Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch (5 page)

“Is William in?” I asked.

“He is,” Deirdre replied. “You’ll find him in the conservatory, communing with the orchids. Any news on the new woman?”

“Mrs. Thistle?” I said sharply. “Why should there be news about her?”

“Because…she’s…new,” Deirdre said slowly, as if a scatterbrained gnat could have worked out the answer. “I thought you might have introduced yourself to her, welcomed her to the village, that sort of thing.”

“No,” I said, forcing myself to calm down. “In Finch, we usually give a newcomer a few days to unpack before we welcome her.”

“A sensible tradition,” said Deirdre. “I’ve heard she’s a well-to-do widow.”

“So have I,” I said. “But I haven’t heard anything else.”

“The Handmaidens must be dying to meet her,” said Deirdre, smiling. “They’ll want to size up the competition.”

“The poor woman doesn’t know what she’s let herself in for,” I said, shaking my head. “But she’ll find out soon enough.”

Deirdre nodded her agreement. “Can I get anything for you, Lori, or shall I leave you to it?”

“Go,” I said. “If you need me, I’ll be with William and his orchids.”

Deirdre bustled off to attend to her many duties and I gave myself a mental kick.

“You’re a fine one to lecture Grant and Charles about behaving normally,” I muttered as I crossed the morning room. “Deirdre asks a simple question about Mrs. Thistle and you bristle like a startled cat. Get a grip, Shepherd.”

I wasn’t having an identity crisis. I’d kept my own last name when I’d married Bill, so while my father-in-law, husband, and sons were Willises, I was and always would be Lori Shepherd.

The patriarch of the Willis clan greeted me warmly when I entered the conservatory. Willis, Sr., was a slightly built, impeccably attired, white-haired gentleman of the old school. He stood when
a lady entered a room, he never left home without a pristine pocket handkerchief, and he worshiped the ground his grandsons galloped over. I loved him dearly and I was one hundred per cent certain that the feeling was mutual.

“Lori,” he said. “What a delightful surprise. I did not anticipate a visit from you today. What brings you to Fairworth?”

“Curiosity,” I said. “I’d like to take a look at one of your paintings.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “My home is yours, my dear. You are free to come and go as you please.”

“I think I’ll need your permission to look at the painting I have in mind,” I said. “You keep it in your private sitting room.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “The Bowen. Yes, of course, you may see it. Come with me.”

It was refreshing to encounter someone who could mention a work by Bowen without losing the ability to speak. As Willis, Sr., and I made our way upstairs to the master suite, he continued to talk about the painting quite matter-of-factly.

“I presume Bill mentioned the Bowen to you,” he said.

“Well,” I began carefully. I refused to lie to Willis, Sr., but I saw no need to tell him the whole truth, either. “Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham mentioned Mae Bowen to me and I mentioned her to Bill and he told me that you owned one of her paintings.” An unsettling thought occurred to me and I asked quickly, “Have you ever met Mae Bowen?”

“I have not,” said Willis, Sr. “I am not a Bowen aficionado, Lori. I own only one of her paintings and I did not purchase it. It was given to me.”

We walked through his splendidly appointed bedroom to a chamber I hadn’t entered since the earliest phase of the renovation. It had been a blank canvas back then. It was now the most personal space in all of Fairworth House.

Willis, Sr., hadn’t furnished his private sitting room with
exquisite period pieces, but with familiar odds and ends he’d brought from the Willis mansion in Boston—an old leather reading chair and an ottoman that had molded themselves to his body; a glass-fronted cabinet filled with trinkets and trophies from his son’s childhood; a row of mahogany bookcases laden with family photographs and favorite books; and a jewel-toned Persian carpet I remembered from the mansion’s library.

I gave a soft gasp of pleasure when I glanced to my right and saw a nineteenth-century map of the Arctic wilderness framed in intricately carved wood. I’d presented the map to Willis, Sr., as a gift before I’d known that I would become his daughter-in-law. I was delighted and slightly flabbergasted to find it hanging among the rest of the treasures in his inner sanctum.

