Aunt Dimity Down Under (4 page)

As always, I found it impossible to tell the sisters apart until one of them spoke. Ruth invariably opened our conversations.

“Lori,” she said in a weak and breathy voice, “how kind of you . . .”

“. . . to visit us at such a late hour.” Louise’s voice was as faint as her sister’s. “We won’t . . .”

“. . . keep you long,” Ruth continued. “Please . . .”

“. . . make yourself comfortable,” Louise finished.

My throat tightened when I realized how much I would miss the Pyms’ ping-pong manner of speaking, but I swallowed my emotions, drew a chair from one of the dressing tables, and took a seat between the beds.

“Rumor has it that you had a funny turn,” I said.

“It’s only to be expected,” said Ruth. “We’re not . . .”

“. . . spring chickens,” said Louise. “I rather think we’re . . .”

“. . . ready for plucking,” said Ruth with a wheezy chuckle.

“I wouldn’t put it quite so bluntly,” I said, wincing.

“Ah, but we would,” Louise pointed out. “There’s no need to feel . . .”

“. . . sad about our parting, Lori,” Ruth went on. “To everything . . .”

“. . . there is a season,” said Louise. “Our season has been rich and full . . .”

“. . . and much longer than most,” said Ruth. “My sister and I are almost ready to shuffle off . . .”

To Buffalo? I thought wildly. The plucked-chicken metaphor had thrown me for a loop.

“. . . our mortal coils.” Louise completed the Shakespearean tag matter-of-factly. “Before we do so, however, we must . . .”

“. . . set our affairs in order,” said Ruth. “We must . . .”

“. . . tie up some loose ends,” said Louise. “Unfortunately, we’ve left it . . .”

“. . . a bit late,” said Ruth. “We are no longer able to do . . .”

“. . . what needs to be done,” said Louise.

“We need your help,” they chorused.

“I’m yours to command,” I said promptly. “Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

The Pyms’ voices had been growing steadily weaker and their eyelids were beginning to flutter. I was afraid they would fade into sleep—or worse—without clarifying their request, but they roused themselves sufficiently to manage a few more sentences.

“Aubrey,” Ruth said. “Please . . .”

“ . . . find Aubrey,” said Louise. “Mother and Father will want to know . . .”

“. . . what happened to him,” Ruth said.

They raised their right hands simultaneously to point at the fireplace.

“Speak to Fortescue,” Ruth whispered. “He’ll explain . . .”

“. . . everything,” Louise concluded.

As their hands fell onto the coverlets, identical furrows appeared on their identical brows.

“Don’t worry,” I told them. “I’ll take care of it.”

Their brows smoothed, their bright eyes closed, and much to my relief, their thin chests rose and fell in the regular rhythm of sleep.

“Save your strength,” I murmured, looking from one gently wrinkled face to the other. “I’ll speak to Fortescue. And I’ll find Aubrey for you.”

It was a somewhat hollow boast since I had no idea who Fortescue was and I’d never heard of Aubrey, but ignorance had never kept me from taking action. I returned the chair to the dressing table, then went to search the fireplace for clues that might tell me what to do next.

I found one immediately. A business card sat on the mantelshelf, propped against a charming porcelain tabby cat. Printed on the card in a flowery but legible script were the words:

“The family solicitor? ” I murmured, pocketing the card. “I hope Mr. Makepeace knows who the heck Aubrey is.”

Even as I spoke, I thought of someone else who might be able to fill me in on the mysterious Aubrey, but to test my hunch, I would have to return to the cottage.

I tiptoed out of the bedroom and crept downstairs as noiselessly as I could. I found Kit and Nell sitting before the fire in the front parlor, sipping cups of hot cocoa. Nell’s flawless face was tranquil and Kit’s haggard expression had been replaced by one of pure contentment. I hated to intrude on the cozy scene, but I couldn’t leave without asking the obvious questions. I motioned for them to keep their seats as I stepped into the room.

“Have the Pyms ever mentioned the name Aubrey to you? ” I asked.

“No,” said Kit.

“Never,” said Nell.

“What about Fortescue Makepeace? ” I said.

