Aunt Dimity's Death ad-1
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“An interesting idea,” I said judiciously, “and one to which I have given much thought. After due consideration—”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you,” Bill grumbled, shifting his weight from one knee to the other.
“After due consideration,” I repeated, “I have decided that I will accept your proposal, with two conditions.”
“Name them.”
“First, that you tell me what the ‘A’ stands for in William A. Willis. Does it really stand for Arthur or am I just imagining a family resemblance?”
“I prefer to think of it as an affinity with a great, imaginative mind,” Bill said haughtily, “but yes, you’re right. Quick now, before my leg falls asleep—what’s the second condition?”
“That we spend our honeymoon here at the cottage.”
Bill’s face fell, and this time there was nothing theatrical about it. “Lori, you know I’d arrange it if I could, but it’s impossible. The cottage has already been sold. The new owner is moving in at the end of the month.”
My gaze swept out over the back garden. Emma’s skillful hands had woven a glorious tapestry of colors, textures, scents, and I hoped that whoever lived here next would pause to savor its loveliness. Every petal seemed to glow, every leaf fluttered spring-green and shining. The shallow pond reflected clouds of roses in a crisp blue sky, and tiny purple blossoms cascaded over the gray stone walls. The oak grove loomed cool and inviting, and the meadow beyond the sunken terrace was awash in daffodils. I looked from their bright yellow trumpets to Bill’s anxious face.
“In that case,” I said, “I guess I’ll have to accept your proposal without any conditions at all.”
“You will?”
“Of course I will. Rise, Sir Knight, and claim your lady.” I reached down to take his hand, but he stayed where he was.
“Then you accept?” he asked.
“Would you like me to write it in blood?”
“I would like you to say yes.”
“Yes, William Arthur Willis. I will marry you.”
I expected him to rise to his feet and sweep me into a passionate embrace. Instead, he sat back on his heels and let out a whooshing sigh of relief. “Thank God,” he said. “I thought I’d never pry it out of you.”
“You didn’t seriously think I would refuse, did you?”
“No, but you had to say yes. You had to say that particular word, and I didn’t think you would ever say it.” He stood up and began to put his arms around me, but I held him off.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Why that particular word? Why do I get the feeling that there’s something you’re not telling me?”
“Because you’re right. I couldn’t tell you before, but now I can.” He leaned forward on the railing. “You remember those stories I told you about, the ones Dimity told me when Father and I were staying at her town house in London?”
“Yes.”
“I never told you who the heroine was. She was a feisty, irrepressible, entirely enchanting little girl, and her name just happened to be… Lori.”
“You’re not saying—”
“All I’m saying is that I never got her out of my mind, especially after Dimity promised that I’d get to meet her one day. She said I’d meet her and fall in love with her and that she would fall in love with me, too, though it would take her a while to realize it. And she said that I couldn’t tell her anything about any of this until I’d won her heart and hand.”
“Dimity? Dimity was our matchmaker?”
“Now, Lori, you said yourself that you have nothing against matchmaking. And we have it on the very highest authority—that of the inestimable Pym sisters and the experience of your own parents—that Dimity was the best.”
“But… but…” I gave up and shook my head. “No wonder they call twelve an impressionable age.”
“I’m sorry for pushing all those clothes on you, by the way. I should have known it would be too much too soon. But I’d waited so long and I was so happy. … And, uh, there’s one other thing I should probably clarify as long as I’m at it.” He pulled a small box from his pocket. It was covered with dark blue leather. He held it out to me and said, “Ngee oot sanzi, Lori.”
I blinked up at him in confusion and searched my memory. “Let’s get back to work? But I’ve finished—”
“Wait. That’s not what it means. What it actually means is what I’ve wanted to tell you all along. It means, I love—”
Before he could get the last word out, the sound of tires on gravel wafted through the air from the front of the cottage. He grimaced. “What a perfect time for Emma to bring the kids over to meet the Cookie Lady.”
“Oh, come on,” I said, tugging his arm. “I’ve been wanting to meet Peter and Nell. It won’t take long.”
“It’d better not,” he said, but he allowed himself to be dragged to the front door.
