Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree (17 page)

“I’ll join you,” I said. “Nothing says summer like a good splash in the brook.”

We walked through the sweet-smelling grasses in companionable silence, serenaded by birds and bees and the shouts of intrepid explorers. I marveled inwardly at Annie’s self-restraint, because I was certain that she, like everyone else within twenty miles of Finch, was bursting to ask me about William’s mysterious guest.

“William’s gardener came by the farm today,” she said. “He seems a nice young man.”

“He does, doesn’t he?” I said noncommittally.

“He picked up the tripe and the pig’s trotters William’s housekeeper ordered,” she went on. “I must admit that I was a bit surprised by her selection of meats. I had William pegged as a filet mignon man, not as a tripe lover.”

“If it were up to him, he’d have the filet,” I said, “but his client prefers less choice cuts and you know what they say—the customer’s always right.”

“Fancy that.” Annie frowned reflectively. “I’d have expected a dictator to ask for posh things like caviar and foie gras.”

“A dictator?” I said, eyeing her with some trepidation.

Annie glanced over her shoulder, as though to make sure we were alone, then lowered her voice to a confidential murmur.

“I know you’re sworn to secrecy, Lori, so I won’t ask you to say a word about it one way or the other,” she said, “but Opal Taylor has it on good authority that William’s client is a South American dictator seeking asylum in Great Britain after his long-suffering but courageous people finally gave him the heave-ho.” Annie paused to catch her breath before adding with a faint air of disillusionment, “You’d expect a man like that to fancy filet, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose you would,” I said, my mind reeling, “but Opal Taylor has bats in her cotton-picking belfry if she thinks that my father-in-law would have anything to do with a dictator.”

“Has the wrong end of the stick, does she?” Annie asked, in a tone of voice that was much too casual.

“She has the wrong stick altogether,” I stated firmly, coming to a halt. “I shouldn’t tell you this, Annie, but between you and me . . .”

Annie’s lips parted and her eyes narrowed intently as I gave her the inside story on Tim Thomson, Topeka’s most successful taxidermist. The more softly I spoke, the more confident I was that my words would soon be heard far and wide.

I could almost feel the village grapevine quiver.

Fourteen

What seemed like the longest Monday in recorded history was finally drawing to a close. Rob and Will were in bed and asleep, Bill was dozing in his favorite armchair in the living room, and Stanley was dozing in Bill’s lap. While my family slumbered, I sat at the old oak desk in the study, scouring a stack of magazines for new recipes. When the telephone rang, I snatched it up, to keep the noise from disturbing my menfolk. I wondered fleetingly if it would be Peggy Taxman, badgering me about the new rumor that had drifted her way, and felt a sweet sense of relief when the caller turned out to be Willis, Sr.

“The man of the moment,” I said cheerfully. “Are you alone?”

“Lady Sarah and Señor Cocinero have retired for the evening,” he informed me. “I have taken refuge in my study. Why, may I ask, am I the man of the moment?”

“Because you’ve created such a stir in Finch,” I replied. “Are you aware that you’re harboring either a drug lord, a famous actor, a soccer player, or a fugitive dictator with a taste for peasant food?”

“You are, of course, referring to the stories that have surfaced concerning Señor Cocinero,” he said dryly.

“Have they reached your ears already?” I asked, mildly surprised.

“Indirectly,” he said. “Mr. Donovan was treated to an assortment of colorful tales when he stopped at the pub on his way back from Hodge Farm. He refused to comment on any of them, of course, but he felt duty-bound to report them to me. He seemed to find them highly entertaining.”

“It’s helpful to maintain a sense of humor in the face of adversity,” I said.

“The firm of Willis & Willis does not consort with criminals or with so-called celebrities,” he declared vehemently. “Such rumors are bound to damage my reputation among the villagers.”

“Not a chance,” I said. “They’ll enhance your glamor.”

“I do not wish to be considered glamorous,” he protested.

“Then you can relax,” I said placatingly. “I told Annie Hodge about Tim Thomson from Topeka. If I know Annie, everyone in Finch will have heard about Tim by daybreak. I can almost guarantee that no one, not even Peggy Taxman, will be able to make a big deal out of a taxidermist.”

“Would that it were true. . . .” Willis, Sr., paused, as though to compose himself, then continued in a more temperate manner, “The purpose of my call is to share a rather interesting tidbit of news with you. Mr. Tavistock telephoned me a short time ago.”

