Aunt Dimity and the Summer King

by Nancy Atherton

  “Arthur,” I said, “you don’t have to convince me that you come from a long line of high-achieving smarty-pants. I already know that cleverness runs in your family. I kind of got that message when I met your astrophysicist grandson. Maybe my tiny brain is missing the point, but I don’t see what any of this has to do with Finch.”

  “You will,” Arthur said. “As I told you the other day, Quentin was a manufacturer. He built factories, streamlined methods of mass production, employed hundreds of workers, and made millions of pounds. He believed in progress, in the future, but he also kept one foot planted firmly in the past.”

  “He preserved the Roman fountain,” I said, nodding, “and he filled his home with handcrafted furnishings. Also,” I went on, like a student eager to show off, “he built a whimsical country house loosely based on a historical model.”

  “Well done,” said Arthur. “Full marks.”

  “Once a teacher, always a teacher,” I said with a reluctant smile. “You told me Quentin bought a large estate so he could pursue his dreams in peace. Was Finch part of the estate?”

  “It was not,” said Arthur. “He bought Finch one cottage at a time. Within ten years he owned the entire village, with the obvious exceptions of the church, the vicarage, and the schoolhouse.”

  “Which were owned by the diocese,” I put in.

  “Correct,” said Arthur. “Quentin also purchased every parcel of land within a ten-mile radius of Finch.”

  “A ten-mile radius?” I echoed. “That means he bought Anscombe Manor and the Pym sisters’ house and . . . and Fairworth House?”

  “He did,” said Arthur. “We still own each of those properties.”

  I gaped at him. “You’re William’s landlord?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Arthur said apologetically. “But I can assure you that the terms of his lease are not onerous. We gave him our permission to renovate the house and we contributed to the cost of the renovation.”

  “And he never knew it was you?” I said, astonished.

  “I don’t believe so.” Arthur smiled mischievously. “I never received a thank-you note.”

  “But my cottage is mine, isn’t it?” I asked, too preoccupied to react to Arthur’s mild attempt at humor. “Marigold called me a freeholder.”

  “There’s nothing preventing my family from selling all the properties Quentin acquired,” said Arthur, “but it has, in fact, happened only once, when Dimity Westwood purchased her property. A great deal of money was involved in the transaction—land prices had risen sharply since Quentin’s time—but Miss Westwood wished to leave the cottage to you without encumbrances.”

  “Wow,” I said, stunned.

  A squawk from Bess gave my reeling mind time to focus again. Once I’d freed her to practice push-ups on a blanket I’d spread across the rug in front of the sofa, I sat beside her and peered curiously at Arthur.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “Quentin was proud of being a self-made man. He didn’t want to be a lazy aristocrat, living off the achievements of his forefathers. Why would he suddenly decide to become the lord of the manor?”

  “That’s exactly what he didn’t do,” said Arthur. “He bought Finch and its environs on the sly, to use your colorful phrase, by utilizing various intermediaries. He created a company—Monoceros Properties, Limited—to shield his identity. He made it virtually impossible to trace the transactions directly back to him.”

  “He bought Finch anonymously,” I said, feeling utterly at sea. “Why would he buy a village if he didn’t want to lord it over the villagers?”

  “Quentin had no wish to lord it over anyone,” said Arthur. “He bought Finch because the villagers despised him. They thought he was an upstart, a parvenu, a grubby tradesman who didn’t deserve their respect. They called his house Quentin’s Folly and made rude remarks about him whenever he ventured into the village.”

  I eyed Arthur doubtfully.

  “I don’t mean to pry,” I said, “but did Quentin have a taste for . . . abuse?”

  “Not at all,” said Arthur, laughing, “but he did have a great liking for honesty. He found their attitude refreshing and wholly admirable. The people in Tillcote treated him with undue deference. They tugged their forelocks when he passed by and came crawling to him, cap in hand, asking for jobs and favors.”

  “They treated him as if he were an aristocrat,” I said, with a glimmer of comprehension, “which is the one thing he didn’t wish to be.”

