Nancy Atherton (6 page)

immune to the costume bug. He didn’t find the notion of roleplaying romantic or amusing. He thought it was just plain stupid,

and he wouldn’t have anything to do with it. I tried every persuasive tactic known to womankind, but he simply refused to countenance the idea of wearing clothes that weren’t exactly like the

clothes he already owned.

I decided to launch one last, desperate appeal the day before the

fair was due to open. After rising early to drop the boys off at

Anscombe Manor for their riding lessons, I cajoled Bill into spending the morning at home instead of in the offi

ce, and rewarded

him with a sumptuous brunch laid out on the teak table beneath

the apple tree in the back garden. The weather was glorious and

the garden was blissfully free of boy-noise. The stage was set to

mount another offensive.

Bill ate his fill of eggs Benedict, smoked salmon, and buttery

crumpets, then settled back in his chair, invited Stanley to curl up

in his lap, and opened his newspaper. As he perused the morning

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

33

headlines, I refilled his teacup and took a calming breath. I didn’t

want to appear overeager.

“Bill?” I said nonchalantly.

“No,” he replied, without looking up from his paper. “Definitely

and irrevocably no.”

“But—”

He silenced me with a look that was downright menacing. Stanley, sensing trouble, jumped down from his lap and trotted into the

cottage.

“Listen carefully, Lori,” said Bill, laying the newspaper aside.

“I’ll go to the fair with you. I’ll spend an entire weekend there with

you, if you like. But I will
not
dress up as a lord, a knight, a friar, an

executioner, a wizard, a pirate, a mad monk, a humble woodsman,

or anything else your fertile mind may cough up. It’s never going to

happen. Period. End of discussion.
Finito
.”

“So that’s a no, is it?” I inquired.

“That’s a no,” Bill confirmed, and took a sip of tea.

Defeated, I slouched back in my chair and brushed some crumbs

from the table. As I did so, I recalled a drawing Rob had made the

night before, depicting a mounted knight with an outsized lance in

one hand and a flaming sword in the other. It was, according to

Rob, a self-portrait, and the memory of it gave me a renewed sense

of determination. I would not let Bill disappoint the twins.

“Everyone we know will be wearing medieval clothes,” I said.

“What will the twins think when you show up at the fair wearing

a baseball cap, a polo shirt, khaki shorts, and sneakers?”

“Will and Rob will think that I look like their father,” Bill replied.

“But everyone else will think you’re—”

“Lori,” Bill interrupted. “I stopped caring about what everyone

else thinks midway through my first year at prep school. If our

friends and neighbors wish to wear feathered caps and pantaloons to

the fair, that’s their prerogative. I’m not going to cave in to peer

pressure at this stage of the game.”

34 Nancy Atherton

“Stick-in-the-mud,” I said, scowling. “Fuddy-duddy.”

“You’ve left out spoilsport and wet blanket,” Bill said helpfully.

“Shall I fetch a thesaurus?”

“I don’t need a thesaurus,” I retorted, but before I could demonstrate my full mastery of the English language, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll go,” Bill said brightly, and went into the cottage to answer

the front door.

He returned a moment later, with Horace Malvern padding after

him. The burly farmer was, for reasons unknown to me, shoeless.

“Mr. Malvern,” I said, trying not to stare at his red wool socks.

“How nice to see you.”

“I left my wellies in the front hall,” he explained. “Didn’t want

to track muck through the house.”

“Much obliged,” I said.

Bill offered him a chair, then resumed his own.

Mr. Malvern removed his tweed cap and hung it on the back of

the chair before joining us at the table. His weathered face was nearly

as red as his socks, as if he’d scrubbed it before stopping by, and he

accepted a cup of tea gingerly, as if he feared that his powerful hands

might inadvertently shatter the bone china teacup.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said, after a sip of tea. “I’ve been

meaning to call round ever since the May meeting, but with the hay

making and the milking and all, I’ve lost track of the days.”

“You’re always welcome here, Mr. Malvern,” Bill told him.

