Kit Smith and Nell Harris were the most beautiful couple I’d ever known. Kit was the stable master at nearby Anscombe Manor and Nell was the stepdaughter of my friend Emma Harris, who owned Anscombe Manor. Although I’d been instrumental in bringing Kit to the point of proposing to Nell, my matchmaking career had gone into a serious decline after he’d popped the question.
“There’s nothing I want more than to see Kit and Nell get married,” I retorted, “but September’s a long way off, and I won’t be involved in their wedding the way I was in Annelise’s.” I leaned my chin on my hand and went on disconsolately. “Let’s face it, Dimity, Kit and Nell don’t need my help. They’re so flawlessly flawless that they could get married in a telephone booth, wearing burlap sacks and flip-flops, and it would still be the fairy-tale wedding of the century. Besides, I think Nell’s had the whole thing mapped out since she was twelve years old, and there’s nothing I can do to improve on her plans. They’ll get along flawlessly without me.”
The fair, on the other hand, requires your active participation.
“Exactly,” I said. “And the best thing about it is: It’ll be a healthy outlet for my imagination! If I see a vampire at the fair—”
Were there vampires during the Renaissance?
“Vampires are timeless,” I replied. “And Calvin isn’t picky about niggling historical details anyway.”
I see. Sorry to interrupt. You were saying?
“I was saying that the fair will be good for me,” I said. “If I see a vampire, I won’t go off half-cocked and accuse him of stalking my sons. I’ll admire his costume and have a good laugh along with everyone else and that’ll be it. In other words, I’ll behave like a normal human being.”
Is that what you want, Lori? To behave like a normal human being?
“I just want to stop making a fool of myself,” I said hopelessly. “I want to stop seeing things that aren’t there. I want to stop concocting schemes and sneaking around and behaving like a demented twelve-year-old. I want to be grounded and clear-headed and sensible.”
Like Emma Harris?
“Emma is my role model,” I declared. “When I grow up, I want to be just like her.”
An odd thing for a woman in her mid-thirties to say, but I take your meaning.
“I know I shouldn’t complain,” I said earnestly, peering down at the journal. “I love my life, I really do, but if I don’t find a way to shake it up a little, I’ll lose my mind. I refuse to be sucked into any more silly mysteries or ridiculous adventures, so I’m going to make the most of King Wilfred’s Faire while it lasts, and afterwards—”
Try not to think too far ahead, my dear. You’ll only make yourself dizzy.
As I finished reading the word “dizzy,” I realized that I was, indeed, on the verge of hyperventilating, so I rested my head against the back of the chair and took a few measured breaths before looking down at the words Aunt Dimity had written in the journal.
I believe you’ve found a splendid solution to your dual dilemmas, Lori. A summerlong medieval costume party will allow you to enjoy the best aspects of your imagination and at the same time give you a much-needed break from the tedious routine of village life. It was immensely clever of Calvin Malvern to bring King Wilfred’s Faire to Finch. I do hope that Bill will be open-minded enough to participate fully in the fair.
“I’ll do what I can to persuade him,” I said.
I know you will. The mantelshelf clock is chiming midnight, Lori. It’s time you were in bed. I look forward to hearing more amazing news whenever you wish to share it with me. Good night, my dear.
“Good night, Dimity.”
I waited until the curving lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, then closed the journal and returned it to its shelf. After banking the fire, I turned off the mantelshelf lights, bade Sir Reginald adieu, and left the study, envisioning my pink bunny in a miniature crown and a very small ermine-trimmed robe.
“Reginald will be easy,” I murmured. “Bill’s going to be a much tougher nut to crack.”
But as I tiptoed into the bedroom, a game plan was already taking shape in my mind.
Four
The next four weeks were among the most enjoyable I’d ever experienced in Finch. Eye-catching posters appeared in shop windows, touting the fair’s many attractions, and unfamiliar vehicles rolled through Finch, causing curtains to twitch, heads to turn, and tongues to wag. Rumors zipped along the village grapevine at top speed, and they weren’t the stale old standbys concerning Sally Pyne’s neon-colored tracksuits or Christine Peacock’s latest UFO sighting, but juicy new tidbits about the construction project going on in Bishop’s Wood and the costumes Peggy Taxman had reputedly ordered for herself and Jasper from a theatrical-supply company in London.
