“She’s too proud to accept charity, so it’s no good passing the hat,” she said. “I have a plan that will enable Mrs. Craven to support herself, but it’ll take all of us to make it work.”
“Just tell us what to do,” said Grant Tavistock.
“We sell her quilts,” said Bree, “and I’m sorry, Mr. Bunting, but we don’t donate the profits to St. George’s.”
“I wouldn’t hear of it,” the vicar said indignantly.
“I know you wouldn’t, Mr. Bunting. We all do.” Bree gave him a reassuring smile, then nodded at Emma Harris, who sat beside me. “I’ve already spoken with Emma. Before she started her riding school, Emma was a professional software designer. She’s agreed to design and to implement an online campaign targeted at quilt collectors across the globe.”
A rumble of approval rippled through the room, and Christine Peacock leaned forward to clap Emma on the shoulder.
“The market for handmade quilts is very healthy at the moment,” Emma said to the room at large. “Collectors demand authenticity, and no one is more authentic than Mrs. Craven. The prices they’re willing to pay will make your eyes pop.”
“You’ve brought up a good point, Emma,” said Bree. “Before we sell the quilts, we have to figure out a fair market price for them. That’s where Grant and Charles come in. They make a living valuing art—and I think we can all agree that Mrs. Craven’s quilts qualify as art.”
“I framed mine,” said Hayley Calthorp.
“So did I,” I chimed in.
“They’re art of the highest quality,” Charles proclaimed. “Mrs. Craven sold them for a fraction of their worth. Grant and I will see to it that her works are priced fairly.”
“You can also use your connections in London to get them into high-end shops,” said Bree.
“Leave that part to me,” said Penny. She rose from her front-row seat and turned to address the assembly. “My name is Penelope Moorecroft. I’m Annabelle Craven’s sister-in-law, and because I have lots of grandchildren and great-grandchildren, I’m known in every fashionable children’s boutique in London. I’ll have no trouble persuading the owners to sell Annabelle’s quilts at boutique prices.”
“We’ll contact art museums,” said Grant. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see a bidding war break out over Mrs. Craven’s masterpieces.”
“I can help there as well,” said Penny.
“Mrs. Moorecroft is a well-known sculptor,” Bree put in, for the benefit of those who were unaware of Penny’s profession.
“I’m personally acquainted with quite a few museum directors as well as a number of influential gallery owners,” Penny said. “If they wish to display my work or to be invited to my open houses in future, they’ll join the bidding war.”
Charles and Grant saluted her amid general applause, and she resumed her seat. Looking a bit disgruntled, Sally Cook spoke up.
“I’m not a computer expert,” she said, “and I don’t shop in hoity-toity boutiques. I’ve never set foot in an art gallery, and I wouldn’t recognize a museum curator unless he was wearing a name tag that said ‘Hello, I’m a Museum Curator.’ What can people like me do to help Mrs. Craven?”
“For a start, you can help her to refill her fabric bins,” said Bree. “No tatty scraps, please. Don’t bring her any cloth you wouldn’t want to see in a quilt made for a child you love.”
“Old cotton,” said Mr. Barlow. “It’s what she prefers.”
“I’ll turn out my cupboards,” said Christine Peacock, “and have a good rummage in the charity shops.”
“I’ll look through the bins at the needlework store in Upper Deeping,” said Emma, who was as proficient at knitting as she was at everything else. “They always have off-cuts for sale.”
“There’s something else we can all do,” said Bree. “I’m willing to bet that most of the people who bought Mrs. Craven’s quilts at the fete were aware that she was selling them for a pittance.”
“I bought my quilts from her when she lived in Old Cowerton,” said Hayley Calthorp. “I wanted to pay her more, but she wouldn’t accept it. Annabelle’s always been too modest for her own good.”
“You’re right about that,” said Bree, “but we can be brazen on her behalf.”
“How?” Sally asked.
“If you know people who bought Mrs. Craven’s quilts in the past,” said Bree, “you can try to persuade them to chip in a little extra, to bring the price closer to what it should have been in the first place. Some of them will look the other way, but others—the ones with a functioning conscience—may be open to the idea.”
“It’s worth a try,” said Sally. “It might even be fun. I’m not afraid to play the guilt card in a good cause.”
I could see Elspeth Binney, Opal Taylor, Millicent Scroggins, and Selena Buxton sit up and take notice when Sally mentioned the guilt card. The Handmaidens were singularly adept at haggling. They had no compunction about employing guilt as a means to achieve their ends. I almost pitied the quilt owners they would visit.
“We’ll see what we can do in Old Cowerton,” said Lorna Small, and the rest of the Craven Manor Crew nodded emphatically.
“You might even find people willing to sell the quilts back to us at their original prices,” Bree added. “The more of those people you find, the better. If Mrs. Craven’s quilts take off, she may not be able to keep up with the demand.”