“He’s the family solicitor,” said Kit, confirming my guess. “He popped in for a chat with Ruth and Louise shortly after the doctor left.”

“How are they?” asked Nell.

“Sleeping,” I said. “Which is what I should be doing. Good night, you two. Take care of Ruth and Louise—and each other.”

I left the nearly-weds to their vigil and drove away from the Pyms’ house, wishing I’d been a fly on the wall when the sisters had had their little chat with Fortescue Makepeace.

T
he lights in the living room were still lit when I reached the cottage, and the fire was still crackling in the hearth. Bill and Willis, Sr., had waited up for me, though Willis, Sr., had exchanged his three-piece suit and immaculate leather shoes for neatly pressed pajamas, a paisley silk robe, and handmade Italian bedroom slippers. Stanley had apparently been keeping watch at the bay window for my return because he’d moved from Bill’s lap to the cushioned window seat, but he’d fallen asleep on duty, curled into a glossy black ball.

While I warmed my hands at the fire, Bill made a cup of chamomile tea to warm the rest of me. I drank it gratefully as I told him and Willis, Sr., about my extraordinary evening at the Pyms’. They were impressed but not surprised by the villagers’ spirited response to the tragic situation.

“Your neighbors have always rallied around one another in times of need,” said Willis, Sr. “I would have been shocked and dismayed if they’d neglected to do so under the present circumstances.”

“Ditto,” said Bill. “I’m particularly glad to hear that Nell’s there to look after Ruth and Louise. Nell’s as capable as any nurse-for-hire and she’s always had a special relationship with the Pyms.”

“The dear ladies are extremely fond of Eleanor,” Willis, Sr., concurred. He was the only person I knew who used Nell’s proper name. “I believe her presence will be highly beneficial to them, whatever the eventual outcome.”

Neither Bill nor his father had ever heard of Fortescue Makepeace, and the name Aubrey meant nothing to them, but they urged me nonetheless to visit the family solicitor as soon as possible.

“I shall take my grandsons to school tomorrow morning,” Willis, Sr., informed me, “and I shall retrieve them after school, leaving you free to confer with Mr. Makepeace.”

“My docket’s pretty full, but I’ll do whatever I can to help,” Bill chimed in.

“Wow,” I said, beaming at them. “The villagers may not have surprised you, but you’ve managed to astonish me.”

“In what way? ” asked Willis, Sr.

“I didn’t expect you to be so supportive,” I replied. “I thought you’d accuse me of making a promise I couldn’t keep and plunging headlong into yet another wild goose chase.”

Bill shook his head. “You seem to forget that, as estate attorneys, Father and I have had rather a lot of experience with last wills and testaments.”

“A deathbed wish is sacrosanct,” Willis, Sr., explained. “Whether you can fulfill it or not is irrelevant. The pursuit is all.”

“You may succeed or you may fail,” Bill put in, “but you’re obliged to try. By the same token, we’re obliged to help you. Not that obligation matters in this case. We’ll do our best for the Pyms because”—he shrugged—“they’re family.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “Thanks, both of you. With Team Willis behind me, I can’t fail.”

“And on that hopeful note,” said Bill, getting to his feet, “I will bid you good night. I have to be at the office by seven tomorrow for a conference call, so it’s time for me to hit the sack.”

“I, too, shall retire,” said Willis, Sr., rising. “Will and Rob will expect a certain degree of energetic enthusiasm from me on the way to school, and I must not disappoint them.”

“Coming, Lori?” said Bill.

“I’ll be up in a bit,” I replied. “My brain is spinning too fast for sleep right now.”

“Don’t let it overheat,” he said. “You’ll need to keep your wits about you when you meet with Fortescue Makepeace.”

He bent to kiss the top of my head, then accompanied his father upstairs. Stanley promptly jumped down from the window seat and padded after them, determined, no doubt, to hop into bed with Bill and claim the warm spot behind Bill’s knees.

I waited until silence reigned on the second floor, then made a beeline for the study, where I hoped to speak with the one person who might be able to calm my spinning brain. I’d kept mum about my little side trip because, although Willis, Sr., understood many things, I wasn’t convinced that he’d understand my relationship with Aunt Dimity.