No one would admit it openly, but everyone had been bitten by the costume bug. The mobile library was besieged with requests for books depicting Renaissance attire, and there was a run on velvet and brocade at the fabric store in Upper Deeping. Sally Pyne’s Tuesday morning sewing class became so popular that she had to add five more to her schedule to accommodate the overflow. Villagers flocked to the tearoom to learn how to stitch leather, hem satin, embroider silk, and, naturally, to sneak peeks at their class-mates’ handiwork. Scathing murmurs regarding color sense and fabric choices rippled outward from the tearoom and kept the rumor mill spinning merrily.
My neighbors were so busy making doublets, muffin caps, and lace-up bodices that they all but ignored the art show, which took place on the first weekend in June. As a result, only three paintings were entered, and they were so blindingly dreadful that they wouldn’t have garnered honorable mentions in previous shows. Since they had no competition, however, they managed to slide neatly—and undeservedly—into first, second, and third place. The paltry sub-missions made the judging relatively easy, but there was a notable absence of suspense when Peggy announced the judge’s final decisions.
The summer fete, too, suffered from a lack of interest. The usual crowd of villagers showed up on Midsummer’s Day to sip locally brewed ale, play traditional games, listen to the brass band, and watch the Morris men dance on the village green, but they did so halfheartedly, with the glazed eyes and fixed smiles of people whose minds were elsewhere.
Although the village’s first two summer events fell flat, Finch’s businesses saw a modest but measurable upturn in sales throughout the month of June. Sawdust-speckled workmen made their way from Bishop’s Wood to Peacock’s Pub twice a day, with regular side trips to the greengrocer’s shop. They paid Mr. Barlow to repair odd pieces of machinery, and kept the register ringing at Peggy’s Emporium.
Rumors abounded about the nature of the structures the crews were building in Bishop’s Wood. Some villagers confirmed conclusively that the fair would feature a three-tiered, moated castle, while others claimed that the main attraction would be a gigantic fire-breathing dragon. Since I lived next door to Fivefold Farm, I was perfectly situated to spy on the construction site and find out if the tittle-tattle was true, but I resisted the temptation. I wanted the fair to surprise me.
Finch’s entrepreneurs didn’t care what the fair looked like as long as it kept filling their coffers. They were well pleased with Calvin Malvern for selecting a site so near the village, and they expected profits to soar when King Wilfred’s Faire finally opened its gates to the public.
Sally Pyne benefited the most from the fair’s proximity to Finch. Her sewing skills were in such high demand that she had to trim the tearoom’s hours drastically. I regretted the inconvenience even though I was, in part, to blame for it. I wasn’t sure about anyone else, but in my rush to adorn myself with medieval finery I’d forgotten one small but important detail: I didn’t know how to sew. A short session with a sharp needle made me painfully aware of my ineptitude and I hurriedly signed up for one-on-one sewing tutorials with Sally, only to discover that I had no talent whatsoever as a seamstress.
I made such a mess of the twins
’ page costumes that I quietly disposed of them and hired Sally to make replacements. She agreed to make a dress for me as well, but since she was pressed for time, I had to scale down my vision quite a bit. Instead of a wimple-wearing duchess or a saber-rattling pirate, I would attend the fair as a run-of-the-mill peasant woman.
Sally finished our costumes in five whirlwind days, but she never got started on Bill’s. Although she’d offered to make a modest, leg-concealing friar’s robe for him, he wouldn’t even allow her to take his measurements.
My husband had evidently inherited a gene that rendered him immune to the costume bug. He didn’t find the notion of role-playing romantic or amusing. He thought it was just plain stupid, and he wouldn’t have anything to do with it. I tried every persuasive tactic known to womankind, but he simply refused to countenance the idea of wearing clothes that weren’t exactly like the clothes he already owned.