“Grant called you from London?” I said. “Why?”

“I believe Mr. Tavistock wished to impress me with his professionalism,” Willis, Sr., answered. “Concerned that I might accuse him of neglecting my commission, he telephoned from London to present me with the results of the work he accomplished today.”

“Well done, Grant,” I said appreciatively. “Did he figure out what the thing is?”

“It seems that Mr. Tavistock has uncovered an illuminated family tree,” Willis, Sr., announced with quiet exultation.

“Illuminated?” I said.

“Illustrated,” Willis, Sr., clarified. “The names on the family tree appear to be accompanied by miniature portraits.”

“Whose family tree is it?” I asked.

“It appears to record succeeding generations of the Fairworthy family,” said Willis, Sr. “I consider it a discovery of inestimable value because, as you know, the Fairworthys built Fairworth House and lived in it for over a century.”

“You were right and I was wrong, William,” I conceded. “A family tree, however grubby, is an undeniable treasure. It’s a window into Fairworth’s past.”

“Indeed it is,” said Willis, Sr. “Mr. Tavistock was able to discern the name Frederick Fairworthy beside one of the portraits,” he went on. “A gentleman with the same name wrote
Notes on Sheep
, the book that kindled my desire to restore a flock of Cotswold Lions to the estate.”

“Oh,”
I said as the penny dropped. “It’s
his
fault.”

“Fault?” said Willis, Sr., sharply. “Do you disapprove of my ambition?”

“No,” I said, backtracking hastily. “I think it’s a terrific idea. I just didn’t know where it came from.”

“I will lend you the book,” he said coolly. “You will, no doubt, find it instructive.”

“No doubt,” I said, making a wry face at Reginald.
Notes on Sheep
didn’t strike me as a compelling read.

“Thank you, Mrs. Donovan,” Willis, Sr., said in an aside. “Yes, please place it on the desk. As I was unable to do anything with my dinner but gaze disconsolately at it,” he explained, for my benefit, “Mrs. Donovan has prepared a chop for me, a simple, succulent chop accompanied by freshly made applesauce, roast potatoes, and some extraordinarily attractive brussels sprouts. I believe there will be a lemon syllabub to follow.”

“How nice for you,” I said, in exactly the same tone of voice Opal Taylor had used when I’d informed her of Deirdre’s manifold virtues. “How’d the trotters go down with Henrique?”

“He requested a second helping,” Willis, Sr., replied stoically. “The poor man claimed that it reminded him of a dish his
madre
used to make for him. Yes, Mrs. Donovan,” he said to Deirdre, “the Shiraz is an excellent choice and a Riesling will go well with the syllabub. Forgive me, Lori,” he continued, “but as you can imagine, I am eager to appease my appetite with the splendid viands Mrs. Donovan has so kindly provided. I will speak with you again tomorrow.”

“Enjoy your dinner,” I told him.

I put the phone down and looked askance at the pages I’d torn from the magazines. Not one included a recipe for lemon syllabub.

“You know what, Reginald?” I said through gritted teeth. “I’m beginning to
loathe
Deirdre Donovan.”

“That’s a shame, because Father thinks very highly of her.”

I was fairly certain that Reginald couldn’t talk and I was absolutely certain that he wouldn’t refer to Willis, Sr., as “Father,” so I addressed my next remarks to Bill, who stood in the doorway with Stanley draped over his shoulder.

“I wish I could like her,” I said plaintively, “and maybe I will someday, but right now I have my doubts about her. I can’t explain it, but—”

“I can,” Bill interrupted. He smiled sleepily and stroked Stanley’s gleaming black back. “You’d have doubts about anyone Father hired, Lori. In your eyes, no one will ever be good enough to look after him, and I love you for it. Was that him on the phone just now?”

I nodded. “He wanted to let me know that his dirty picture is a Fairworthy family tree.”

“He must be delighted,” Bill said. “I am, too. It’ll give him something pleasant to dwell on while he’s engulfed in Sally’s soap opera. How’d Henrique like his trotters?”

“He gobbled them down,” I said. “Maybe they should try serving him worm tartare. I’m sure Deirdre had a recipe for it.”

Bill chuckled, set Stanley on the floor, and came over to cup my chin in his hand.

