, and no one had been seriously hurt. Grant himself had admitted that a liberal application of his favorite beverage would cure his mental and emotional distress in no time flat. I couldn’t understand why Willis, Sr., was taking such a hard line.
“Have you anything else to say in your defense?” he asked.
Declan swallowed hard and answered, “No, sir.”
“In that case,” said Willis, Sr., “I have no choice but to smooth things over with Mr. Tavistock, ask you to hire the extra help you need, and attempt to convince Aunt Augusta that I am not her deceased cousin Ernest, an endeavor which in itself may take several years of concentrated effort.”
Kit burst out laughing and I glared reproachfully at Willis, Sr.
“Jeepers, William,” I said. “You had me going there for a minute. I thought my sons’ loving grandfather had suddenly turned into Mr. Nasty.”
“Um,” said Declan, peering uncertainly at his employer. “Are you saying that we can stay, sir? All three of us?”
Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree Page 21
