Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch (19 page)

I carried the blue journal to one of the tall armchairs before the hearth and curled up with it in my lap. I heaved a dolorous sigh as I
opened it, but before I could speak, Aunt Dimity’s handwriting raced across the page.

I’ve devised a scheme for scuppering Myron Brocklehurst! How many times have we seen self-annointed spiritual leaders brought to book for financial malfeasance? How many times have they asked for tithes or gifts or donations from their flock, then pocketed the income? I can think of a dozen instances off the top of my head and I’m sure you can think of many more.

“Dimity?” I sensed where she was going and tried to head her off, but the handwriting did not stop.

It will not surprise me one iota to learn that our prophet, like so many before him, is making a profit. Imagine how rapidly the faithful will fall away when they find out that their high priest is nothing more than a money-grubbing charlatan who’s been fattening his own calf at their expense! I know you’re hopeless with computers, Lori, but if you ask Bill nicely, I’m sure he’ll be willing to look into Mr. Brocklehurst’s finances. If history repeats itself, which it does rather more often than most people think, Bill’s bound to find something that will give us the leverage we need to eject Mr. Brocklehurst and his deluded disciples from Amelia’s life forever.

The handwriting stopped.

“Are you finished?” I asked.

For the moment. It’s a good idea, isn’t it?

“I’d like to think so,” I said, “because I came up with the exact same idea last night.”

Did you mention it to Bill?

“Yes, but I didn’t have to,” I said, “because he thought of it yesterday.” I managed a weak smile. “You can relax, Dimity. An inquiry into the source of Myron’s megabucks is well under way.”

I see. Then let us move on.

“We’d better,” I said, “because I have a lot to tell you. It’s been a very strange day, Dimity.”

I thought you intended to do housework.

“I did,” I said, “but things don’t always work out as planned.”

I thought wistfully of Willis, Sr.’s, dashed hopes, then gave myself a mental shake and brought Aunt Dimity up to date on what had happened since I’d received Amelia’s telephone call in the master bedroom. I told her about the villagers’ rout of the Bowenist incursion, the leaflets that led Peggy Taxman and the others to Pussywillows, and the show of support that followed Amelia’s confession.

“Everything was going along nicely,” I said, “until Peggy took it upon herself to point out four huge, gaping holes in Amelia’s armor.”

The Handmaidens?

“The Handmaidens,” I confirmed. “When Peggy broached the subject, it was as if a lightbulb went off in William’s head. He suddenly realized that everyone in Finch had been paying attention to him paying attention to Amelia and he immediately understood the damage a quartet of jealous, chatty neighbors could inflict on her. He left it to Peggy and company to explain the situation in greater detail—which they did, gladly—and went home to Fairworth to beat himself up for being stupid, selfish, and blind. I went to see him after I left Pussywillows, Dimity, and believe me, the poor guy is awash in a sea of self-loathing.”

Oh, dear.

“It gets worse,” I said. “William didn’t stick around long enough to hear Amelia’s foolproof solution to the Handmaiden problem.”

Which is?

“She’ll calm the Handmaidens’ fears by informing them that she has no intention of ever getting married again,” I said. “She means it, Dimity. She’ll never marry William. And you know William. He won’t consider any arrangement other than marriage.”

Did you tell William?

“I couldn’t bring myself to break such awful news to him,” I said, “but someone else will. Most likely someone named Elspeth, Millicent, Opal, or Selena.” I spat out the names, then groaned despondently. “I know what’ll happen next, Dimity. William will sacrifice
himself for Amelia’s sake. He’ll deny his feelings and walk away from her, but he’ll never get over her. He’ll go into a decline. He’ll stop eating, become a recluse, and dump his orchids on the mulch pile because they remind him of her. He’ll sell Fairworth and go back to the family mansion in Boston to die because he won’t be able to stand the pain of living near a woman who’s cast him aside, crushed his hopes, and demolished his dreams.” I wiped a tear from my eye and sniffed.

Are you finished?

“What more is there to say?” I asked brokenly.

