I blinked in surprise. My father-in-law seldom altered his routines. On Sundays, as regular as clockwork, he attended the morning service at St. George’s, then hosted a family brunch at Fairworth House. He seemed to regard each activity as a sacred duty, so it came as something of a shock to hear that he was backing out of both. Since the weather was flawless, I could think of only one reason for his defection.
“Is William ill?” I asked.
“Not in the least,” Amelia replied. “He’s in fine fettle at the moment, but I think—and he agrees with me—that he should conserve his strength before his sisters arrive tomorrow.”
“How right you are,” I said feelingly. “William will need all the rest he can get before Honoria and Charlotte invade Fairworth House because he won’t get much while they’re there. What time do you expect them?”
“Noon or thereabouts,” said Amelia. “I plan to be here by nine, to oversee last-minute preparations. Not that there will be much for me to oversee. As you know, Deirdre Donovan is an excellent housekeeper.” She hesitated, then went on more quietly, as if she didn’t wish to be overheard. “To tell you the truth, Lori, I’m a bit apprehensive about meeting William’s sisters. I gather they can be somewhat . . . overwhelming.”
“Overwhelming is one way to describe them,” I said dryly. “I can think of a few others. But don’t worry, Amelia. Bess and I will be there to soften them up for you. We’ll go straight to Fairworth House after we drop Will and Rob off at school.”
“And Bill?” she asked.
“He’s swamped with work,” I replied, resisting the temptation to inform Amelia that Bill had swamped himself with work for the express purpose of avoiding his aunts. “He’ll be chained to his desk all week—there’s no avoiding it—but he and I will come to William’s dinner on Saturday.”
“Wonderful,” said Amelia. “What time should I expect you tomorrow?”
“I’ll be with you as fast as I can,” I promised.
It crossed my mind to ask Amelia if Willis, Sr., had ever spoken to her about Arthur Hargreaves, but a glance at the kitchen clock told me that I had to cut the call short or risk arriving at church even later than usual.
“I’m sorry, Amelia, but I have to dash,” I said. “Give William my love. Tell him his granddaughter can’t wait to see him.”
“I will,” she said. “Please convey our apologies to the vicar.”
“Consider it done,” I said.
I said a final good-bye, then dropped the phone onto its cradle and ran outside to join Bill, Will, Rob, and Bess, who were waiting for me in our canary-yellow Range Rover.
“Who called?” Bill asked as he backed the Rover out of our gravel driveway and into the lane.
“Amelia,” I replied and quickly summarized the conversation.
Bill’s grip on the steering wheel tightened when I mentioned Charlotte and Honoria. He knew better than to speak unreservedly in front of the attentive little pitchers in the backseat, but his white knuckles seemed to indicate that he was once again entertaining the notion of strangling his aunts. I rubbed his shoulder soothingly and his fingers gradually relaxed, but I doubted they would stay that way while the Harpies were in town.
We made it to St. George’s in ten minutes flat, but we were still the last family to slide into a pew. We were almost always the last family to be seated in church, but instead of receiving a volley of sharp glances and disapproving sniffs from those who invariably arrived on time, we were greeted with nothing but friendly nods and sympathetic smiles. A family with a new baby in tow could get away with just about anything in Finch.
Bess slept through the vicar’s sermon, as did her father and several other members of the congregation. The vicar was held in high esteem by everyone who knew him, but his sermons could not be called stimulating. If it hadn’t been for Will and Rob, I would have dozed off, too, but they kept me awake with whispered suggestions about what we could do after church, now that brunch at Grandpa’s house was off the table.
The first thing they did after church was to play a rousing game of tag in the churchyard. Bill rounded them up and took them to the village green to play tag in a more appropriate setting, but I stayed behind with Bess and the diaper bag to pursue my goal of learning what I could about Arthur Hargreaves. I had no trouble attracting villagers. Bess was the most popular girl in town.