It was, to be sure, a fairly odd relationship. For one thing, Aunt Dimity wasn’t my aunt. For another, she wasn’t entirely alive. Since her body had been laid to rest in St. George’s graveyard before Bill and I had moved into the cottage, most people would, in fact, describe her as completely dead. But I wasn’t one of them.

Dimity Westwood had been born and raised in England. She’d also been my late mother’s closest friend. The two women had met in London while serving their respective countries during the Second World War and they’d maintained a steady correspondence long after the guns had fallen silent and my mother had sailed back to America.

To call the pair
pen pals
would be to understate the depth of their friendship. Dimity’s letters had helped my mother to recover from my father’s early death and to face the subsequent challenges of full-time work and single parenthood. Their lifelong correspondence had provided my mother with an oasis of peace in her unexpectedly chaotic world.

My mother was very protective of her oasis. When I was growing up, I knew Dimity Westwood only as Aunt Dimity, the redoubtable heroine of my favorite bedtime stories. I didn’t learn about the real Dimity Westwood until both she and my mother had joined the ranks of the dearly departed. It was then that Dimity had bequeathed to me a comfortable fortune, a honey-colored cottage in the Cotswolds, the letters she and my mother had exchanged, and a curious blue-leather-bound journal.

It was through the blue journal that I finally came to know my benefactress. Whenever I spoke to its blank pages, Aunt Dimity’s handwriting would appear, an elegant copperplate taught in the village school at a time when a computer was a clever man who worked with numbers. I’d nearly fainted the first time Aunt Dimity had communed with me from beyond the grave, but I’d long since accepted her as an indispensable presence in my life. I considered myself thrice blessed to call the heroine of my childhood my friend.

The study was dark, but it wasn’t silent. A rising wind moaned in the chimney and made the dried strands of ivy rattle insistently against the many-paned window above the old oak desk. I crossed the book-lined room to light the mantelshelf lamps, then knelt to touch a match to the tinder in the hearth. When the wood caught fire, I straightened and looked toward a special niche in the bookcase beside the fireplace.

The niche was occupied by a small rabbit with black button eyes and a pale pink flannel hide. His name was Reginald and he’d been my companion in adventure for as long as I could remember. I never entered the study without greeting him, but tonight’s greeting was a somber announcement rather than a cheery “Hello, Reg!”

“The Pym sisters are sick,” I said, touching the faded grape juice stain on Reginald’s powder-pink snout. “They may not last the night, so I hope you won’t mind if I skip the small talk. I need to speak with Aunt Dimity.”

Reginald’s eyes seemed to gleam solemnly in the firelight, as if he understood the gravity of the situation. I nodded to him, then pulled the blue journal from its shelf and sat in one of the tall leather armchairs facing the fireplace. Instead of opening the journal, however, I rested my hand on its smooth front cover and gazed at the leaping flames.

Until that moment I hadn’t considered how difficult it would be to tell Aunt Dimity about the Pyms. The cottage she’d bequeathed to me had been the one in which she’d been born and raised. She’d known Ruth and Louise her entire life. Although she was intimately familiar with death, I wasn’t sure how she’d react when I told her that two of her oldest friends were about to join her in the great beyond.

I looked up at Reginald, found strength in his kindly gaze, and opened the journal.

“Dimity?” I said. “I’m afraid I have some sad news to tell you.”

I blinked as Aunt Dimity’s elegant handwriting swept across the page in a blur of royal-blue ink.

“They’re fine,” I assured her hastily. “So am I and so is Stanley. But Ruth and Louise Pym aren’t.”

“Their hearts are giving out,” I said gently. “Dr. Finisterre doesn’t think they have much longer to live. . . .” I went on to tell her about the doctor’s diagnosis, the villagers’ outpouring of affection, and the postponement of the long-awaited wedding. When I finished, there was an extended pause in which nothing new appeared on the page. Then the handwriting began again, more slowly this time, as if Aunt Dimity were lost in distant memories.

I stopped breathing for a moment, then leaned closer to the page. Bobby MacLaren had been Aunt Dimity’s one true love. He’d been shot down over the English Channel during the Battle of Britain and his body had never been found. She rarely mentioned him.