Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree (7 page)

I sped past the stairs and up the hallway, because Bill was correct: I wouldn’t be able to sleep—or to concentrate on anything else—until I’d finished my business in the study.

Our study was smaller, darker, and much less formal than Willis, Sr.’s. Bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and the only furnishings, apart from the old oak desk beneath the ivy-covered windows, were a pair of tall leather armchairs and an ottoman grouped before the fireplace.

The room was still and silent when I entered it. I paused to light a fire in the hearth, not for warmth, but for the cheerful companionship of the dancing flames, then smiled at the small, pink-flannel rabbit perched in a special niche on one of the shelves.

“Hi, Reg,” I said, touching a finger to the faded grape juice stain on his snout. “Wait until you hear about Sally Pyne!”

A psychiatrist would have had a field day explaining why a woman in her late thirties spent time chatting with a pink bunny named Reginald, but it made perfect sense to me. Reginald had been my confidante and my companion in adventure for as long as I could remember. It would have been impolite to ignore him simply because I’d grown up.

“It’s spectacular, Reg,” I continued. “It’s the juiciest story I’ve heard since we moved to Finch.”

Reginald’s black-button eyes glimmered with anticipation as I took a particular book from the shelf next to his and curled up with it in the leather armchair closest to him.

I’d inherited the book from my late mother’s dearest friend, an Englishwoman named Dimity Westwood. My mother and Dimity had met in London while serving their respective countries during the Second World War. The bonds of affection they forged during that dark and dangerous time endured long after peace was declared and my mother sailed back to the States.

Though the two women never saw each other again, they nurtured their deepening friendship by sending hundreds of letters back and forth across the Atlantic. My mother regarded those letters as her private sanctuary, a peaceful retreat from the daily grind of raising a daughter on her own after my father’s sudden death. She valued her sanctuary so highly that she kept it a secret from everyone—including me. As a child, I knew Dimity Westwood only as Aunt Dimity, the redoubtable heroine of a series of bedtime stories that sprang from my mother’s fertile imagination.

I didn’t find out about the real Dimity Westwood until after both she and my mother had died. It was then that Dimity bequeathed to me a considerable fortune, the honey-colored cottage in which she’d spent her childhood, the letters she and my mother had written, and a curious book—a journal bound in dark blue leather.

It was through the blue journal that I finally came to know Dimity Westwood. Whenever I opened it, her handwriting would appear on its blank pages, an old-fashioned copperplate taught at the village school at a time when inkwells were considered useful rather than decorative. I was staggered the first time it happened, afraid that I’d unwittingly conjured up a creepy, demanding sort of spirit who would rattle chains and howl at inappropriate moments.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. Aunt Dimity quickly showed herself to be a wise and kindly soul who wanted nothing but the best for her best friend’s only child. I had no idea how she managed the trick, but by reaching out to me from beyond the grave, Aunt Dimity proved to me that love could indeed make all things possible. I simply couldn’t imagine life without her.

I rested the journal on my lap and opened it, but before I could say a word, the familiar lines of royal-blue ink began to curl and loop excitedly across the page.

You’re back very late, Lori. Am I right to assume that William’s party was the success you hoped it would be?

“It was a smashing success,” I assured her. “Against all odds, I might add. The caterers were smitten by food poisoning at the eleventh hour, but the villagers rushed to my aid.”

I imagine some rushed more speedily than others. Were you able to keep the Handmaidens from thrusting their offerings on William?

I laughed. “You know Finch too well, Dimity. The dear ladies tried to ambush William behind my back, but Lilian and Emma kept them at bay.”

Three cheers for Lilian and Emma! It’s a pity they won’t always be around to protect William from his overzealous admirers. I fear that he will be pestered incessantly, now that he’s on his own.

“Ah, but he’s not on his own,” I said. “He has the Donovans to run interference for him.”

Who, may I ask, are the Donovans? I don’t recall a family by that name in Finch.