“Am I?” The farmer raised a grizzled eyebrow and placed his

teacup carefully on its saucer. “I thought I might not be, after Calvin

made his big announcement. You live closest to the wood, after all.

I hope the racket hasn’t kept you up at night.”

“It hasn’t,” I assured him.

“What racket?” Bill said amiably.

My husband and I weren’t merely being diplomatic. If it hadn’t

been for the distant sound of hammering and the occasional whine

of a table saw, neither Bill nor I would have been aware of the construction work taking place in Bishop’s Wood.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

35

“Well, that’s all right, then.” Mr. Malvern gave a satisfied nod.

“You won’t have to worry about the performers, either. Their camp

will be east of the wood, so they shouldn’t give you any trouble at all.

If they do, let me know and I’ll give ’em a boot up their backsides.”

“We’ll call you if we have to,” I promised, “but I’m sure it won’t

be necessary.”

“What about you?” Bill asked the farmer. “Isn’t the fair going to

disrupt your operations?”

“I’ve lots of land,” Mr. Malvern replied complacently. “Calvin’s

welcome to use a corner of it.”

“He’s lucky to have such a generous uncle,” I said. “Is Calvin

your only nephew?”

Instead of answering directly, Mr. Malvern rested his massive

forearms on the table and asked, “You don’t know much about Cal,

do you?”

“No,” I said. “Bill hasn’t even seen him yet.”

“I was at home with Will and Rob during the May meeting,”

Bill explained, “but Lori has described Calvin’s performance to me

in great detail.”

“I’ll bet she has. It was quite a performance.” Mr. Malvern pursed

his lips. “The first thing you ought to know about Cal is: His parents

were killed in a car wreck when he was but nine years old.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, and Bill clucked his tongue sympathetically.

“It’s the way of the world,” said Mr. Malvern. “Some folk die

before their time and others live long past it. No point in asking

why.” Mr. Malvern nodded solemnly, then continued, “Cal came to

live with me and Mrs. Malvern after he lost his mum and dad, but

he wasn’t much use on the farm. Always daydreaming. I’d ask him

to bring the herd in for milking and the next thing I’d know, my

cows’d be stopping traffic on the Oxford Road. He has a good

heart, does Cal, but he wasn’t cut out to be a farmer. His head was

always somewhere else.”

“Did he like school?” I asked.

36 Nancy Atherton

“He liked the school play,” Mr. Malvern answered. “He wasn’t

much of a scholar, but he took to playacting like a duck to water.

Joined a theater group in Oxford as soon as he finished school,

which is why you never got to know him. He moved to Oxford

about six months before you moved into the cottage.”

“You must have missed him,” I said.

“I did,” said Mr. Malvern, “but I was pleased that he’d found a

way of life that suited him better than farming. He worked backstage, mostly, rigging lights and painting scenery. He seemed to like

it well enough, but he quit the troupe when he turned twenty-one.”

“Had he outgrown playacting?” Bill inquired.

“You wouldn’t ask such a question if you’d been at the May

meeting,” said Mr. Malvern with a wry smile. “No, Cal quit the

theater group because he came into his inheritance. My brother left

him a tidy sum, you see, and the minute Cal got his hands on it, he

upped stakes and lit out for America.”

“Good heavens,” I said, surprised. “Why did he go to America?”

“He wanted to perform in a Renais sance festival,” Mr. Malvern

replied. “Seems he’d discovered Renais sance festivals online. They’re

called Ren fests in the States and they seem to go on all year

long—up north in the summer and down south in the winter. A lot

of them have Web sites with pictures of people wearing crowns and

making speeches and sword fi ghting and such. Cal took one look at

those pictures and decided that Ren fests were for him.”

“Well,” Bill temporized, “at least he had a clear goal in mind

when he went to America.”

