Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch

by Nancy Atherton

  My mother was extremely protective of her refuge. She told no one about it, including me. As a child, I knew Dimity Westwood only as Aunt Dimity, the heroine of a series of bedtime stories invented by my mother. I didn’t learn about the real Dimity Westwood until both she and my mother were dead.

  It was then that the fictional heroine of my favorite stories became very real to me. To my everlasting astonishment, the woman I knew as Aunt Dimity bequeathed to me a considerable fortune, the honey-colored cottage in which she’d grown up, the precious correspondence she’d exchanged with my mother, and a blue-leather-bound journal filled with blank pages.

  It was through the blue journal that I finally came to know my benefactress. Whenever I opened it, her handwriting would appear, an old-fashioned copperplate taught in the village school at a time when the only book most cottagers owned was a family Bible. Although I had a minor fit of hysteria the first time it happened, I soon came to realize that there was no reason to fear and every reason to love Aunt Dimity’s unconventional means of communication.

  I still had no idea how Aunt Dimity managed to bridge the gap between life and afterlife, and she wasn’t too clear about it herself, but I didn’t require a technical explanation. It was enough for me to know that she was as good a friend to me as she’d been to my mother.

  The study was dark, but not silent when I entered it. The wind moaned in the chimney and rattled the dried strands of ivy crisscrossing the diamond-paned windows above the old oak desk. Shivering, I switched on the mantel lamps and knelt to light a fire in the hearth. It wasn’t until the flames caught that I stood to greet Reginald.

  Reginald was a small rabbit made of powder-pink flannel. He had black button eyes, hand-sewn whiskers, and a faded purple stain on his snout, a memento of the day I’d shared my grape juice with him. Reginald had entered my life soon after I’d entered it, and he’d been my companion in adventure ever since. He’d absorbed more tears than any handkerchief I’d ever owned and he’d kept every secret I’d ever shared with him. Another woman might have folded him in tissue and stored him in a trunk as a cherished relic of her childhood. I kept him close at hand, because I never knew when I’d have more tears to shed or deep dark secrets to share.

  “It’s been a strange day, Reg,” I said. “A famous artist has moved to Finch under an assumed name and we have to conceal her true identity or we’ll end up chin-deep in lunatics.” I raised an admonitory finger to him. “Everything I say from now on is strictly confidential.”

  Reginald kept his mouth shut, as if to demonstrate his trustworthiness. I twiddled his ears fondly, then took the blue journal down from its shelf and sat with it in one of the pair of tall leather armchairs facing the fireplace.

  “Dimity?” I said, opening the journal. “I hope you haven’t made any plans for the evening. I can guarantee that you’ll want to hear the lowdown on our new neighbor.”

  I grinned as the familiar lines of royal-blue ink began to loop and curl sinuously across the page.

  Let me consult my appointments diary. Hmmm…No, I have nothing scheduled for this evening and even if I did, I’d cancel it. I’ve been waiting all day to hear about Mrs. Thistle. Do tell!

  I kicked off my sneakers, curled my legs beneath me, and began, “As I told you last night, today was move-in day at Pussywillows.”

  A regrettably twee name for such a lovely cottage. The original owner was no doubt inspired by the pussywillows growing along the riverbank, but I can’t help wishing he’d given the place a more sensible name. Plain old “Willows” would have done nicely.

  “Er, yes,” I said, momentarily distracted from my train of thought. “Willows would have worked, but it’s too late to rename the cottage now.”

  Nonsense. Mrs. Thistle could simply hire someone to paint a new sign for her.

  “She could do it herself,” I countered. “Mrs. Thistle knows how to use a paintbrush.”

  Is she a decorator?

  “No,” I replied. “She’s an artist and her name isn’t Amelia Thistle, it’s Mae Bowen.”

  The botanical artist? The child prodigy?

  My eyebrows rose. “Did you know her?”

  I never met her, but I knew of her. In my day, everyone who appreciated flowers and watercolors knew about Mae Bowen, and I’m particularly fond of both. I attended her very first exhibition and was astounded by the talent she displayed at such a young age. Youthful gifts can fade over time, but hers never deserted her. She was one of the lucky few who go on to make a tidy fortune doing something they love. Why has she chosen to call herself Amelia Thistle? Another regrettably twee name, I might add. I would have expected Mae Bowen to have better taste in pseudonyms.

  “Twee or not,” I said, “Amelia Thistle is the name she’s using, possibly for self-defense.”

  I leaned back in the chair, planted my stockinged feet on the ottoman, and launched into a detailed recap of everything Grant and Charles had told me about Mae Bowen, her fanatical followers, and the threat they posed to Finch.

  “The hoopla surrounding Mae Bowen seemed kind of silly to me,” I concluded, “until William showed me one of her paintings. It’s a little thing—a small watercolor of spring crocuses—but it packs a punch. She made it seem as if crocuses have souls.”

  Who’s to say they don’t? Be that as it may, I do know what you mean. When I first saw her work, I was instantly reminded of some lines from William Blake’s “Auguries of Innocence”:

  To see a world in a grain of sand,

  And a heaven in a wild flower,

  Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,

  And eternity in an hour.

