Nancy Atherton (3 page)

ever longed to submerge yourself in the glories of merry old

En gland?”

Mr. Barlow harrumphed disdainfully.

“Merry old England, my eye,” he grumbled. “There’s no such

thing, Cal, and there never was. The ruling class had it easy enough

back then, I’ll grant you, but the peasants worked themselves into

early graves.”

“Lots of nasty diseases in those days, too,” Sally Pyne chimed

in. “No proper sanitation and some
very
backwards ideas about personal hygiene.”

“Rats and lice everywhere you looked,” said Christine Peacock,

with an expressive shudder. “Not to mention fl eas.”

“Fleas brought the Black Death to Europe in 1347,” Jasper Tax-Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

13

man added learnedly. “In five years, the plague killed some twenty-five

million people.”

“Nothing merry about the Black Death,” opined Mr. Barlow.

“I beg to differ,” said Jasper. “The Black Death created a labor

shortage, which significantly improved the lot of the common man.

A worker could demand a better wage because so few workers

were left to do the work.”

“Be that as it may,” Mr. Barlow riposted heatedly, “no one in his

right mind would call the Black Death
merry
.”

The debate might have gone on for hours—my neighbors loved

a good digression—but Calvin reclaimed the spotlight by using the

old actor’s trick of shouting very loudly.

“My dear people!” he bellowed. When all eyes were trained on

him again, he continued smoothly, “I’m not describing
history
. I’m

describing
fantasy
—a dream of England not as it was, but as it should

have been. And I’m inviting each and every one of you to share the

dream. On the first Saturday in July, at precisely ten a.m., the gates

of a new world will be opened to you. And the name of the world

will be . . .”

He pointed toward the back of the room and the heralds unfurled a cloth banner upon which were emblazoned the words:

KING WILFRED’S FAIRE

If Calvin expected wild applause or a chorus of awestruck gasps,

he must have been disappointed, because his thrilling words were

met with dead silence and a general air of incomprehension.

Peggy seemed to speak for the rest of us when she barked,

“What in heaven’s name are you blathering on about, Calvin?”

“I’m introducing you to an experience you’ll never forget,” he

replied, unfazed by Peggy’s bluntness or our blank looks. “For eight

consecutive weekends in July and August, King Wilfred and his

loyal subjects will recreate the atmosphere of a great Renais sance

festival, featuring musicians, acrobats, jugglers—”

14 Nancy Atherton

“Like a circus?” Sally Pyne asked hopefully.

“The fair will be far more entertaining than a circus, my lady,”

Calvin told her, “because you’ll be allowed, nay, you’ll be
encour-

aged
to join in the fun. At King Wilfred’s Faire, all the world will

be a stage. A hundred—”

“Excuse me,” Jasper Taxman interrupted. “Who is this King

Wilfred you keep mentioning? No British monarch was ever called

Wilfred.”

“I am King Wilfred,” Calvin said, bowing to Jasper. “My kingdom is not fettered by an oppressive adherence to historical fact,

good sir. My realm celebrates the imagination. A hundred scintillating performers will roam the fair’s winding lanes. They will

dress in period costume, speak in period speech, and amuse you in

ways too varied and marvelous to describe.” Calvin prowled up

and down the center aisle, gesturing flamboyantly as he spoke.

“Artists will ply their wares, artisans will demonstrate their crafts,

wizards will work their magic, and”—he winked broadly—“bawdy

wenches will work theirs! Our marketplace will overflow with

unique, handcrafted items: jewelry, glassware, pottery, leather

goods, and much more. You’ll find food and drink, song and dance,

pageantry and revelry, and once daily you’ll witness the breathtaking spectacle of noble knights on horse back, competing in a joust!”

“And you expect us to participate?” Dick Peacock said doubtfully.

“I’m
not
getting on a horse,” his wife stated categorically.