“You’ll have to get over your dislike of Deirdre Donovan,” he said gently. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, she and her husband are here to stay.” He looked at the mantel clock as it began to chime. “Half past nine? It’s too early to turn in, but I’m turning in anyway. I’ll have to put in a long shift at work tomorrow to make up for slacking off today. But don’t you fret, my sugar lump—I’ll take the boys to Anscombe Manor in the morning. I want you to be free to ride to Father’s rescue at a moment’s notice.”

“I’ll be at the ready, sword drawn and steed saddled,” I promised. “Kiss Stanley good night for me.”

“I always do.” Bill bent to press his lips lingeringly to mine, then left the study, yawning, with Stanley padding worshipfully at his heels.

I gave the magazine pages another dark look, then shook off my crotchety mood, slid the blue journal from its shelf, and curled up with it in the tall leather armchair before the hearth. After pausing to collect my thoughts, I opened the journal and gazed at it expectantly.

“Dimity?” I said.

I smiled as the familiar lines of royal-blue ink flowed sinuously across the blank page.

Good evening, Lori. I’d hoped to hear from you sooner.

My smile faded. I glanced at the desk and realized with a twinge of guilt that the time I’d spent searching for recipes would have been better spent chatting with Aunt Dimity. She had every reason to expect a prompt update on the scheme she’d so cleverly devised.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve been a little distracted this evening.”

Apology accepted. Now, will you please get on with it? I’m dying, so to speak, to hear about Lady Sarah’s adventures at Fairworth House!

Determined to make amends for my blunder, I launched into an exhaustive description of everything that had happened since I’d last spoken with her, from my early arrival at Crabtree Cottage to Willis, Sr.’s most recent telephone call. Aunt Dimity’s initial response to my long and complex narrative made me gurgle with laughter.

Orange and yellow chiffon? With rhinestones? My word.

“Sally looked very pretty,” I said staunchly. “Henrique thought she was gorgeous.”

Is he color-blind?

“If love is blind,” I said, “then Henrique’s eyesight is definitely impaired.”

His hearing must be impaired as well, if he failed to note the incongruities in Sally’s speech.

“He’s Mexican,” I said, shrugging. “Maybe all Englishwomen sound alike to him. I can’t tell an upper-class Spanish accent from a lower-class one. Why would I expect him to be an expert on English accents?”

As a well-to-do man of the world, Señor Cocinero must encounter authentic English aristocrats on a regular basis. It should be easy for him to recognize the differences between them and Sally Pyne.

“Men of the world don’t necessarily hang out with aristocrats,” I said. “If Henrique pulled himself up by his own bootstraps, he may be more comfortable around regular folk.”

A humble beginning would explain his fondness for fry-ups and trotters. Oh, dear, Lori . . . I begin to suspect that Señor Cocinero would have fallen for Sally regardless of her position in society. If she’d been honest with him from the start, she might have found the man of her dreams—and kept him. Instead, she’s created an absurdly difficult situation for herself.

“If she tells him the truth, he
may
leave,” I said, “but if she continues to lie to him, he
will
leave.”

She is, regrettably, wedged firmly between a rock and a hard place. I wonder if we should go on aiding and abetting her in her attempt to deceive Señor Cocinero? Perhaps it would be kinder to persuade her to present herself to him as she is, not as she pretends to be.

“You seem to forget,” I said, “that Sally was prepared to leave Finch forever in order to
avoid
revealing her real self to Henrique.”

So she was. Poor, dear, foolish Sally. She will, I fear, come to regret letting Señor Cocinero slip from her grasp.

“If she can go through with it,” I said cautiously.

Do you believe she will hesitate?

“She may change her mind completely. She’s
bonkers
about Henrique.” I stretched my legs out on the ottoman and gazed bemusedly at the journal. “To tell you the truth, Dimity, I didn’t expect the two of them to generate so much ... heat.”

Because they’re middle-aged?

“Partly,” I admitted. “Sally’s always been so feisty and self-reliant that it’s still hard for me to imagine her going all soppy and weak-kneed over a man. And, yes, I suppose I had the quaint notion that at a certain age the, um, embers would, er, burn low.”

Bill would be disappointed to hear you say so. Come now, Lori. Any fire fighter will tell you that it takes but a single glowing ember to start a conflagration. Señor Cocinero clearly knows how to fan the flames.