  Mae Bowen sees to the heart of every living thing she paints and she helps us to see what she sees. Although I felt no need to create a belief system based on her works, it doesn’t surprise me to hear that others have. I must say that I feel terribly sorry for Miss Bowen. Her worshipers sound positively pestilential.

  “According to Grant and Charles, they’re like a plague of locusts,” I agreed, “and I don’t want them nesting in Finch.”

  Finch’s hypothetical troubles seem to me to be of less importance than Mae Bowen’s verifiable trials. Imagine yourself in her place, Lori. Imagine being mobbed by strangers making demands they have no right to make—demands on your time, your wisdom, your passion, your privacy. It would drive the sanest woman mad.

  “Which is precisely why Mae Bowen should have stayed on her gated estate,” I reasoned. “She was safe there. Why would she decide to live in Pussywillows, where she’s anything but safe?”

  Some things are more important than safety, Lori. Perhaps Miss Bowen is tired of living in isolation. Perhaps she craves the stimulation of village life.

  “If the Bowenists find out where she lives,” I grumbled, “she’ll have all the stimulation she can handle.”

  If her secret is kept, however, the Bowenists need never know she’s here.

  “Never is a long time,” I said glumly, “especially in Finch, where news spreads faster than wildfires. Peggy Taxman’s whispers can be heard around the world—and she has access to Mae Bowen’s mail!” I frowned worriedly at the fire. “Call me a stick-in-the-mud, Dimity, but I like Finch the way it is. I don’t want to see Sally’s tea shop turned into a vegetarian café. I don’t want Peacock’s pub to become a wine bar. I want the Emporium to sell tea and sugar and milk, not dowsing rods and crystal balls and tarot cards. And, yes, I would like Mae Bowen to live in peace, but peace is exactly what she won’t have if the loonies come looking for her. They’ll be able to knock on her door at any time, day or night. She’s totally unprotected. And so is Finch.”

  There was a pause, as if Aunt Dimity were marshaling her thoughts. Then the handwriting continued, flowing calmly and steadily across the page.

  It’s clearly too late to keep you from working yourself into a froth over Mrs. Thistle, but I’m not convinced that she is froth worthy.

  “If the destruction of Finch isn’t froth
worthy, I don’t know what is,” I retorted.

  But you have no reason to believe that Finch will be destroyed. You have no reason to believe anything. You do not yet know that Amelia Thistle is, in fact, Mae Bowen.

  “Charles and Grant swore up and down that she is,” I protested.

  Charles and Grant could be mistaken. As you yourself pointed out, the two women could be doubles or identical twins. Before you take up arms to defend Finch from Mae Bowen’s overzealous admirers, don’t you think it would be wise to find out if Grant and Charles are correct?

  “I could ask Bill to run a background check on Mrs. Thistle,” I offered.

  You’ll do no such thing. Mae Bowen is not a criminal and she doesn’t deserve to be treated like one.

  “You’re right,” I conceded equably. “I’d be acting like a Bowenist if I pried into her private life without her knowledge, so a background check is out. I suppose you have a better idea?”

  I believe I do. It’s a risky proposition, though. It might even be dangerous. It will almost certainly require courage and cunning.

  Intrigued, I glanced toward the hallway, then hunched secretively over the journal and lowered my voice. “Are you by any chance suggesting that I break into Pussywillows and rifle through Mrs. Thistle’s papers?”

  I most certainly am not. However much it might appeal to your sense of adventure, Lori, such a course of action would be an even greater invasion of privacy than a background check. I would never advise you to burgle a home unless it was absolutely necessary, which, in this case, it is not.

  “What are you suggesting, then?” I asked.

  I am advising you to speak with Mrs. Thistle.

  “Speak with her?” I repeated, feeling a bit deflated. The adventurous side of me would have preferred burglary. “That’s it?”

  That’s it. Ask Mrs. Thistle if she is Mae Bowen. The rest of the conversation will follow naturally from her answer.

  “The direct approach, eh?” I said ruminatively.

  It’s usually the best approach. It’s certainly less risky than breaking and entering.

  “Where does the danger come in?” I inquired.

  To ask questions is to risk rebuffs. Mrs. Thistle may tell you to mind your own business. She may faint or shriek or slap your face. She may even see you to the door. Courage will be needed to ask the question. Cunning may be needed to gain an answer. I suggest that you bring a selection of tea biscuits with you.

  “To use as a defensive weapon?” I said, smiling.

  In a manner of speaking. Mrs. Thistle will feel obliged to offer you a cup of tea in return for your kindness. Once she sits down to tea with you, she’ll have to behave in a civilized manner. You might bring a quiche as well, or any other dish that can be refrigerated, then warmed through when needed. It’s a bother to cook when one’s pots and pans are inaccessible. She’ll appreciate a quiche.

  “So,” I said, “I should bring Mrs. Thistle some cookies and a quiche, wait for her to make tea, then spring the big question on her.”

