Jamie slid the box into the niche, closed the tablet, and turned to place his hand upon the tomb, saying, “Rest in peace, Lucasta.”
“Rest in peace, Dad,” Wendy added, cocking an eye toward the ceiling’s central peak.
“Father,” Jamie murmured, bowing his head, “rest in peace.”
Twenty-two
I sat in the plump armchair with the journal resting in my lap, and Reginald cradled in the crook of my arm. The others had tumbled off to bed in a haze of exhaustion, but although I’d taken a deliciously long, hot bath and changed into the linen nightgown, I couldn’t let go of the day.
I replayed scenes from it over and over in my mind: the lengths of tattered muslin hanging from Lucasta’s bed, the beaded raven propped against her pillows, the mausoleum’s ghostly guardians, the flecks of light flitting like fairies across the polished white walls. I didn’t have to close my eyes to hear again the tenderness in Wendy’s voice when she uttered the word Dad, and the tremble in Jamie’s as he laid his father’s troubled soul to rest.
I tried to describe the scenes to Dimity, knowing that I couldn’t do them justice but hoping that, by speaking them aloud, I’d fix each separate moment in my memory. When I reached the end of the tale, I moved the oil lamp closer to the chair and watched as Dimity’s handwriting looped across the page.
It was clever of you to connect the parure with the mausoleum, Lori. May I ask what inspired such a penetrating revelation?
“Catchpole,” I replied. “He told me that Lucasta used to walk outside at night, but he wouldn’t tell me where she went. Then I remembered what you said about Lucasta keeping the jewels in a place that had a deeply personal meaning for her. When I put those two things together with Jamie’s vague description of a marble box, the answer just sort of jumped out at me.”
It’s not difficult to understand why Catchpole would be reluctant to admit that his mistress entered the mausoleum on a regular basis. He would consider it further evidence of her madness, which, of course, it was. I should have known that Lucasta would hide the parure among the dead. A burial chamber is, in hindsight, the most logical place for her to choose.
I lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t you think it’s a little . . . creepy?”
It’s a great deal more than a little creepy, my dear, but that doesn’t make it any less logical. The bullets that killed Lucasta’s young man killed something in her as well. She believed she’d never marry, never have a daughter upon whom to bestow the jewels. To her mind, the Peacock parure, which should have marked the beginning of a new and wonderful chapter in her life, served instead only to remind her of what might have been. When she entombed the parure, she enclosed with it her ability to love, to hope, to believe in the possibility of happiness.
“In her letter, she spoke of love,” I said wistfully. “And she seemed to speak of forgiveness. I’d like to think that she came to her senses before she died, that her generous spirit fought its way to the surface and overcame her anger.”
It’s possible. An appointment with the Grim Reaper tends to focus the mind on those things that are truly important. Perhaps she learned, in the end, that the only way to rest in peace is to live in it.
A floorboard creaked in the corridor. Startled, I laid the journal aside and got to my feet.
“Lori?” Jamie called softly. “I’ve brought cocoa.”
I hastened to open the door. Jamie stood there, dressed in the same clothes he’d worn throughout the day, looking apologetic and carrying a tray that held three steaming mugs.
“Hullo,” he said, looking past me. “I wouldn’t have bothered you if I thought you were asleep, but I was sure I heard voices.”
“Just one voice. Mine.” As I drew him into the room, I held Reginald up for him to see. “Reg isn’t exactly a chatterbox.”
“A good listener, though.” Jamie smiled and set the tray on the tea table. “Does he like cocoa?”
I placed Reginald on the bedside table and shook my head emphatically. “He’s allergic to it. That’s why he has to give all of his chocolate to me.”
Jamie swayed on his feet as he laughed. I ran to his side, eased him into the plump armchair, and told him that he should be in bed. He didn’t argue.
“I’ve tried, but I can’t seem to sleep,” he said. “It’s absurd, I know . . .”
“Maybe not.” I sat in the slipper chair, curled my legs under me, and studied his tired face. “Your life’s been out of kilter for . . . how long?”
“Four years,” he replied. “Ever since Father’s illness became debilitating.”
“Those four years ended tonight,” I told him. “It’ll take some getting used to.”
Jamie lifted a mug of cocoa from the tray and cradled it in his hands. “I do feel strange,” he murmured. “My life’s revolved around my father for so long . . . I’m not sure what to do next.”
“Read a book,” I said promptly. “Eat bonbons. Climb a mountain. Come meet my sons. After a day with them, I guarantee that you’ll be able to sleep.” I reached for a mug. “What I mean is, you’ve got your life back again, Jamie. Whatever you do, don’t waste it.”
“I could do serious damage to a box of bonbons,” he said thoughtfully.
“That’s the spirit!” I raised my mug to toast him, then turned at the sound of yet another knock on my door.
Wendy stuck her head into the room. “Is this a private party, or can anyone join?”
“I never realized that insomnia could be contagious,” I said, beckoning to her to come in. “Have some cocoa. It’s still piping hot.”
When Wendy took up her customary position on the floor, I grabbed an armload of pillows from the bed and tossed them to her. She curled herself among them like a cat.
“I’ve been worrying about the parure,” she said after a warming sip of cocoa. “Do you think it’s safe where it is? There’s no lock on the marble box or the wall tablet, and the mausoleum’s door was unlocked. What if one of Tessa Gibbs’s celebrity pals gets drunk and decides to poke around in there?”