“Deirdre and Declan Donovan aren’t from Finch,” I informed her. “I’m not sure where they’re from, but they showed up tonight to offer their services to William and he accepted. They’re at Fairworth House right now.”

Are they ... suitable?

“William thinks so,” I said. “I’m not sure what to think. He made up his mind awfully fast.”

I’ve never known William to be impulsive.

“Nor have I,” I said. “But I’ve never known him to talk about sheep before, either.”

Sheep?

“Sheep,” I said. “William told me this morning that he’s thinking about adopting a flock of endangered sheep.”

If he has enough land to support a flock of sheep, why shouldn’t he adopt one?

“Because he’s no more a shepherd than he is impulsive.” I glanced pensively at the fax machine on the desk, then looked down at the journal again. “He’s behaving oddly, Dimity. First he comes up with the sheep idea, then he hires the Donovans without a proper interview. I can’t help wondering if he hired them just to please me and Bill. He knows how twitchy we’ve been about leaving him alone at Fairworth.”

He may have hired the Donovans in order to allay your fears, Lori, but he won’t keep them on if they fail to meet his expectations.

“They’re doing all right so far,” I said. “Deirdre Donovan didn’t bat an eye when Sally Pyne showed up after the party, covered in mud.”

Why on earth was Sally Pyne covered in mud? And why did she arrive after the party?

“You’re going to love this, Dimity,” I said, grinning. “I promised William that I wouldn’t breathe a word of it to anyone, but you’re not just anyone.”

I appreciate the compliment, Lori, but I would appreciate a direct response even more.

“Your wish is my command.” I hunkered down and gave Aunt Dimity a detailed account of the dramatic events that had taken place both during and after the party, from Rainey Dawson’s startling entrance in the garden to Sally Pyne’s stealthy exit along the riverbank. “I think it’s fair to say,” I concluded, “that Sally’s pickle lived up to its hype.”

I think it’s fair to say that it surpassed my wildest expectations. Poor, dear, featherbrained Sally. Her first experience of foreign travel turned her head completely. She would have been better off if she’d won a seaside holiday at Skegness. No Englishman would have mistaken her for a grand lady.

“She wouldn’t have pretended to be one if she’d stayed in England,” I said. “But would she be better off, Dimity? It sounds to me as though she had the time of her life with Henrique. She may regret it now, but would she be happier if she’d missed it altogether?”

Are a few days of happiness worth years of regret? It is a vexed question, to be sure, but I believe Sally gave her own personal answer to it when she bared her soul so tearfully to William. If she could relive her Mexican holiday, knowing what she knows now, I’m certain that she would behave differently.

“Twenty-twenty hindsight’s no fun at all,” I said, nodding. “But why
did
she bare her soul to William? What did she think she’d gain from her confession, apart from sympathy?”

She hoped that William would solve her problem, of course.

“How can William possibly solve her problem?” I asked, smiling incredulously.

Let me see
... The ormolu clock on the mantel ticked away the minutes while Aunt Dimity marshaled her thoughts. Finally, the handwriting continued.
If I were a gallant gentleman like William, I would continue the charade.

“How?” I asked.

I would allow Sally to have the run of Fairworth House for a few days.

“You want William to move out?” I said, blinking in disbelief. “He’s only just moved in!”

William doesn’t have to go anywhere, Lori. He can introduce himself to Señor Cocinero as Lady Sarah’s brother or, better still, her American cousin who is spending the summer with her in her beautiful home.

“It’s a good start,” I conceded, “but I can see a few stumbling blocks along the way. Sally has to keep the villagers from finding out about her Mexican swain. Even if William agreed to go along with the charade—a big
if
—how would Sally get from the tearoom to Fairworth House without anyone in the village seeing her? She can’t keep crawling along the river after dark.”

She needn’t crawl at all. Sally requires careful nursing to recover from her recent illness. She has, for that reason, decided to stay with Judith Crosby.

“Who’s Judith Crosby?” I asked.

Judith Crosby is Sally Pyne’s youngest sister. She lives in Chipping Norton. Sally will stay with her until she is well again. Since Rainey must remain behind to manage the tearoom, you, my dear, have volunteered to drive Sally to Chipping Norton.