Before I could commence my inquiry, however, I would have to withstand a barrage of child-rearing advice from my well-meaning neighbors. After the twins were born, Bill and I had discovered that everyone in Finch knew how to raise our children better than we did. The situation was much the same after Bess’s birth and we reacted to it in much the same way. We listened politely, then did what we thought was right.
Peggy Taxman was the first villager to approach me. Peggy sailed across the churchyard like a battleship, scattering all before her, while Jasper Taxman, her mild-mannered husband, plodded meekly in her wake. I readied myself for combat. I sometimes found it difficult to listen politely to Peggy Taxman.
When Peggy reached me, she looked into the carry cot, regarded me dolefully, and observed in a voice that could be heard ten miles away, “I don’t know how you got pregnant before Nell and Cassie.”
My friends and neighbors, Nell Anscombe-Smith and Cassie Harris, were half my age, give or take a few years. They’d been the leading contenders in Finch’s pregnancy sweepstakes until I’d pipped them at the post by producing Bess. I doubted that Peggy would ever stop moaning about it.
“Don’t you?” I said brightly. “It’s quite simple, really. When a man and a woman love each other very much—”
“Still giving Bess the breast?” Peggy broke in, glaring at me.
“Both breasts, actually,” I replied. “Whenever she wants them. I learned how to do it when I had the twins, but I’m much better at it now. Would you like me to demonstrate?”
Jasper Taxman blushed crimson, spun on his heel, and hastened to join George Wetherhead and Mr. Barlow, who were standing together near the lych-gate. Jasper, like many men of his generation, felt that maternal matters should not be discussed, much less demonstrated, in mixed company.
While Jasper made his escape, Peggy’s eyes narrowed dangerously behind her pointy, rhinestone-studded glasses.
“The bottle was good enough for me!” she thundered. “It’s common knowledge that breast feeding makes children weak and submissive.”
I caught a glimpse of Will and Rob tackling their father on the village green and smiled serenely.
“Common it may be, but it’s not knowledge,” Sally Cook declared, marching up to stand at Peggy’s elbow. Silver-haired, energetic, and grandmother-shaped, Sally looked like a bobbing buoy beside her tall, broad-shouldered rival. “My mother breast-fed my sister and me and we’re not weak or submissive.”
“Same goes for me and my brothers,” said Christine Peacock as she joined our growing circle.
I didn’t have to say a word. Sally had already proved her point by sending her husband off to open the tearoom, as had Christine, who’d sent her husband off to open the pub.
“Nothing wrong with breast feeding,” Christine continued. “Mother’s milk boosts a baby’s immune system.”
“I’d swaddle her more tightly, though,” Sally said, peering down at Bess. “Nothing makes a baby feel more secure than a nice, tight swaddle.”
“Swaddling’s good for other things, too,” bellowed Peggy, who was always reluctant to let Sally—or anyone else—have the last word. “It keeps babies from scratching their faces with their sharp little fingernails.”
“I’d put mittens on Bess,” Christine opined. “Mittens are the best way to keep a baby from scratching her face.”
“Nonsense!” roared Peggy. “Mittens are a well-known choking hazard!”
“My brothers and I didn’t choke on our mittens,” Christin
e said heatedly.
“My sister and I didn’t need mittens because we were properly swaddled,” Sally said with a superior air.
Our little group doubled in size with the addition of Selena Buxton, Opal Taylor, Millicent Scroggins, and Elspeth Binney, a quartet of widows and spinsters whom Bill had dubbed “Father’s Handmaidens” because of their ill-fated attempts to woo Willis, Sr. They, too, had strong opinions on mittens and swaddling, among many other topics, and they didn’t hesitate to express them. I listened politely and hoped they’d run out of steam before Will and Rob ran out of games to play.
A happy gurgle from Bess silenced the debate and I leapt at the opportunity to change the subject.
“I met the most interesting man yesterday,” I said. “Do any of you know Arthur Hargreaves?”
“Hargreaves?” said Sally. Her lips tightened. “They’re Tillcote folk. We don’t have much to do with Tillcote folk.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“They’re an uppity bunch,” said Christine. “A Tillcote chap came into the pub a few years back and spat out a mouthful of Dick’s homemade wine. He said it wasn’t fit for pigs.”