“She won’t have to,” Charles said confidently. “Rarity increases value. It’s not always true, of course, but in this case, it is. I agree that it would be helpful to have a backlog of quilts, but with the proper positioning and promotion, Mrs. Craven should be able to live quite comfortably on no more than ten or twelve quilt sales a year.”
“Five or six, if I have anything to do with it,” Penny interjected.
“Lori and I saw a big stack of finished quilts on her dining room table when we were at her house on Thursday,” said Bree. “She’s getting them ready for the fete.”
“It’s time for us to get to work, then,” said Grant.
“We’ll have to take photographs of the quilts,” said Emma, “and write up an appealing biography.”
“I wonder if we could persuade her to name her quilts?” Elspeth Binney asked. “It would add a storybook touch.”
“She’ll think it’s a very silly thing to do,” said Bree, “but if we ask her nicely, she might do it.”
“We’ll take a portrait photograph of Mrs. Craven to go along with the biography,” Charles said. “Her face guarantees her authenticity.”
“I can set up the quilt frame again, and you can take snaps of her working at it,” Mr. Barlow suggested.
“Why not film her working at the quilt frame?” said Henry Cook. “Emma will know how to post it online.”
“Brilliant!” Elspeth exclaimed.
“I saw a basket filled with old cotton aprons at the charity shop last week,” said Christine. “I’m sure Mrs. Craven will be able to do something with them.” She stood and bellowed, “Who wants to come with me to Upper Deeping?”
From that point on, the meeting was up for grabs. Lilian Bunting, Sally Cook, and Felicity Hobson joined Christine Peacock’s charity shop expedition. Charles Bellingham and Grant Tavistock swept Emma Harris off to meet Penny Moorecroft. The Handmaidens and the Craven Manor Crew came together to compare wheedling techniques. Everywhere I looked I saw knots of people discussing ways to build on Bree’s ideas. I’d seldom been prouder of my village.
To my very great astonishment, Peggy Taxman allowed the creative free-for-all to continue without her guidance. She gave the gavel a feeble tap, then shook her head and joined her husband and the vicar to decide how best to replace Mrs. Craven’s stall at the upcoming church fete.
Bree jumped down from the dais and stood beside me to survey her handiwork.
“How did y
ou get Peggy to keep her mouth shut?” I asked quietly.
“I promised not to disrupt her meetings for the next six months,” Bree replied. “I’m afraid Bess and I will have to take our games of Big Bad Bear outside for a while.”
“The fresh air will do her good,” I said. “You have to hand it to Peggy, though. She hit the nail on the head when she called today’s meeting extraordinary. I’ve never seen anything like it. Your plan for saving Mrs. Craven is off and running.”
“Do you think it’ll work?” Bree asked.
“With a truly wise woman at the helm,” I said, nudging her with my elbow, “how can it fail?”
Epilogue
In the end, Bill decided not to burn the tent. After some deliberation—and a good night’s sleep—he realized that the tent’s immolation would send the wrong message to the boys and quite possibly poison them as it released toxic fumes into the atmosphere.
Instead of roasting marshmallows over his bête noire, we cleaned it up and returned it to the attic with the rest of the camping gear. If more than an inch of dust accumulates on the gear, we’ve agreed to donate it to the charity shop in Upper Deeping. I’ll be up there with a ruler next April.
Like me, Bill prefers to rough it at the White Hart. After leaving the children with Willis, Sr., and Amelia, he and I spent a long weekend there a few weeks after my first visit to Old Cowerton. Francesco greeted us like old friends and made sure that everything was arranged perfectly for us in the honeymoon suite.
We left a big tip for red-haired Megan after she served us omelets at the Willows Café. We stopped in Nash’s News to hear the latest gossip from Hayley Calthorp. We had a cup of tea with Minnie and Susan Jessop at Sunnyside, and we spent several pleasant hours with Penny Moorecroft at Craven Manor.
Before we left Old Cowerton, we dropped by Newhaven to deliver a basket of baked goods to Mildred, Myrtle, and Mabel. I was unimpressed with the level of hygiene as well as the medical care I found there, but as I told Bill, If we visit the places we don’t want to visit, we may force the people who run them to run them better.
When Bree’s partner, Jack MacBride, returned from his lecture tour in Scandinavia, she roped him into helping her run the Saving Mrs. Craven Campaign, as it came to be called. Jack’s main contribution was a pair of strong legs, which he put to good use hauling fabric bins up and down from Mrs. Craven’s attic. The bins came down empty but went up full, thanks to the villagers’ copious contributions of old cotton cloth.
No one who owned a precampaign baby quilt was willing to sell it back to Mrs. Craven, but nearly everyone was willing to pay the difference between the pittance she’d charged and the fair market value. I was the first to pay my share. I would have paid twice as much to keep Sally Cook and the Handmaidens from descending on me, armed with the guilt card.
Though she thought it was very silly indeed, Mrs. Craven put up with the photo shoot in the old schoolhouse, and the charming video Henry Cook made of her using the quilt frame quickly went viral. No matter how nicely we asked her, however, she refused to name her quilts, nor would she allow anyone else to name them.