“Perish the thought, good lady,” said Calvin, eyeing Christine’s

ample figure, “but you can bestow your favor upon a gallant knight,

if you wish. You can enjoy the varied entertainment and savor the

food, and you can most certainly come in costume.” He put a finger

to his lips and studied Christine critically. “I envision you as a noblewoman of the royal court, with a length of rose-colored silk

trailing from your wimple. Or as a pirate maiden in twelve-league

boots, with a saber buckled at your waist. Or as a gypsy fortuneteller, with gold hoops in your ears and seven petticoats, each a

different shade of red.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

15

Christine herself turned a fairly shocking shade of red, but she

did not look displeased. At the same time, faraway expressions

crossed the faces of several women sitting near her, as if they were

picturing themselves in twelve-league boots with sabers buckled at

their waists. Calvin, it seemed, had struck a chord.

“You’re free to dress up or to come as you are,” he continued jovially, once again addressing the room at large. “If you decide to

dress up, don’t worry overmuch about historical accuracy. We define the term ‘Renaissance’ with great liberality. In truth, anything

vaguely medieval will do. Creativity is the key, so let your imagination take flight! Did I mention the petting zoo for the little ones?”

Jasper Taxman sniffed. “I’m not entirely certain that young

children should be exposed to, ahem, bawdy wenches.”

“It’s all in good fun,” Calvin said reassuringly. “Our performers

are trained to provide good, clean, family entertainment with just

a hint of spice, and I can tell you from personal experience that the

children will be having too much fun in the petting zoo to pay attention to the spice.”

“Where are you planning to hold this fair of yours?” Mr. Barlow

inquired.

“Not far from Finch,” Calvin replied, “which is why I’m here

tonight. We want to be on good terms with our nearest neighbors.”

He stretched an arm toward Mr. Malvern. “Uncle Horace has generously allowed us to lay claim to the northeast corner of Fivefold

Farm. King Wilfred’s Faire will take place in and around Bishop’s

Wood. During fair hours, there will be free parking in the pasture

adjacent to the wood.”

Mr. Barlow’s eyebrows shot up and he glanced at Mr. Malvern

questioningly, but Mr. Malvern kept his gaze fixed firmly on the

fl oor.

“I collect herbs in Bishop’s Wood,” Miranda Morrow commented. “I don’t recall seeing any winding lanes there.”

“There aren’t any lanes at the moment,” Calvin acknowledged,

smiling at her. “Construction will begin bright and early tomorrow

16 Nancy Atherton

morning. I assure you that we will do no permanent damage to the

wood. All structures will be temporary in nature. When the fair is

finished, they will be removed.”

“How much will it cost to attend the fair?” Jasper Taxman asked

shrewdly, tapping his calculator.

“There is an admission fee,” Calvin admitted, turning to face

the retired accountant, “but the cost is trifling compared to the

enjoyment you and your loved ones will derive from the fair—nine

pounds for adults and four pounds for children aged fi ve to twelve.

Children under the age of five will, of course, be admitted without

charge.”

A peculiar sound filled the schoolhouse, a mingling of disappointed groans with outraged grunts. The groans came exclusively

from the women, the grunts from the men.

“Nine pounds?” said Jasper, appalled. “Do you seriously expect

me to pay nine pounds to watch people strut about in fancy dress?”

“Indeed not, good sir,” Calvin said solemnly. “I expect you to

pay nine pounds, and gladly, for much more. Your hesitation is understandable, however. After all, you know not whereof I speak. I

will, therefore, make a pact with you and with everyone here tonight.” He raised his voice as he turned away from Jasper to face

the schoolroom. “If you are not completely satisfied with your day

at King Wilfred’s Faire, I will personally return your admission fee

to you in full.”

“Can’t say fairer than that,” Christine stated firmly.

The women sitting near her nodded eagerly.

Calvin’s smile held a hint of triumph as he returned to the foot

of the stage, but if he thought he was home and dry, he was mistaken. The villagers were just getting warmed up.

“This all sounds very interesting,” Dick Peacock allowed, “but

I’d like to hear more about the food and drink you mentioned. Are

you trying to put my pub out of business?”