I decided to launch one last, desperate appeal the day before the fair was due to open. After rising early to drop the boys off at Anscombe Manor for their riding lessons, I cajoled Bill into spending the morning at home instead of in the office, and rewarded him with a sumptuous brunch laid out on the teak table beneath the apple tree in the back garden. The weather was glorious and the garden was blissfully free of boy-noise. The stage was set to mount another offensive.
Bill ate his fill of eggs Benedict, smoked salmon, and buttery crumpets, then settled back in his chair, invited Stanley to curl up in his lap, and opened his newspaper. As he perused the morning headlines, I refilled his teacup and took a calming breath. I didn’t want to appear overeager.
“Bill?” I said nonchalantly.
“No,” he replied, without looking up from his paper. “Definitely and irrevocably no.”
“But—”
He silenced me with a look that was downright menacing. Stanley, sensing trouble, jumped down from his lap and trotted into the cottage.
“Listen carefully, Lori,” said Bill, laying the newspaper aside. “I’ll go to the fair with you. I’ll spend an entire weekend there with you, if you like. But I will not dress up as a lord, a knight, a friar, an executioner, a wizard, a pirate, a mad monk, a humble woodsman, or anything else your fertile mind may cough up. It’s never going to happen. Period. End of discussion. Finito.”
“So that’s a no, is it?” I inquired.
“That’s a no,” Bill confirmed, and took a sip of tea.
Defeated, I slouched back in my chair and brushed some crumbs from the table. As I did so, I recalled a drawing Rob had made the night before, depicting a mounted knight with an outsized lance in one hand and a flaming sword in the other. It was, according to Rob, a self-portrait, and the memory of it gave me a renewed sense of determination. I would not let Bill disappoint the twins.
“Everyone we know will be wearing medieval clothes,” I said.
“What will the twins think when you show up at the fair wearing a baseball cap, a polo shirt, khaki shorts, and sneakers?”
“Will and Rob will think that I look like their father,” Bill replied.
“But everyone else will think you’re—”
“Lori,” Bill interrupted. “I stopped caring about what everyone else thinks midway through my first year at prep school. If our friends and neighbors wish to wear feathered caps and pantaloons to the fair, that’s their prerogative. I’m not going to cave in to peer pressure at this stage of the game.”
“Stick-in-the-mud,” I said, scowling. “Fuddy-duddy.”
“You’ve left out spoilsport and wet blanket,” Bill said helpfully. “Shall I fetch a thesaurus?”
“I don’t need a thesaurus,” I retorted, but before I could demonstrate my full mastery of the English language, the doorbell rang.
“I’ll go,” Bill said brightly, and went into the cottage to answer the front door.
He returned a moment later, with Horace Malvern padding after him. The burly farmer was, for reasons unknown to me, shoeless.
“Mr. Malvern,” I said, trying not to stare at his red wool socks. “How nice to see you.”
“I left my wellies in the front hall,” he explained. “Didn’t want to track muck through the house.”
“Much obliged,” I said.
Bill offered him a chair, then resumed his own.
Mr. Malvern removed his tweed cap and hung it on the back of the chair before joining us at the table. His weathered face was nearly as red as his socks, as if he’d scrubbed it before stopping by, and he accepted a cup of tea gingerly, as if he feared that his powerful hands might inadvertently shatter the bone china teacup.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said, after a sip of tea. “I’ve been meaning to call round ever since the May meeting, but with the hay making and the milking and all, I’ve lost track of the days.”
“You’re always welcome here, Mr. Malvern,” Bill told him.
“Am I?” The farmer raised a grizzled eyebrow and placed his teacup carefully on its saucer. “I thought I might not be, after Calvin made his big announcement. You live closest to the wood, after all. I hope the racket hasn’t kept you up at night.”
“It hasn’t,” I assured him.
“What racket?” Bill said amiably.
My husband and I weren’t merely being diplomatic. If it hadn’t been for the distant sound of hammering and the occasional whine of a table saw, neither Bill nor I would have been aware of the construction work taking place in Bishop’s Wood.
