Nancy Atherton (4 page)

“It goes without saying that the vicar and I will make good use

of the fair’s donation to the church roof fund,” said Lilian Bunting.

“King Wilfred’s Fair could put Finch on the map,” Charles Bellingham ventured timidly.

“We’re already on the map,” Peggy protested. “The fair will

compete with our summer events, block our roads, and bring undesirables into our community. Nothing good will come of it.”

Jasper Taxman took his courage in his hands and turned to his

wife. “The fair might increase the Emporium’s cash flow, Peggy.

Tourists always need supplies, and you carry a bit of everything in

your shop.”

Peggy’s objections ceased abruptly.

“Do you really think so, Jasper?” she asked. “Do you honestly

believe that the Emporium could profit by this . . . this display of

childish nonsense?”

“I do,” Jasper replied firmly. “What’s more, I think that we should

have a private meeting with Calvin Malvern as soon as possible. If we

can rent a stall at his fair, we might . . .”

As Jasper leaned sideways to have a quiet word with his wife, a

torrent of talk swept through the schoolhouse. Everyone was chattering at once, so it was difficult to make out individual comments,

but a few words fl oated above the hubbub.

“. . . exciting . . .”

“. . . colorful . . .”

“. . . petticoats . . .”

“. . . boots . . .”

“. . . knights . . .”

“. . .
jousting
. . .”

While the clamor in the schoolhouse continued unchecked,

Peggy listened intently to Jasper. When he finished speaking,

she pursed her lips and nodded firmly. She seemed oblivious to the

uproar when she turned to face the villagers. Instead of calling the

20 Nancy Atherton

meeting back to order, she brought it to an end with three decisive

bangs of her gavel. She then thrust the summer work rosters at me,

gathered up her notes, and gestured for Jasper to accompany her as

she dashed down the center aisle and out of the schoolhouse.

I wandered among the villagers, dutifully distributing the rosters, and watched in amazement at they were stuffed unexamined

into pockets and purses. No one seemed interested in learning

whether they’d been assigned to the dog show cleanup crew or to

the tea urn polishing squad. Thoughts of present-day Finch had

evidently been pushed aside to make room for dreams of merry old

England, and the May meeting had ended not on its usual downbeat note, but on a crescendo of giddy anticipation.

We couldn’t have known it at the time, but the invasion of

Finch had begun.

Three

A fter eight pleasant but predictable summers in a row,

something unexpected was about to happen in Finch. I

couldn’t wait to share the news with Bill. If I’d driven my

reliable Range Rover to the May meeting, I would have shattered

all known speed rec ords in my haste to return to the cottage.

Unfortunately, I’d driven the rusty old Morris Mini Bill and I

used for child-free trips to the village, so I was forced to putter sedately over the humpbacked bridge and along the

hedge-lined,

winding lane that led to the cottage, while my brain fizzed with fresh

ideas involving sabers, hoop earrings, and rose-colored wimples. I

wasn’t sure what a wimple was, but I was determined to have a

rose-colored one.

It was nearing ten o’clock when I turned into our graveled

drive, a good two hours past the twins’ bedtime but not necessarily

past Bill’s. Hoping fervently that my husband had waited up for me,

I parked the Mini between my Rover and his Mercedes, and

sprinted up the flagstone path, scarcely noticing the early roses that

had appeared on the trellis framing the front door or the sweet

springtime scent of the late lilacs.

As I stepped into the front hall, I raised my copy of the summer

roster high into the air and called out, “All hail good King Wilfred!”

I held the pose, but when Bill didn’t emerge from the living

room to ask what on earth I was doing, I tossed the roster onto the

telephone table, hung my shoulder bag on the hat rack, and went

looking for him.

I found him upstairs, in bed, with Stanley, our black cat, curled

at his feet. Stanley opened one dandelion-yellow eye when I walked

into the master bedroom, but quickly closed it again. He liked me

22 Nancy Atherton

well enough, but he adored Bill, and he would have been perfectly

content to spend the rest of his life curled at my husband’s feet.

Bill was sleeping so soundly that he didn’t stir when I bent to

kiss his cheek, and when I accidentally bumped the bed a few times

with my knee, he simply rolled over and settled his head more

snugly into his pillow. I heaved a disappointed sigh, which also

failed to wake him, then tiptoed out of the master bedroom.

I went up the hall to look in on the twins, but they were as

deeply asleep as their father. I gazed down at their identical faces

and imagined how their dark brown eyes would light up when I

described jousting to them in the morning. Smiling, I tucked their

blankets in around them, kissed their tousled heads, and returned

to the first floor. My menfolk were precious to me, but I wasn’t

ready to join them in dreamland just yet. I was bursting to tell

someone about the fair.

My best friend, Emma Harris, had missed the May meeting because she was tending to a sick horse, but it was too late in the evening to telephone her. A glance at my watch told me that it was too

late to call any of my early-bird friends, so I headed for the study,

where I knew I would find someone who was always wide-awake.

The study was still and silent. Not a breath of wind stirred the

strands of ivy covering the diamond-paned window above the old

oak desk. After closing the door carefully behind me, I turned on

the mantelshelf lights, lit a fire in the fireplace, and bowed deeply

to Reginald, who gazed down at me from his special niche in the

floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

Reginald was a rabbit made of powder-pink flannel. He had

black button eyes, beautifully hand-stitched whis kers, and a faded

purple stain on his snout, a memento of a day in my childhood when

I’d let him try my grape juice. Reginald had been at my side for as

long as I could remember and, as my oldest friend, deserved his

place of honor in the cottage. I didn’t usually bow to him, but it

would have been unthinkable to enter the study without greeting

him, and I was caught up in Calvin Malvern’s dream.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

23

“What ho, Sir Reginald,” I said, straightening. “How farest thee

on this marvelous May eve ning? Art thou well? Dost thou reliveth

brave deeds of yore whilst thou sitteth on thy . . . shelf?” I finished

lamely, then grinned. “I don’t have the lingo down pat, Reg, but

I’ve got a month to practice. Thou wilt be impressed!”