“I could ask the same thing about my tearoom,” said Sally Pyne.

“And what about our summer calendar?” demanded Peggy Tax-Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

17

man. “It’s hard enough to get people to attend village events. How

can we hope to attract a crowd if everyone’s gone to your fair?”

Calvin raised a pacifying hand. “Fear not, good people. Neither

your businesses nor your events will suffer because of the fair. To

the contrary, they’ll prosper. King Wilfred’s Faire will bring more

people to Finch than ever before.”

“Which means traffic congestion,” Mr. Barlow said gloomily.

Before Calvin could address the traffic issue, villagers began firing a barrage of questions at him. Did he have the proper building

permits? Did he have a liquor license? A food license? A sales license? Had the county planning board approved his project? Where

would the performers stay once the fair was under way? Although

Calvin tried to respond, the questions came so thick and fast that

he couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

Finally, Mr. Malvern took a deep breath, got to his feet, and

shouted, “Shut it, the lot of you!”

“Well,
really,
” Peggy Taxman said indignantly.

“Listen up,” said Mr. Malvern, ignoring her. “Calvin has the planning board’s approval as well as the requisite licenses and permits.

The performers will live in caravans while they’re working the fair.

The caravans will be parked on my property, and yes, we have the

county’s permission for that, too. The main access road to the fair

will run straight from the Oxford Road to Bishop’s Wood, so the

bulk of the extra traffic will be south of town. Finch’ll see more cars

than it’s used to on weekends, but no more than it can handle.”

“Horace Malvern,” Peggy blustered, “you have no right to foist

this travesty—”

“I have every right,” Mr. Malvern broke in. “You may be the

queen bee in Finch, Peggy, but my nephew doesn’t need
your
permission to use
my
land. Bishop’s Wood is on my property and I’ll

do with it as I see fit, so you may as well stop your whingeing because it won’t do you one bit of good. And if you can’t see how the

fair will benefi t Finch, you’re blind as well as bossy.”

Peggy’s nostrils flared alarmingly. “How
dare
you—”

18 Nancy Atherton

“We will, of course, donate a portion of the proceeds to the

church roof fund,” Calvin interjected quickly.

“Seems very generous to me,” said Christine Peacock.

“Extremely generous,” chorused the women sitting near her.

“No, my ladies,” said Calvin, kissing his fingertips to them. “It is

the village of Finch that is generous. I thank you for welcoming me

with such warmth and aff ection, and I look forward to seeing all of

you on opening day—and on many merrymaking weekends thereafter.” He snapped his fingers and the jester presented the crown to

him. Calvin lowered the crown onto his own head, then raised a

hand in farewell. “Adieu, good people of Finch. Until we meet

again—at King Wilfred’s Faire!”

“All hail good King Wilfred!” bellowed the heralds.

The pair raised their trumpets and played another fanfare as Calvin strode up the aisle, then followed him out of the schoolroom,

with the jester tumbling in their wake. Mr. Malvern left his seat to

join them, but paused in the doorway to share a parting word.

“It’s a done deal,” he said gruffly. “Just thought you ought to

know.” He slapped his tweed cap on his head, spun on his heel, and

was gone.

A momentary silence ensued. Some people rubbed their chins,

while others peered at the ceiling. A few women fingered their

polyester blouses, frowning pensively.

“It sounds good to me,” Miranda Morrow said at last. “And it will

bring more people to the village on weekends.”

“We could do with some new customers at the pub,” said Dick

Peacock.

“I wouldn’t mind filling the chairs in my tearoom,” said Sally

Pyne.

“They might need fresh meat and produce for their food stalls,”

said Burt Hodge, a local farmer.

“Fresh eggs never go amiss,” said Annelise’s mother. Mrs. Sciaparelli’s chickens were famously productive.

“Tourists get flat tires, too,” Mr. Barlow observed. “And over-Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

19

heated radiators. A mechanic can always find work, but he’d be a

fool to complain if the work comes to him.”