  Yes, and the sooner, the better. The longer you speculate, the more likely you are to do something you, Bill, William, and I will regret. You have been known to behave rashly, Lori.

  “If I were blessed with impulse control,” I responded, “I wouldn’t have torn out of the tearoom to chase after Charles and Grant. The only reason we know about Mrs. Thistle’s little secret is because I followed a hunch.”

  But we don’t know for certain that Mrs. Thistle has a secret, Lori, not yet, though I’m sure you’ll find out all about it tomorrow. I wish you the best of luck, my dear,

  “Thanks, Dimity,” I said. “I’ll keep you informed.”

  I know you will and I’m grateful. Good night, Lori. Sleep well.

  I waited until the lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, then closed the journal and looked up at Reginald.

  “Sleep will have to wait,” I said to my pink bunny. “I have to make cookies and a quiche tonight, because I intend to visit Pussywillows first thing tomorrow morning, right after I take the boys to school.”

  Reginald’s black button eyes glimmered a warning and I understood why. I would be breaking a village tradition by calling on a newcomer so soon after her arrival—a transgression that would earn me a month’s worth of dirty looks from the Handmaidens, among others—but I didn’t care. The quest I was about to undertake was of vital importance to the entire community. Neither slaps nor shrieks nor dirty looks would keep me from seeking the truth.

  Six

  I awoke the following morning to a leaden sky and the drumming of autumn rain on the slate roof. Having stayed up until the wee hours baking three separate batches of cookies as well as a quiche lorraine, I felt almost as leaden as the sky when I rolled out of bed, but a hearty breakfast and the bracing company of my menfolk perked me up. By the time I reached Pussywillows, with the fruits of my night’s labor tucked safely in a canvas carryall, I was ready for battle.

  Mrs. Thistle answered my knock almost instantly, as if she’d been sitting near the door, hoping someone would come to call. Her blue eyes seemed enormous in a face that had grown pale, the gray hair bundled on the back of her head was on the verge of falling down around her ears, and she appeared to be wearing the same clothing she’d worn the day before—knee-length cardigan, tweed trousers, and vermillion blouse. She looked, in short, like a woman who’d been shipwrecked on foreign shores without a hairbrush, a hairpin, or a change of clothes to call her own.

  “Good morning,” I said brightly. “My name is Lori Shepherd and I live just up the lane.” I held the canvas carryall out to her. “I’ve brought a little something to welcome you to the village.”

  “Is it edible?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the bag.

  “Quiche and cookies,” I replied. The question seemed a little strange to me, but I was willing to go with the flow.

  Mrs. Thistle licked her lips and released a tremulous sigh before asking, “Is the quiche cooked?”

  “All you have to do is warm it up,” I assured her.

  “No need for that,” she said. “I adore cold quiche. Do come in.”

  She seized my wrist, drew me across the threshold, and kicked the door shut with her foot. I had a brief glimpse of a front room littered with crumpled newspaper and cardboard boxes before she whisked me through to the kitchen, at the rear of the cottage. Once there, she relieved me of the carryall, placed its contents on a scrubbed pine table, and began rummaging through yet another cardboard box.

  “I’ve unearthed the cutlery and my tea things,” she said, “but I haven’t been able to locate the crockery, and my pots and pans are nowhere to be found. I suppose I should have labeled the boxes, but after living in the same place for ten years, one loses the knack for moving house.” She pulled two exquisite antique forks out of the box and offered one to me. “Care to join me?”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’ve already had breakfast.”

  “How I envy you,” she said. “I didn’t think to bring provisions with me. By the time I abandoned the unpacking last night, the local shops were closed, and I didn’t know where else to go. Dinner was a packet of crisps left behind by the removals men and breakfast was a cup of tea brewed from one of the desiccated tea bags I found at the bottom of my tea caddy. Thank heavens my predecessor left behind a roll of loo paper or I would have been in real trouble. As it is, I’m famished.”

  “Dig in,” I said, gesturing to the quiche. “I’ll make a fresh pot of tea.”

  “You are an angel of mercy.” She pulled a chair out from the table, sat down, and attacked the quiche, scooping bites of it directly from the pie plate with her fork.

  I slid out of my dripping rain parka and hung it to dry in the scullery, then turned my attention to tea. The kitchen had been thoroughly updated—stainless steel appliances, birch countertops and cabinetry—but the rustic stone sink, the exposed beams, and the flagstone floor softened its modern edges, and the view of the rive
r meadows from the window over the sink was timeless.

  The tea caddy sat between an electric kettle and a chubby cherry-red teapot on the counter next to the sink. The only drinking vessels in sight were a dozen jam jars, one of which contained traces of Mrs. Thistle’s spartan breakfast. I’d never drunk tea from a jam jar before, but evidently Mrs. Thistle had.

  I had no cream or sugar to offer my hostess, but she didn’t seem to mind. Once she’d quelled the worst of her hunger pangs, she accepted a jar of weak, unadulterated tea with a grateful smile. After a careful sip, she held the jam jar at arm’s length and examined it.

  “I usually use these for cleaning my paintbrushes,” she said philosophically, “but needs must.”