  “Precisely,” said Arthur. “He was accustomed to the rough-and-tumble world of industry. He preferred Finch’s bluntness to Tillcote’s toadying. He mistrusted kid gloves.”

  “He liked boxing gloves better?” I said.

  “They’re more direct,” said Arthur. “Quentin wished to do something for Finch, but he didn’t want the villagers to feel indebted to him.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “To make them grateful would be to encourage subservience,” Arthur explained. “He also agreed with the Greek philosopher Seneca, who wrote: Let him who has done a good deed be silent.”

  “Quentin wanted to do a good deed for Finch,” I said, “but he wanted to do it anonymously.”

  “Yes,” said Arthur. “When a dispute over stolen pigs arose between Finch and Tillcote, therefore, he sided with Tillcote.”

  “He offended Finch on purpose,” I marveled, “so he could help the villagers without hurting their pride.”

  “It seems back to front,” Arthur acknowledged, “but Quentin had to distance himself from the village in order to protect it.”

  “Protect it?” I said. “Protect it from what?”

  “From housing estates, industrial parks, motorways, and suburban sprawl,” said Arthur. “The countryside was already under threat in Quentin’s time. He realized that the only way to protect Finch was to create a buffer zone around it.”

  I turned Bess over and let her play grab-and-chew with my fingers.

  “A buffer zone would explain why Quentin bought the surrounding land,” I said to Arthur, “but it doesn’t explain why he bought the village.”

  “Quentin foresaw the day when country cottages would become a rare and valuable commodity,” Arthur informed me. “He was bitterly opposed to the gentrification of small villages. He loathed the idea of the wealthy driving out those of lesser means.”

  “So he bought the cottages in order to control housing costs,” I said, as understanding finally dawned. “He transformed Finch into a . . . a rent-controlled village where ordinary, everyday people could afford to live.”

  “It’s been that way ever since,” said Arthur. “We see to it.”

  “How do you keep Finch from being overrun by bargain-hunters?” I asked.

  “The buffer zone helps,” said Arthur. “No one can build a leisure center or a cinema or a minimall within ten miles of Finch. Their absence gives the village a highly desirable air of dullness.”

  “Finch has its limitations,” I said wryly.

  “We also rely on word of mouth rather than advertising to attract new residents,” said Arthur. “When a property becomes available, we list it with one small estate agency in Upper Deeping and we give them strict instructions to wait for interested parties to come to them.”

  “The Edwards Estate Agency,” I said. “Your family’s current intermediary.”

  “They’ve served us well for nearly a hundred years,” said Arthur.

  “I suppose the total-immersion tour is another way of reducing demand,” I said.

  “So you found out about the tour as well,” Arthur said admiringly. “You have done your homework. I must admit that your name for it is catchier than ours.”

  “What do you call it?” I asked.

  “An introduction to Finch,” Arthur replied. “One moves into a community as well as a cottage.”

 
“So I’ve been told,” I said, hearing the echo of Aunt Dimity’s words in Arthur’s.

  “The introduction,” Arthur continued, “allows people to test the waters before they make a commitment. It’s not an infallible system. People sometimes overestimate their tolerance for Finch’s uniquely potent form of neighborliness.”

  “Not everyone enjoys living under a microscope,” I said.

  “No, indeed,” said Arthur. “For example, the woman who leased Pussywillows before Amelia Thistle—”

  “Dervla Ponsonby,” I inserted.

  “Miss Ponsonby,” Arthur went on, “believed she could shut her door on the village. She failed to realize that the villagers would never stop knocking on it. The constant attention drove her mad. Eventually, it drove her out of the village. Mrs. Thistle, by contrast, welcomed the knocks.”

  “So did Charles Bellingham and Grant Tavistock,” I said. “They loved the tour. When they moved to Finch, they were eager to get in on the gossip. They wanted to know as much about the villagers as the villagers wanted to know about them.”

  “If one is to live happily in Finch,” said Arthur, “it helps to take an interest in one’s neighbors.”