Quite a bit more, apparently. For example: Have you lost your mind? For pity’s sake, Lori, William isn’t a soppy heroine from a romance novel! He’s a mature, well-balanced adult, a man who’s as sensible as he is sensitive. If Amelia disappoints him, he may experience a brief period of melancholy, but he won’t go to pieces because he knows that romantic love is but one of the many kinds of love that make life worth living. His love of Fairworth, his love of nature, his love of books and maps, and above all his love of family will sustain him, as will his deep and abiding love of Deirdre’s excellent cooking. Apart from that, I’m not at all convinced that Amelia will disappoint him.

“I don’t think she was bluffing, Dimity,” I said. “Amelia said flat out that she’ll never remarry.”

So did William, after Jane died. People have been known to change their minds.

“It took William nearly thirty years to change his,” I reminded her. “He may not have thirty years left to wait for Amelia to change hers.”

Are you certain Amelia is attracted to him? The last time we spoke, you seemed to think she was indifferent.

“She’s not indifferent anymore,” I said heavily. “She served brown bread to him, Dimity, the brown bread her mother used to make, her most special recipe. A woman doesn’t serve her mother’s special brown bread to a man unless she’s attracted to him.”

Very true. Perhaps
…The handwriting paused, as if Aunt Dimity had been struck by a novel idea and needed time to consider it.
Perhaps Amelia’s renunciation of remarriage has less to do with William than with her unusually strong devotion to her brother.

“Sorry, Dimity,” I said, mystified. “You’ve lost me.”

It’s quite simple, really. Amelia came to Finch to complete Alfred’s quest, a feat she will be unable to accomplish if the Bowenists lay siege to Pussywillows. To reduce the Bowenist threat, she must appease the Handmaidens. To appease the Handmaidens, she must detach herself from William. To detach herself from William, she must take a stand against romantic entanglements in all their myriad forms, including marriage.

I stared down at the journal indignantly. “So she’s told a lie—a lie that will hurt William when he hears of it—because telling the truth might complicate her search for the memoir?”

If I’m right, Amelia hasn’t lied. She has instead made the difficult decision to place Alfred before William. Please try to remember, Lori, that the memoir is laden with meaning for Amelia. It’s a last link to a brother she loved dearly. Searching for it may be her way of keeping faith with him. Finding it may help her move beyond the grief of losing him. Once she’s achieved Alfred’s goal, she may at last feel free to set a new one for herself.

“And the new goal may be to marry William?” I guessed.

Quite possibly.

“I have to go,” I said abruptly.

This minute?

“This second,” I said, standing. “I have to put my house in order before I attack Dove Cottage tomorrow. And I intend to attack Dove Cottage with a vengeance.”

You sound militant.

“I feel militant,” I said fiercely. “William’s heart has just begun to beat again. I won’t allow it to be broken.”

Assuredly not.

“If finding the rest of the memoir is the key to getting William
and Amelia back together,” I continued, “then I’ll devote myself, body and soul, to rooting out those pesky bits of parchment. Which means I have to finish my housework today,” I finished somewhat lamely.

Have at it, my dear! I expect to hear great things from you tomorrow.

I smiled, returned the blue journal to its shelf, touched a finger to Reginald’s pink snout, and marched upstairs to conquer the laundry.

Seventeen

T 
he sun shone in a cloudless sky on Saturday morning, bathing the cottage in a golden light and giving the sodden fields a chance to dry out. I welcomed the return of fine weather because it meant that Will and Rob would have fewer opportunities to cover themselves and their ponies in mud during their weekly riding lesson.

Bill, on the other hand, felt distinctly shortchanged. After the boys ran upstairs to don their riding gear, he refilled his teacup and announced somewhat gloomily that he would be trapped in his office all day.

“Monsieur Delacroix?” I guessed.

“
Naturellement
,” he replied, rolling his
r
beautifully despite his disappointment. “I had an urgent text message from him twenty minutes ago. He’s decided to disinherit his niece.”

“Why?” I asked.

“He doesn’t like her anymore,” Bill answered simply. “According to him, the charming child has become an appalling adult who doesn’t deserve one
centime
of his hard-earned cash. Her portion of the estate will now go to a shelter for homeless cats. Stanley approves, of course,” he went on, slipping a sliver of fried egg to his cat, “but it means that I’ll have to rewrite several sections of Monsieur Delacroix’s ever-changing will.”