“One of their women told me that, if I wasn’t careful, I’d eat up my profits,” Sally said huffily. “As if anyone would trust a skinny baker.”
Since Dick Peacock’s homemade wine could easily be mistaken for paint thinner and since Sally Cook was very far from skinny, I couldn’t argue with the Tillcote folks’ observations, but I could certainly find fault with their manners.
“They never come to our flower show,” said Selena.
“Or our art show,” said Elspeth.
“A pair of them came to the jumble sale once, but they didn’t buy anything,” Opal said indignantly. “They made snippy comments about my seashell lamp, then walked away with their noses in the air.”
There was a pause as those of us who’d made our own snippy comments about Opal’s lamp averted our eyes, but Millicent Scroggins soon got the ball rolling again.
“They reckon their church is prettier than St. George’s,” she said.
“They’re thieves!” Peggy boomed, clearly intent on trumping the others. “One of their youngsters pinched a packet of crisps from the Emporium a few years ago. I couldn’t prove it, but I know it was him.” She pursed her lips haughtily. “It’s the sort of behavior I’ve come to expect from Tillcote folk.”
“You steer clear of them, Lori,” Sally warned me. “Tillcote folk’d steal the pennies off a dead man’s eyes. Well,” she went on cheerfully, as if she hadn’t just denounced an entire village, “I’d best be off. My Henry should have preheated the ovens by now. Lemon poppy-seed cake in an hour for those who want it.”
“I’ll be off, too,” said Christine. “Dick’ll need a hand with the beer barrels.”
“We should be on our way as well,” said Elspeth, and the rest of the Handmaidens nodded their agreement. “We’re going to see Mr. Shuttleworth’s art exhibit in Upper Deeping this afternoon.”
“Well, Jasper and I can’t stand around jabbering all day,” Peggy thundered. “We have to open the Emporium and the greengrocer’s shop!”
The women bade a fond farewell to Bess and left the churchyard, taking Jasper Taxman with them. They were replaced almost instantly by Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham, who ran an art appraisal and restoration business from their home, Crabtree Cottage. Grant was short and slim, with neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair, while Charles was tall, portly, and balding. I enjoyed their company immensely.
“Thank heavens,” Charles murmured. “I thought they’d never leave.”
He took the carry cot from me and made soft kissing noises at Bess, who tried her best to imitate him.
“What did the ladies tell you to do this time?” Grant asked, gallantly relieving me of the diaper bag. “Stop nursing Bess immediately or keep nursing her until she’s old enough to vote?”
“A little of both,” I said, laughing.
“The dear ladies of Finch,” Charles said with an affectionate sigh. “Is any subject beyond their ken?”
“I may have found one,” I told him. “They didn’t have a lot to say about a man I met yesterday. His name is Arthur Hargreaves.”
Charles snapped to attention and Grant looked as though I’d announced a UFO sighting.
“Arthur Hargreaves!” Charles exclaimed. “The Hermit of Hillfont Abbey? You can’t possibly have met him!”
Six
I felt as though I’d struck gold. The dear ladies of Finch might not know much about Arthur Hargreaves beyond his connection with the uppity folk in Tillcote, but Grant and Charles evidently did.
“Are you serious, Lori?” said Grant. “Have you really met Arthur Hargreaves?”
“By which we mean to say: Did you, in actual fact, have an up-close, face-to-face encounter with him?” Charles amplified.
I looked past Grant and observed that Bill and the twins had finished roughhousing on the village green and begun strolling up the lane toward St. George’s. Bill stopped at the low stone wall surrounding the churchyard, saw that I was engaged in gossip-gathering, and signaled that he would take Rob and Will to the tearoom. I gave him a thumbs-up in return. Our sons were big fans of Sally Cook’s lemon poppy-seed cake.
“Well?” Charles said impatiently, reclaiming my attention.
“I did, in actual fact, have an up-close, face-to-face encounter with Arthur Hargreaves,” I said with mock solemnity, amused by the awestruck glances the pair exchanged.