  “And yet,” I said, “you’re not allowed to take an interest in yours.”

  “Oh, I do take an interest,” said Arthur, “from a distance.”

  “Still doing good deeds in silence, eh?” I said.

  “Obviously not,” said Arthur. “I believe you and Bess have heard every word I’ve said.”

  “Why is that?” I asked. “Why have you broken the code of secrecy? Why are you spilling the beans to me?”

  Arthur stood and crossed to gaze through the French doors at the fountain court.

  “We knew you’d come along one day,” he said. “Not you in particular, but someone like you.”

  “Someone who noticed odd things going on in the village and dug around until she found an explanation?” I said with a touch of pride.

  “No,” he said. “Someone who tripped the wire.”

  “The . . . what?” I said, thrown off base.

  “The wire,” Arthur repeated, turning to face me. “Of course, it’s not a wire anymore. It’s an infrared sensor, but it serves the same function.” He pointed at the ceiling. “It makes the flag on the tower fall to half mast.”

  “Are we back to riddles?” I asked, mystified.

  “Forgive me,” said Arthur. “I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start again.” He returned to his seat and leaned forward with his hands loosely clasped between his knees. “We placed an infrared device in the corner of our boundary wall. It shines a beam across the old cart track. When the beam is broken, an alarm sounds in the abbey and our flag falls to half mast. I saw the flag drop and knew that someone had come up the path.”

  “I thought you heard Bess crying,” I said reproachfully.

  “I couldn’t have heard her through the racket the children were making,” said Arthur. “Though, of course, I did hear her when I approached the wall. She has a fine pair of lungs.”

  “Never mind about her lungs,” I said indignantly. “Do you climb over the wall for every rambler who breaks the beam? Your alarms must be going off all the time.”

  “Ramblers rarely use the track,” said Arthur. “They’re worried about flash floods. They’ve triggered the alarm only three times in the past seven years. They weren’t the reason it was installed.” He nodded at me. “You were.”

  “You’re creeping me out, Arthur,” I said. “You may be a visionary, but you couldn’t have foreseen me.”

  “Sorry,” he said, raising his hands in a pacifying gesture. “I misspoke. I wasn’t referring to you specifically, but to you as an adult resident of Finch. You, Lori, were the first adult resident of Finch to use the track since the villagers abandoned it nearly a hundred years ago.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  “The breech between Finch and Hillfont Abbey was absolute,” he said. “It traveled down through the generations. In the meantime, the track deteriorated and became flood prone. Even if a villager had been willing to ignore the taboo, he would have thought twice about using such a dangerous route to approach the abbey.”

  “Okay,” I said, “but why is using the track so important?”

  “Quentin felt that when an adult villager ventured up the track and spoke civilly to a member of his family, it would be time to repair the old cart path and to reestablish the connection between Hillfont and Finch.” Arthur cocked his head to one side and smiled. “You ventured up the track. You spoke civilly to me. You, Lori, are Hillfont’s emissary.”

  “I don’t recall volunteering for the position,” I said.

  “It’s yours, whether you volunteer for it or not,” said Arthur, chuckling. “You’ve already told someone about meeting me, haven’t you?”

  “Only my husband,” I protested. “And Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham. And Lilian Bunting. And . . .” I suddenly recalled mentioning my first meeting with Arthur to the group of women gathered around Bess in the churchyard after the Sunday service. I cleared my throat. “And I take your point, Arthur. I’m not very good at keeping my mouth shut.”

  “Which is why you’ll be a wonderful emissary,” he said.

  “Can I tell them everything?” I asked.

  “It’s entirely up to you,” he said. “If you want your neighbors to know that the only thing keeping them in their homes is a form of charity, then by all means, tell them everything. There’s a remote possibility that the media might pick up the story, but your neighbors are strong enough to handle it. It wouldn’t dent their pride to be known in Tillcote, for example, as charity cases.”

  I smiled wryly.