We swung it wide, and to our mutual astonishment beheld none other than Willis, Sr., climbing out of the limo with the ever-helpful Paul at his elbow. Paul waved and tipped his cap at me, unloaded Willis, Sr.’s luggage, then backed the limo onto the road and sped off. Willis, Sr., meanwhile, stood on the flagstone walk, his eyes fixed on the cottage, deep in thought.
“Father! Why didn’t you call? I would have come to pick you up.”
“Mr. Willis, if I’d known you were coming early, I’d have—”
“Curious,” Willis, Sr., said, half to himself. “Most curious.” He became aware of our dumbfounded presence and shrugged helplessly. “I assure you that I share your surprise at my early arrival. I am not at all certain that I can explain it.”
“I think I can,” Bill muttered as he went to get his father’s luggage. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.
By the time we were settled in the living room—Bill beside his father, and me perched on the window seat—Willis, Sr., had given us as much of an explanation as he could. It wasn’t much. He had simply canceled all of his appointments for the day, boarded a Concorde, and come straight to the cottage, drawn by an urge as irresistible as it was inexplicable. “Whatever will Mrs. Franklin think? And Mr. Hudson? Two of our most valued clients. Oh, dear me…”
“Father, I think that Lori and I will be able to explain this to you.” Bill put a reassuring hand on his father’s impeccably tailored shoulder.
“Will you?” Willis, Sr., asked doubtfully.
“Yes, though you may find our explanation a little difficult to believe,” I said.
“It could scarcely be more incredible than the present circumstances. To change one’s routine so abruptly is really quite…” His gray eyes focused on me. “My dear, please forgive this inexcusable intrusion. I beg of you, do not interrupt your own work on my account.”
I dismissed his apology with a wave. “I’m always glad to see you, Mr. Willis. As a matter of fact, I was going to call you today to let you know that I’ve finished the introduction. If I had to, I could leave right now.”
“Now, Miss Shepherd? You wish to depart today?”
If I had been honest, I would have admitted that there was nothing I wished less. My eyes wandered from the fireplace, with its neat pile of fine white ash, to the lilacs, still fresh and fragrant in their bowls. I touched the inkstain in the corner of the window seat, and looked through the diamond panes at the rose petals fluttering in the breeze. I would miss this place, I would cherish it in my memory, and I didn’t want to leave it. But I knew that I could. It was better, much better, to leave now, with my head up, than later, looking back over my shoulder.
“Yes,” I said decisively. “I don’t need to stay here any longer.”
“I see.” Willis, Sr., regarded me in silence, then added, “Your mind is quite made up on that point?”
“It is.”
“I see.” Willis, Sr., pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows, then seemed to reach a decision. “Well, in that case, I see no reason to delay carrying out Miss Westwood’s final instructions.”
“That is a very noble sentiment, Miss Shepherd, and I shall honor it, if you so desire. But I am not speaking of the commission.”
“You’re not?”
Willis, Sr., asked Bill to fetch his briefcase from the hall. When Bill returned with it, Willis, Sr., withdrew a leather portfolio and examined its contents soberly. He nodded once, then closed the portfolio and folded his hands on top of it.
“My dear Miss Shepherd,” he said, “there is one last question I must put to you. Would you please tell my son and me the story entitled Aunt Dimity Buys a Torch?
I folded my legs beneath me on the window seat and told the story again, the correct version this time, with the bright memories as well as the trodden-on foot. As I told it, I seemed to travel back in time to the night I had arrived at the Willis mansion. I saw myself standing on the doorstep in the dark, cold and alone and angry at the world, and it was like looking at a stranger. That person could never have believed in ghosts or happy endings. That person could never have fallen in love with the Handsome Prince. I felt a great tenderness for her, and when the door opened and the warm light drove away the darkness, I wished her well.
“…and Aunt Dimity went home to warm herself before the fife and feast on buttered brown bread and a pot of tea, smiling quietly as she remembered the very large and very kind man she had met that day at Harrod’s.”