“I’ll give Catchpole his shotgun tomorrow,” I said, with grim determination. “And I’ll tell him to load it this time.”
“Or,” Jamie suggested mildly, “you could ask your husband to have a chat with Tessa. He can advise her about the legal ramifications of leaving national historic sites unprotected.”
“I like my solution better,” I grumbled, “but yours is probably more sensible. I’ll talk to Bill when I get home.”
“Home,” Jamie echoed. “Is that where you’re going, Wendy?”
“Not until I finish my hike,” she replied. “There’s a little farm about ten miles from here where they raise Wensley-dale sheep. Have you ever seen Wensleydales? The wool is a deep, rich, dark brown—very attractive.” She looked at me over the rim of her mug. “I think the color’ll suit you, Lori.”
“Me?” I said, taken aback.
“I’ve noticed you eyeing my sweaters,” she said. “Look for yours in the mail around Easter.” She grinned. “Not what you expected from Miss Rude, right?”
“You? Miss Rude? Ha.” I tossed my head. “I hate to break it to you, Wendy, but your attempts to insult me were feeble, at best.”
“Hey,” she objected. “I spent a lot of time practicing those lines.”
“Pathetic,” I said. “If Jamie hadn’t kept cutting me off, I would have shown you what it means to be spontaneously mean and nasty. It comes naturally to some of us. It’s one of my gifts.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Jamie. “Only a truly mean and nasty woman would offer help in return for attempted seduction and a stream of unwarranted insults.”
“Piffle,” I retorted. “I was expecting to be knocked over the head and dumped in the blanket chest. Compared to that, what you guys did was downright wholesome. If you think I’m going to judge you by your misdeeds, you’re very much mistaken.”
Jamie caught the reference. He gazed solemnly into the fire, then set his c
up aside and reached out to take hold of my hand and Wendy’s.
“Where there’s friendship,” he said, “let there be friendship always.”
“Always,” I echoed, and Wendy nodded.
Jamie released us, but the bond remained, though I was forced to pummel Wendy mercilessly with a pillow when she mentioned casually that she not only played the piano, but had recently learned to play an exotic instrument called the gamelan. It irked me no end to think that the only thing she didn’t do well was to be naturally mean and nasty.
We talked on into the night, until our yawns outnumbered even partial sentences. After Jamie and Wendy had gone off to their rooms to seek sweet oblivion, I turned down my oil lamp and fell into bed. The last conscious thought to cross my mind was that I’d found a pair of diamonds at Ladythorne I’d never return.
“Thieving Yank,” I murmured, smiling, and drifted off to sleep.
Epilogue
I was the last Yank to leave Ladythorne. Wendy set off shortly after breakfast the next day, on foot, determined to enjoy the rest of her time in England. An hour later, Jamie caught a lift with a snowplow driver who would eventually drop him off in Oxford, where he planned to spend a few weeks reconnecting with old friends. I felt a pang of sorrow as I waved good-bye to each of them, but it was short-lived. I had no doubt that I would see them both again.
Catchpole was so pleased to have his shotgun back that he offered to introduce me to his cow. As he led me to the stables, I noticed a softness in the air and a handful of narcissi blooming in a stone trough in a corner of the courtyard.
“The wind’s changed,” Catchpole told me. “It’s coming up from the south now, gentle as you please. A healing wind, my mother called it, a wind to chase away the frost and bring life back to the land.”
I looked toward the south and wondered: Had the healing wind come by chance? Or had it been summoned to celebrate the resurgence of life in a place once held fast in the frosty grip of grief?
Come now, Lori. Aunt Dimity’s words returned to me, curling and looping before my mind’s eye as clearly as if the journal lay open before me. You were caught in a storm that wasn’t forecast, placed on a path you’d no intention of taking, and led to a house you never knew existed. Do you truly believe you came here by chance?
I was no longer so sure of my answer.
It wasn’t until after lunch that my patience was rewarded by the welcome sight of my gallant husband, riding to my rescue in our canary-yellow Range Rover. Catchpole carried my day pack to the car for me, and stood waving to us with his shotgun as Bill and I started our journey home.
“Is that the crazy caretaker?” Bill asked.
I thought of the sprigs of rosemary on Lucasta’s tomb.
“He’s not crazy,” I replied. “At least, he’s no crazier than the average human being.”
We splashed through runnels of melt water as we sped up the narrow lane, and cascades of droplets fell from the trees to splash against the Rover’s windshield. A fuzz of new buds softened the outlines of each overhanging branch, and an occasional green shoot could be seen emerging from the lane’s steep banks.
“Looks like a spring thaw is on the way,” Bill commented.
“It can’t come soon enough for me,” I said, but as we passed between the ivy-clad gate posts I knew in my heart that I wouldn’t trade a hundred spring thaws for the days I’d spent at Ladythorne, snowbound.
Catchpole’s Apricot Compote
Serves four
2 cups ( ⁄2 pound) canned apricots
2 tablespoons brown sugar
juice and grated rind of ½ lemon
½ cup macaroon (or sugar cookie) crumbs
Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit
Arrange layers of fruit in a deep baking dish, sprinkling each layer with brown sugar, lemon rind, and lemon juice. Pour the reserved juice from the can(s) on top, sprinkle with crumbs, and bake 35 minutes. Serve warm or cold, preferably with heavy cream.
Aunt Dimity: Snowbound Page 20