“When?” Grant asked eagerly. “Where?”
“How?” Charles added.
“Bess and I met Arthur yesterday,” I explained. “We were walking near Hillfont Abbey when a wheel on Bess’s pram came off. Arthur was kind enough to fix it for us.”
“Arthur?” Charles goggled at me. “You’re on a first-name basis with Arthur Hargreaves?”
“I guess so,” I said. “He certainly didn’t introduce himself as the Hermit of Hillfont Abbey.”
“Hermits don’t usually introduce themselves,” Charles said brusquely. “Anonymity is a hallmark of hermithood.”
“What were you doing near Hillfont Abbey?” Grant asked, waving his partner to silence.
“I told you,” I said. “I was taking Bess for a walk.”
“And Arthur Hargreaves just happened to come along and fix Bess’s broken pram,” said Grant, as if he had to hear the story twice over before he could bring himself to believe it.
“That’s right,” I said. “He heard Bess crying and offered to help us. He’s a very nice man.”
“A very nice man,” Grant repeated incredulously.
“He was our knight in shining armor,” I stated emphatically. “As a matter of fact, he called himself the Summer King.”
“Why?” Charles demanded, gazing avidly at me.
“It’s a family tradition, apparently,” I said. “The title’s been passed down from father to son for as long as there have been Hargreaveses at Hillfont Abbey.” I smiled as I recalled Arthur’s lighthearted description of a Summer King’s duties. “Arthur didn’t seem to think it was a big deal. He gave me the impression that it’s a kind of game his family plays to celebrate summer.”
“Did you meet his family as well?” Grant asked faintly.
“Only his grandson Marcus,” I replied, “the teenaged astrophysicist.”
Grant gaped at me, then sat abruptly on the late Joseph Cringle’s table tomb, as if his legs had given way.
“Are you all right?” I asked, eyeing him with concern.
“He’s bowled over,” said Charles.
“Completely bowled over,” Grant confirmed, putting a hand to his forehead.
Charles rested Bess’s carry cot on the tomb, but the secure grip he maintained on the handle met with my approval.
“I must
confess that I’m bowled over as well,” Charles said. “We know of Arthur Hargreaves, of course, but we’ve never had the privilege of meeting him or his grandson. We didn’t even know he had a grandson, let alone a teenaged astrophysicist grandson. You’ve joined an extremely exclusive club, Lori.”
I took a step closer to the tomb and the three of us automatically tilted our heads forward and lowered our voices, as one did when sharing confidential information in Finch.
“I’ve told you mine,” I said. “Now you tell me yours. Come on, boys, spill it. What do you know about Arthur Hargreaves?”
“We know that the villagers don’t think much of him,” said Charles. “It has something to do with an ancient feud between Finch and Tillcote. Peggy Taxman had a fit when we mentioned his name. We’ve avoided the subject ever since.”
“You don’t have to avoid it with me,” I said. “I’m all ears.”
“We don’t know anything,” Grant said, but when I looked daggers at him, he hastened to add, “We’ve heard a few tidbits, though.”
“Rumor has it,” said Charles, “that he’s madly wealthy and—some say—ever so slightly mad.”
“According to a reliable source,” said Grant, “he has a history of making anonymous bids at high-end art auctions.”
“Bids that are invariably successful,” Charles put in.
“Who is this reliable source?” I asked.
“Florence Urquhart,” Charles replied readily. “Flo’s an old chum of ours. She was working the phones at a well-known art auction house when the bids came in. Flo would lose her job—and her pension—if she revealed the bidder’s identity, but she couldn’t keep herself from dropping a few leaden hints over wine and cheese at a gallery opening last winter.”
“If Arthur Hargreaves is indeed the man behind the anonymous bids,” Grant said, “he has exquisite taste and fantastically deep pockets. I’d give a big toe or two to own the da Vinci sketch he purchased a month ago.” He winked broadly at me as he added, “Allegedly.”
“How did Arthur become madly wealthy?” I asked.
Aunt Dimity and the Summer King Page 5