“The missus and I thought he’d lost his mind,” Mr. Malvern

stated firmly. “We expected him to come running home with his

tail between his legs as soon as my brother’s money ran out.” The

farmer chuckled softly and shook his head. “But he proved us wrong,

did Cal. He did all right for himself. He spent the first year traveling

from one Ren fest to another, learning the ropes and making contacts. Sent us postcards from all over America.” Mr. Malvern smiled

reminiscently. “He spent the next five summers with a Ren fest in

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

37

Wisconsin. He started at the bottom, roasting turkey legs in a food

stall, but he worked his way up to a starring role as the town crier.”

“Did he go down south in the winter?” I asked.

“He did,” Mr. Malvern replied. “We had postcards from Texas,

California, Florida, Arizona—all of the warm states. He made a go

of it wherever he went, apparently. All I know is, by the end of his

six years in America, Cal had tucked away enough money to finance

his big idea. And his big idea was to bring a Ren fest to England.”

“En gland is stuffed to the gills with historical festivals,” I pointed

out. “Why did he feel the need to import one from America?”

“The missus and I asked Cal the same thing,” said Mr. Malvern.

“He told us that the English are . . .” He screwed up his face, as if he

were trying to recall his nephew’s exact words. “The English are

obsessed with reenactments—the accurate recreation of historic

moments or periods. Cal doesn’t give a flying cowpat—if you’ll

pardon the expression—about getting every detail precisely right.

He doesn’t mind if people show up dressed as wood sprites or Viking raiders, as long as they enjoy themselves. As he said at the

meeting, his fair is about fun, not authenticity. That’s what sets it

apart from most English festivals.”

“I think it’s a brilliant idea.” I glanced surreptitiously at Bill before asking, “Will you wear a costume to the fair, Mr. Malvern?”

“I’m going to be a burgher, whatever that is.” Mr. Malvern

shrugged philosophically. “Cal had the costume made specially for

me. I can hardly throw it back in his face.”

I smiled. “It sounds to me as if you have a hard time turning down

any of Calvin’s requests.”

“I’ve a soft spot for the lad, there’s no denying it,” Mr. Malvern

admitted. “He’s got something of my brother’s look about him. I see

it now and again. And he has a good heart.”

“He’s a breath of fresh air,” I declared. “I think King Wilfred’s

Faire is the best thing to happen to Finch since Kit Smith returned

to Anscombe Manor. And I’m not alone, Mr. Malvern. Everyone

loves the idea.”

38 Nancy Atherton

“So long as you two do, I’m content,” the farmer said. “If you’d

said a word against it, I’d’ve shut the thing down like that”—he

snapped his fingers—“but as long as you’re not bothered by it, I’ll let

it go ahead as planned.”

I gave him a startled, sidelong glance. While I appreciated his

solicitude, I was taken aback by his apparent willingness to close the

fair on the eve of its opening. It was almost as if he’d come to the

cottage looking for an excuse to call the whole thing off. As he fi nished drinking his tea, I remembered my first impression of him at

the May meeting. I’d sensed then that something was amiss between

him and his nephew. I wondered now if I’d been right.

“Forgive me for prying, Mr. Malvern,” I said, “but is everything

all right between you and Calvin? When the villagers ganged up on

him at the May meeting, you seemed to take a long time to come to

his defense.”

“Everything’s fine between me and Cal,” said Mr. Malvern. “If I

was a bit slow off the mark at the meeting, it’s because I was embarrassed by the way Cal engineered his announcement. I’m not as fond

of the spotlight as he is.” He hesitated, then went on. “But I won’t

deny that I’m a bit worried about this fair of his.”

“Why?” I asked.

Mr. Malvern rubbed the back of his neck and frowned down at

the table, then heaved a sigh and said slowly, “As I told you, Cal

never was much of a scholar. He barely scraped passing marks in

maths when he was at school. After he moved to Oxford, he was so

bad at sticking to a bud get that he had to borrow money from me

more often than not, just to make ends meet. He’s never had a head

for numbers.”

“I see your problem,” Bill said, nodding. “It’s difficult to run a

business if one doesn’t have a head for numbers.”

“If you ask me, it’s damned near impossible,” said Mr. Malvern.