“They already have names,” she insisted. “Old Maid’s Ramble, Johnny ’Round the Corner, Tumbling Blocks, Broken Dishes . . . If those names were good enough for the generations of quilters who came before me, they’re good enough for me.”
Thanks to the efforts of Bree, Emma, Penny, Charles, Grant, and many others, Mrs. Craven has become a star in the quilting firmament. The bidding wars Grant predicted continue to take place, mainly online. When Emma told me how much money the first online auction brought in, I was compelled to admit that computers had their uses.
Even after Grant and Charles brought Mrs. Craven to see one of her quilts displayed in a museum, she couldn’t take her newfound status as an artist seriously.
“I think she’d still rather see her quilts stained, torn, and dragged through the mud by a toddler,” I said, looking down at the blue journal.
The study was still and silent. Bill was at his office in Finch, Will and Rob were in school, Stanley was asleep in Bill’s armchair, and Bess was enjoying a siesta in the nursery. Autumn sunlight fell softly through the strands of ivy crisscrossing the diamond-paned windows above the old oak desk, casting tangled shadows on the tall bookshelves. I smiled as the graceful lines of royal-blue ink unfurled across the blank page in a response Mrs. Craven would have appreciated.
Of course she would, Lori. The best-loved quilts tend to be used until they fall apart. What greater compliment could Mrs. Craven receive than to see her quilts loved to pieces?
“She certainly seems impervious to other kinds of compliments,” I commented. “She can’t understand why so many of us pitched in to help her. She puts it down to our goodness rather than hers.”
I was privileged to meet quite a few good people in my lifetime, Lori, and none of them thought of themselves as good. They didn’t consider themselves bad people, but they were aware of their flaws and they strove constantly to overcome them. Mrs. Craven might regard her reluctance to revisit her friends in Old Cowerton as a flaw.
“If she does, she’s striving to overcome it,” I said. “She hasn’t yet returned to Old Cowerton, and she may never return to Craven Manor, but she’s welcomed Penny, Susan, Gladys, and the rest of her old friends to Bluebell Cottage. She even invited Minnie to visit her!”
Has Minnie accepted the invitation?
“No,” I said, “but after Bill and I told her about the theft that prompted Zach’s disappearance, she said she might rethink her opinion of Annabelle.”
Good for Minnie! It’s not easy to reject a story one has believed for decades, especially when that story has been one’s claim to fame.
“Minnie’s Melting Moments are a much better claim to fame,” I said. “Annabelle served them at the unveiling of the Star of Bethlehem quilt in St. George’s on Sunday.”
Ah, yes, the quilt everyone helped to quilt at the quilting bee. I presume Mrs. Craven turned down the vicar’s offer to purchase it.
“She insisted on donating it to the church,” I said. “She says the quilting bee quilt belongs in St. George’s because it reflects the spirit of the community. All I can say is, if our wonky stitches reflect our community, then Finch is in deep trouble.”
I don’t think Mrs. Craven would agree with you, Lori. I think she would say that Finch got her out of trouble.
“We freed her from the widow’s curse of an impoverished old age,” I said. “What kind of a world drives a woman like Mrs. Craven to think that she would be better off as a prisoner than as a pensioner?”
You’ll go mad if you worry about the whole world, my dear. If you must think in global terms, think of kindness as a ripple that spreads outward. If you wish to make the world a better place, send out as many ripples as you can.
“Bree made a great big splash of kindness,” I said.
She’d be the first to tell you that she didn’t do it alone. Finch came together to help Mrs. Craven. When she looks at the quilt’s wonky stitches, I suspect she sees nothing but love.
“I hope so,” I said, but as I thought of my neighbors and their selfless efforts to save Mrs. Craven, I knew in my heart that Aunt Dimity was right. Friendships, like quilts, brought warmth and comfort to our lives. Our stitches might not be perfect, but they were as strong as the love that united us in the crazy quilt we called home.
Minnie’s Melting Moments
Ingredients
1 cup all-purpose flour
½ cup cornstarch
½ cup confectioners’ sugar
¾ cup butter
Directions
Combine dry ingredients.
Cream butter until fluffy.
Add creamed butter to dry ingredients and beat thoroughly.
Refrigerate dough for 1 hour.
Preheat o
ven to 300° F (150° C).
Shape chilled dough into 1-inch balls.
Place balls about 1½ inches apart on ungreased cookie sheets.
Flatten slightly with a lightly floured fork.
Bake for about 20 minutes or until edges are lightly browned. Do not overbake.
Serve with a cup of tea and a dollop of nonmalicious gossip. Enjoy!
Nancy Atherton is the author of twenty-one other Aunt Dimity mysteries, including many bestsellers. The first book in the series, Aunt Dimity’s Death, was voted “One of the Century’s 100 Favorite Mysteries” by the Independent Booksellers Association. She lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado.
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Aunt Dimity and the Widow's Curse Page 20