  “Another point taken,” I said. “Your secret is safe with me.” I turned my head to gaze at the yellowing map of Finch, then looked up into the Summer King’s blue eyes. “If it weren’t for your family, Arthur, Finch wouldn’t be Finch. I’ll never let the villagers know how much they owe you, so you’ll have to let me thank you on their behalf.” I rolled onto my knees and leaned forward to kiss his weathered cheek. “Thank you, Arthur. Thank you for protecting my village.”

  “Shall we join the children?” he proposed, his eyes dancing. “Shall we watch the kites?”

  “We shall,” I said. “After I change Bess’s diaper.”

  Arthur’s laughter filled the room and this time I joined in. There would always be kindly laughter, I thought, in the realm of the Summer King.

  Twenty-three

  I had every intention of sharing Arthur’s remarkable story with Bill and with Aunt Dimity on Friday evening, but life got in the way. A flat tire during the school run, a cricket ball through the kitchen window, and an exploding diaper that would have taxed the cleanup skills of a fully trained hazmat team made me glad simply to crawl into bed at an early hour.

  I spent Saturday morning persuading Will and Rob not to pack every toy, book, and piece of clothing they possessed for their overnight at Anscombe Manor. I spent Saturday afternoon brushing lint from Bill’s tux, searching my closet for an evening gown I could squeeze into, and listening to Bill grumble about his aunts. By the time we finished dressing for dinner, I was ready to stuff a sock in his mouth, but I thought I looked pretty good.

  I’d chosen a strapless gown in midnight-blue silk satin primarily because it would allow easy access to the snack bar, but also because its mermaid shape flattered my motherly figure. Bill was too busy girding himself for battle to notice.

  I’d dressed Bess in a pretty pale-blue cotton frock Sally Cook had made for her, then added a few backup onesies to the diaper bag in case she needed a quick change en route. The diaper incident was still fresh in my mind.

  At half past seven, we climbed into the Rover and drove to Fairworth House. Deirdre Donovan greeted us at the front door, looking as lo
vely and as unflappable as ever.

  “William and Amelia are in the drawing room with the tartars,” she murmured as she relieved us of our coats and the diaper bag.

  “How do you do it?” I said quietly. “You’ve had to kowtow to them for nearly a week. Why haven’t you ripped your hair out by the roots?”

  “It’s simple,” she said. “I’ve discovered what they like to eat.”

  “Diet pills?” I hazarded.

  “Vodka martinis,” said Deirdre. “Stirred, extra dry, no olives. They lap them up like a pair of thirsty puppies, then doze off. They’re not bad company when they’re asleep.”

  “Ingenious,” I said.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Bill growled, squaring his shoulders.

  I gave Deirdre a speaking look.

  “Stay cool, Bill,” she said. “I’ll have you out of here by ten.”

  “Nine would be better,” Bill muttered.

  “Eat fast,” she advised.

  Deirdre opened the drawing room door and announced us, then stood aside to allow us to enter the room ahead of her. Honoria and Charlotte rose from their chairs to welcome their nephew effusively while favoring Bess and me with perfunctory smiles. William and Amelia kissed me on both cheeks and told me how lovely I looked before taking Bess with them to show her the Staffordshire spaniels on the mantel shelf. I sat on the Regency settee and waited for World War III to begin.

  “Bill needs a drink, Donovan,” Charlotte said gaily as Bill escorted her and Honoria back to their seats and their martini glasses.

  “A drink for Bill,” said Honoria, snapping her fingers at Deirdre.

  “Nothing for me, thank you, Deirdre,” Bill said, joining me on the settee.

  “Not even a small one?” Charlotte coaxed. “To celebrate your release from home detention?”

  The muscles in Bill’s jaw began to work, but he kept his cool.

  “I’m driving,” he explained.

  “We’re not!” Honoria crowed.

  She and Charlotte raised their glasses to Bill, drained them, and motioned imperiously for Deirdre to refill them. Though Deirdre filled the glasses to the brim, the sisters didn’t spill a drop as they went on speaking. I was impressed.