Willis, Sr., let the silence linger for a time, then nodded slowly. “Thank you, Miss Shepherd. Most beautifully told.” He opened the portfolio and cleared his throat. “I am now empowered to inform you that the cottage, the land surrounding it—in fact, the entirety of Miss Westwood’s considerable estate, are to come into your sole possession at the conclusion of the allotted month’s time. I am afraid there is no way to speed that along, my dear, but I am certain that such a delay will not—”
“Mine?” I whispered, afraid to say the word aloud. “The cottage is mine?” My astonishment was mirrored in Bill’s eyes. Apparently his father had not discussed with him this detail of the case.
“Yes, Miss Shepherd. Your answer to Miss Westwood’s final question was more than satisfactory. In fact—”
“Mine?” I repeated faintly, as the full beauty of the scheme unfolded before me. Dimity and Beth, those two remarkable women, guiding each other through rocky terrain, then reaching out to pull me from my isolation and show me another way. They had seen my downward spiral; they had brought me to the cottage to open my closed mind; and they had given me a month to read their words, to hear what they were trying to tell me, so that I would not use Dimity’s considerable estate as a shield, a fortress, a lonely mansion on a hill.
Dazed, I rose from the window seat and walked out of the room. Bill started to follow me, but Willis, Sr., must have restrained him, because I left the cottage alone. Without quite knowing how I got there, I found myself in the clearing at the top of Pouter’s Hill.
The words I exchanged with the gnarled old oak tree must remain between the tree and me. Suffice it to say that the tree proved to be as good a listener as Bill.
Epilogue
Emma planted flowers there later that summer, and according to Willis, Sr., they bloom all year round. He sits beneath the old oak tree for hours whenever he visits and he visits as often as he can. He nearly gave me a heart attack the first time he tackled the climb, but it seems to have done him good. His heart hasn’t bothered him since.
I have to depend on his reports about the clearing because I don’t get up there as often as I’d like. Between unearthing rare books for Stan, visiting Uncle Andrew in Scotland, and shuttling the little Willises between cottage and mansion several times a year—and they say that D day was a big deal!—I’m kept pretty busy.
Not one single person was surprised by the news of our engagement, least of all Willis, Sr., who had placed a special order with his tailor immediately after hearing of my first visit to Arthur’s dome. “It has been a long-standing dream,” he explained, “to see my son married in a morning coat, and I thought that perhaps you, Lori, might be able to persuade him….” I did.
Miss Kingsley chartered flights to bring our Yankee guests over for the wedding, I baked the three-tiered cake from page 265 of the dog-eared cookbook, and the reception was held under the vicar’s new roof amid hundreds of blue irises. Reginald took it upon himself to preside over the bouquet of fragrant white lilacs that had arrived without a card. And I only wanted to smack Bill once the whole day, when he announced in stentorian tones that he was marrying me for my cookies. Archy Gorman’s interpretations of his remark sent Paul into paroxysms of glee and confused the Pym sisters no end.
Meg and Doug commissioned a portrait as our wedding present, which Meg unveiled with a flourish and a sneaky grin. The oil painting of the bearded knight in shining armor hangs above the fireplace in our living room now, and hardly anyone notices that he’s wearing glasses. And on our first anniversary a new blanket arrived, made from the finest Scottish wool and big enough to cover two.
Oh, and I guess I forgot to mention it, but instead of giving me an engagement ring when he proposed, Bill gave me a heart-shaped locket. Two different faces smile up at me when I open it, and the feelings they engender are about what you’d expect from perfect happiness.
Beth’s Oatmeal Cookies
1 cup butter (or margarine)
1 cup granulated sugar
2 jumbo eggs
5 tablespoons raisin water
(see below)
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
2 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
1 cup raisins
2 cups water
1/2 cup chopped walnuts
(optional)
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
In small saucepan, combine raisins with water and bring to boil; lower heat and simmer uncovered for 5 minutes. Set aside to cool. When cool, reserve 5 tablespoons raisin water, then drain raisins in colander.
In large mixing bowl, cream shortening and sugar. Add eggs and raisin water and mix well. Blend dry ingredients into creamed mixture. Add nuts, if desired. Add raisins and combine well.
Drop by heaping teaspoonsful, 2 inches apart, onto greased baking sheets. Bake 10-15 minutes, or until golden brown and firm on top when touched with your finger. Cool on racks.
Makes approx. 6 dozen cookies.
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