“There should be a law against disinheriting relatives on weekends,” I said sympathetically. “But as long as we’re on the subject of hard-earned cash…Have you found out how Myron Brocklehurst earned his?”

“Not yet,” said Bill, brightening. “He’s hidden his assets very cleverly.”

Most people, including me, would have been frustrated by Myron’s cleverness, but Bill shared his father’s passion for solving puzzles.

“Why would he hide his assets?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said Bill, “but I’ll find out. Myron may think he’s created an impenetrable maze, but I’ll get to the center of it.” He nodded confidently, took a final swig of tea, and carried his dishes to the sink. “When does Operation Dove Cottage commence?”

“If all goes well, sometime after midday,” I said, getting up from the kitchen table to help him load the dishwasher. “Charles and Grant are lying in wait for Elspeth. When she gets back from London, they’ll dart over to Dove Cottage and ask for permission to board ship. When she grants it, Charles will telephone Amelia, Lilian, Bree, and me to give us the go-ahead.”

“What happens if Elspeth doesn’t comply with your grand plan?” Bill asked.

“She will,” I said. “Charles and Grant are still under the impression that William will be joining us. If they play their trump card properly—which they will—Elspeth won’t refuse us anything.”

“And the boys will spend the day at Anscombe Manor, as per usual?” said Bill.

“
Mais oui!
” I said with panache. “I won’t win Mother of the Year if I deprive them of their ponies.”

Bill dried his hands with a dish towel, wrapped his arms around me, and gave me a kiss.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for at Dove Cottage,” he said.

“Me, too,” I said, peering up at him earnestly. “Your father’s future happiness depends on it.”

“I doubt it,” he said, kissing the tip of my nose, “but I hope you find it anyway.”

Bill left the kitchen and I remained behind to rinse dishes in pensive silence. My husband was more sanguine than I was about Willis, Sr.’s, emotional crisis. Like Dimity, Bill believed that his father would continue to savor life, with or without Amelia. I understood their point, but I disagreed with it. Willis, Sr., might have his home, his health, his family, and his flowers, but a blind man could see that he longed for something more. My mission was to make sure he got it.

If Amelia wouldn’t budge until the rest of the memoir was found, then I would find the rest of the memoir without delay. To that end, I’d spent the previous evening assembling a tool kit that would enable me to poke, probe, pry, hack, and slash whatever barriers I might encounter during my search. I couldn’t count on Bree to always have one of Mr. Barlow’s screwdrivers in her pocket, so I’d included one of Bill’s along with a needle-nose pliers, a pair of long tweezers, a pocketknife, and a small but powerful flashlight.

The kit was already in the Rover. When the call came from Charles, I’d be ready to take Dove Cottage to pieces, if necessary, to find the memoir’s third page. Bill, who’d watched my preparations with ill-concealed amusement, had advised me to keep my intentions to myself, pointing out that Elspeth Binney might object to having her house dismantled, no matter how worthy the cause. A very dark look had shut him up.

“He may be laughing now,” I muttered as I finished loading the dishwasher, “but he’ll thank me later.”

My booted boys came thundering down the stairs to grab their helmets, gloves, and quilted vests from the box beneath the coat rack in the hallway. After subjecting them to a routine inspection—to make sure nothing essential would be left behind—I slipped into
a light jacket and herded them into the Range Rover’s backseat for the short drive to Anscombe Manor.

“Mummy,” Rob said as I backed into the lane. “Is Mrs. Thistle a good witch or a bad witch?”

“She’s not any kind of witch,” I replied, eyeing him in the rearview mirror. “What made you think she was?”

“We heard you and Daddy talking,” Will said.

“You should have listened harder,” I told him. “If you had, you’d know that Mrs. Thistle is looking for the pages of a story someone wrote about a witch.”

“How did she lose the pages?” Rob asked.

“Someone hid them,” I replied. “A long, long time ago, a man named Gamaliel Gowland tucked the pages into secret hiding places all over Finch. We found one in St. George’s bell tower on Wednesday.”