“Well, that’s all right, then.” Mr. Malvern gave a satisfied nod. “You won’t have to worry about the performers, either. Their camp will be east of the wood, so they shouldn’t give you any trouble at all. If they do, let me know and I’ll give ’em a boot up their backsides.”
“We’ll call you if we have to,” I promised, “but I’m sure it won’t be necessary.”
“What about you?” Bill asked the farmer. “Isn’t the fair going to disrupt your operations?”
“I’ve lots of land,” Mr. Malvern replied complacently. “Calvin’s welcome to use a corner of it.”
“He’s lucky to have such a generous uncle,” I said. “Is Calvin your only nephew?”
Instead of answering directly, Mr. Malvern rested his massive forearms on the table and asked, “You don’t know much about Cal, do you?”
“No,” I said. “Bill hasn’t even seen him yet.”
“I was at home with Will and Rob during the May meeting,” Bill explained, “but Lori has described Calvin’s performance to me in great detail.”
“I’ll bet she has. It was quite a performance.” Mr. Malvern pursed his lips. “The first thing you ought to know about Cal is: His parents were killed in a car wreck when he was but nine years old.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, and Bill clucked his tongue sympathetically.
“It’s the way of the world,” said Mr. Malvern. “Some folk die before their time and others live long past it. No point in asking why.” Mr. Malvern nodded solemnly, then continued, “Cal came to live with me and Mrs. Malvern after he lost his mum and dad, but he wasn’t much use on the farm. Always daydreaming. I’d ask him to bring the herd in for milking and the next thing I’d know, my cows’d be stopping traffic on the Oxford Road. He has a good heart, does Cal, but he wasn’t cut out to be a farmer. His head was always somewhere else.”
“Did he like school?” I asked.
“He liked the school play,” Mr. Malvern answered. “He wasn’t much of a scholar, but he took to playacting like a duck to water. Joined a theater group in Oxford as soon as he finished school, which is why you never got to know him. He moved to Oxford about six months before you moved into the cottage.”
“You must have missed him,” I said.
“I did,” said Mr. Malvern, “but I was pleased that he’d found a way of life that suited him better than farming. He worked backstage, mostly, rigging lights and painting scenery. He seemed to like it well enough, but he quit the troupe when he turned twenty-one.”
“You wouldn’t ask such a question if you’d been at the May meeting,” said Mr. Malvern with a wry smile. “No, Cal quit the theater group because he came into his inheritance. My brother left him a tidy sum, you see, and the minute Cal got his hands on it, he upped stakes and lit out for America.”
“Good heavens,” I said, surprised. “Why did he go to America?”
“He wanted to perform in a Renaissance festival,” Mr. Malvern replied. “Seems he’d discovered Renaissance festivals online. They’re called Ren fests in the States and they seem to go on all year long—up north in the summer and down south in the winter. A lot of them have Web sites with pictures of people wearing crowns and making speeches and sword fighting and such. Cal took one look at those pictures and decided that Ren fests were for him.”
“Well,” Bill temporized, “at least he had a clear goal in mind when he went to America.”
“The missus and I thought he’d lost his mind,” Mr. Malvern stated firmly. “We expected him to come running home with his tail between his legs as soon as my brother’s money ran out.” The farmer chuckled softly and shook his head. “But he proved us wrong, did Cal. He did all right for himself. He spent the first year traveling from one Ren fest to another, learning the ropes and making contacts. Sent us postcards from all over America.” Mr. Malvern smiled reminiscently. “He spent the next five summers with a Ren fest in Wisconsin. He started at the bottom, roasting turkey legs in a food stall, but he worked his way up to a starring role as the town crier.”
“Did he go down south in the winter?” I asked.
“He did,” Mr. Malvern replied. “We had postcards from Texas, California, Florida, Arizona—all of the warm states. He made a go of it wherever he went, apparently. All I know is, by the end of his six years in America, Cal had tucked away enough money to finance his big idea. And his big idea was to bring a Ren fest to England.”
Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon Page 4