“I have?” I said blankly.

You are a good and dependable friend, Lori. No one will question your desire to help Sally in her hour of need.

“Okay,” I said doubtfully. “But you still haven’t addressed the main issue: How will Sally get from Chipping Norton to Fairworth without anyone seeing her?”

You are being obtuse, my dear. You will not take Sally to Chipping Norton. You will bring her here, to the cottage, where you will remain for an hour or two.

“Won’t work,” I said instantly. “Will and Rob will ask too many questions if Sally hides out here.”

You’re quite right. Let me think....
The handwriting stopped briefly, then started again.
I have it! You will drive Sally to Chipping Norton, then turn around and come back to Fairworth House, thereby accruing the correct amount of travel time. As you approach Fairworth, Sally will lie flat on the backseat and conceal herself beneath a blanket.

“I’ll smuggle Sally into Fairworth?” I said, giggling.

You will. I suggest you do so as soon as possible. Sally will need time to acquaint herself with her ancestral estate. Please remember to tell her to pack her best clothes. If she is to be a grand lady, she must have something other than sweat suits in her wardrobe.

“Pack best clothes,” I murmured, entering into the spirit of things.

In the meantime, you will inform the villagers that an important foreign client is due to arrive at Fairworth on Monday for an indefinite stay. Everyone knows that William practices international law.

“He doesn’t practice any kind of law anymore,” I pointed out. “William has retired.”

Attorneys never really retire, Lori. There are always a few special clients who refuse to deal with anyone but the trusted family solicitor with whom their fathers and grandfathers dealt.

“I see,” I said. “Go on.”

You will describe the client as a boring old fusspot.

“Why?” I asked.

If you don’t paint a picture for them, the villagers may surmise that William is entertaining a celebrity. A boring old fusspot will arouse much less interest than a celebrity.

“Very true,” I said, impressed by Aunt Dimity’s attention to detail.

You will let it be known that William is engaged in a highly confidential conference with his client, and that he must not be disturbed for any reason while the conference is under way.

“No visitors allowed,” I said, nodding.

None whatsoever. You must make it clear that William and his client require complete privacy.

“The villagers will probably stay away if I tell them to,” I said, “but what about the twins? If Rob and Will get the impression that Sally’s moved in with Grandpa, they’re bound to ask awkward questions.”

Can you keep them away from Fairworth for a day or two?

“I can try,” I said, “but it won’t be easy. They love Grandpa’s new house.”

In that case, you must tell them that their grandfather wishes to spend some quiet time with an out-of-town guest. They do understand quiet time, don’t they?

“Sort of,” I mumbled, with a guilty parental grimace.

It will be up to Sally to keep Señor Cocinero from wandering into Finch.

“Again, it won’t be easy,” I said. “Remember all the kayaking and the snorkeling? Henrique sounds like an adventurous kind of guy.”

The last time I looked, kayaking and snorkeling did not rank high on Finch’s list of local activities. Sally can inform Señor Cocinero that, when at home, she prefers the gentler pursuits of taking tea and strolling sedately through her gardens.

“I’ve never seen Sally stroll sedately,” I said, “but maybe Lady Sarah does.”

William will have to explain the situation to the Donovans and impress upon them the need for absolute discretion.

“If you ask me, the Donovans are used to keeping secrets,” I said.

What gives you that impression?

“Deirdre didn’t bat an eye when Sally showed up,” I reminded Aunt Dimity. “If she’s used to finding hysterical women on her employer’s doorstep in the wee hours of a Sunday morning, I’d say that she’s had
plenty
of practice at keeping secrets.”

A well-trained housekeeper keeps her opinions to herself, Lori. She certainly doesn’t discuss her employer’s affairs with all and sundry. Deirdre, it seems, is a well-trained housekeeper. William should have no trouble with her. I can only hope that her husband is equally discreet. The scheme cannot work without the Donovans’ full cooperation.