Reginald’s black button eyes glimmered with vague understanding, as if he thought I might be crazy but was willing to await

further developments. I tweaked his pink ears fondly, took a blue-leather-bound book from a nearby shelf, and sank into one of the

tall leather armchairs that faced the hearth. While the fire snapped

and crackled in a satisfyingly medieval way, I cradled the book in

my arms and called to mind the first time I’d opened it.

The book had once belonged to my late mother’s closest friend,

an Englishwoman named Dimity Westwood. The two women had

met in London while serving their respective countries during the

Second World War, and their friendship had continued to blossom long after the war had ended and my mother had returned to

the States.

The two friends never met again in person, but they filled the

postwar air with a steady stream of letters describing the everyday

adventures of their lives. After my father’s sudden death, the letters

became a refuge for my mother, a private place of peace and calm,

an escape from the sometimes daunting challenges of full-time work

and single parenthood. My mother told no one about her private

refuge, not even her daughter. As a child, I knew Dimity Westwood

only as Aunt Dimity, the fictional heroine of a series of bedtime stories invented by my mother.

I didn’t learn about the real Dimity Westwood until after she

and my mother had died, when Dimity bequeathed to me a comfortable fortune, a honey-colored cottage in the Cotswolds, the

extraordinary letters she and my mother had written, and a very

special book—a journal bound in dark blue leather.

Whenever I opened the blue journal, Aunt Dimity’s handwriting

would appear, an old-fashioned copperplate taught in the village

24 Nancy Atherton

school at a time when a woodstove in the parlor qualifi ed as central

heating. I nearly fainted the first time her writing streamed across

the journal’s blank pages, but her kind words steadied me and I soon

came to rely on her as a constant source of wisdom and support. I

had no idea how she managed to bridge the gap between the earthly

and the ethereal, but I knew one thing for certain: Aunt Dimity was

as good a friend to me as she’d been to my mother. I didn’t want to

think of life without her.

Warmed by the memory—and the crackling fire—I rested the

journal on my lap, opened it, and said, “Dimity? Are you there? I

have amazing news to tell you!”

The familiar lines of royal-blue ink curled instantly across the

page.
As you know, my dear, I’m always eager to hear amazing news. Don’t

tell me, though. Let me guess. Did Peggy Taxman forget to assign you to the

dog show?

“I should be so lucky,” I said, rolling my eyes. “No, Dimity, it’s

a thousand times more amazing than dodging poop duty.”

My goodness. Have aliens landed on the village green?

“Close,” I said, “but it’s better than aliens.” Unable to wait any

longer, I blurted, “King Wilfred’s Faire is coming to Finch!”

How thrilling!
A short pause ensued before the handwriting continued.
Who, may I ask, is King Wilfred? And why is he holding a fair in Finch?

“King Wilfred is Calvin Malvern,” I explained. “And it’s King

Wilfred’s Faire with an
e
tacked onto the end of ‘fair,’ to make it

seem old and quaint. And the fair won’t be held in the village, but

near it, in Bishop’s Wood.”

Hold on a moment, Lori. Did you say Calvin Malvern? Are you speaking

of Horace Malvern’s nephew?

“That’s the chap,” I said.

I knew Calvin Malvern when he was a little boy. I could have sworn that he

came from a long line of farmers. How and when did he acquire royal blood?

“I don’t think there’s a drop of royal blood in him,” I replied.

“As far as I can tell, Calvin’s the self-appointed king of a make-believe

kingdom.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

25

Of course he is. Calvin always liked stories better than real life. His

uncle hoped he’d grow out of it, but apparently he hasn’t.

“Apparently not,” I agreed, laughing. “He showed up at the

meeting tonight tricked out like Henry the Eighth, with a tumbling

jester and two heralds in tow. You should have seen Peggy’s face

when the heralds blew their trumpets.”

A moment to trea sure.

“I’ll never forget it. I doubt if Peggy will ever call for ‘other business’ again.” I couldn’t stop smiling as I recounted the eve ning’s

events, adding hand flourishes where appropriate, and concluding

with, “I think the fair is going to be a kind of medieval theme park.”

I’d love to see a medieval roller coaster. I wouldn’t want to ride one,

necessarily, but I’d love to see one.

“I don’t think there will be any rides,” I told her. “Just interesting performers, interesting food, interesting things to buy . . .”

You make it all sound very . . . interesting.

“I know,” I said, nodding cheerfully. “Isn’t it wonderful? Will

and Rob will be over the moon when they hear about the jousting.

You know how horse-crazy they are, and they love everything to

do with knights. I’m going to make costumes for them, Dimity.

Did I tell you that Calvin invited everyone to come in costume?”

You did. Several times.

“I’ll make page costumes for the twins.” I gazed dreamily into

the fire for a moment, then frowned and looked inquiringly at the

journal. “Pages were the little boys who helped knights prepare for

combat, weren’t they? Or am I thinking of squires?”

I believe squires were older boys. Rob and Will will make adorable pages.

They’ll be believable, too, because they really do know how to groom and tack

up horses. Are you going to make a costume for Bill as well?

“I doubt it.” My smile faded slightly. “Bill’s not a costume sort of

guy. I can’t picture him pulling on a pair of tights, which is a pity,

because he has great legs.”

Perhaps he could be a friar.

“Like Friar Tuck?” I said, brightening.

26 Nancy Atherton