“The Bowen is here,” Willis, Sr., said quietly.

I turned around and caught my breath again.

The Bowen was a small and simple watercolor: three purple crocuses emerging from the snow. The blossoms were disheveled and the snow was smudged with dirt, but the imperfections gave the painting life. I felt as if I were watching the crocuses in motion, bursting forth from the frozen earth, rising through the snow to find the sun, defeating winter’s darkness with the promise of spring. The flowers, too, would be defeated, the painting seemed to say, but while they lived, they would raise their arms, rejoicing, to the light.

I stood wordlessly before the watercolor for many minutes before saying, half to myself, “Bill was right. It’s more than pretty. Your heart breaks for the beauty of it.”

“Yes,” said Willis, Sr. “One need not know the story behind it to be aware of its power.”

“Charles called Mae Bowen a genius, but I had no idea…” I turned to Willis, Sr. “Who gave it to you?”

“Jane,” he replied. “My wife.”

“Ah,” I said softly, and looked away. I felt as if I’d intruded on sacred ground.

Willis, Sr., had been a widower for many years before I’d met him. He rarely spoke of his wife and I respected his reticence, sensing the grief that lay behind it. I wanted to kick myself for blundering blindly into a memory that could only cause him pain. I wished I hadn’t asked to see the Bowen.

“There is no need to avert your eyes, Lori,” he said. “Mine are quite dry, I assure you.”

“Bill didn’t tell me where the painting came from,” I mumbled awkwardly.

“He did not tell you,” said Willis, Sr., “because it is not his story to tell. I would like to share it with you now, however, if you would be so kind as to listen.”

He gestured for me to sit on the ottoman and lowered himself into the reading chair. The watercolor, I noted, hung directly opposite his chair. I wondered how often he looked up from a book to contemplate it.

“I was ten years older than my wife,” he began, “but she was wiser than I will ever be. She was a bundle of boundless energy until the age of thirty-two, when she fell ill with pancreatic cancer. She died three months later.”

“Bill told me,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“Some said it was a merciful release,” Willis, Sr., continued, “but I do not remember Jane as a sickly woman. I remember only her bright eyes and her enchanting smile. Her body was frail, but her spirit was radiant. It is her radiance I remember.”

“It’s a fine way to remember her,” I offered.

“Indeed,” said Willis, Sr.

“And the painting?” I asked. “How did she buy it for you if she was so desperately ill?”

“Jane met Miss Bowen during one of our frequent trips to London,” Willis, Sr., explained.
“While I attended a conference, Jane visited one of Miss Bowen’s exhibitions. Years later, after Jane was diagnosed with her fatal illness, she commissioned Miss Bowen to create a painting for me. Jane gave it to me the day before she died.” He paused. “Are you familiar with the language of flowers?”

“Vaguely,” I said, straining to recall what little I knew of the arcane subject. “It started in the Middle East, I think, as a sort of code. Each flower had a distinct meaning and lovers used them to communicate secretly with each other. In
Hamlet
, Ophelia is speaking the language of flowers when she says, ‘There is rosemary, that’s for remembrance.’”

“Yet Jane did not commission Miss Bowen to paint rosemary, for remembrance, or yew, for sorrow, or the willow, for mourning,” said Willis, Sr. “She specifically requested a painting of the spring crocus.”

“What does the spring crocus signify?” I asked.

“Youthful gladness,” Willis, Sr., answered, his eyes fixed on the watercolor. “I believe Jane gave the Bowen to me for a reason. She hoped it would teach me that the certainty of illness, pain, and death compels us to live life with youthful gladness. It took me many years to learn the lesson, but as I said before, Jane was wiser than I will ever be.” He paused, then said quietly, “I would like one day to meet Miss Bowen, to thank her for fulfilling my wife’s commission with such grace.”

I opened my mouth to speak, then shut it again and turned to look at the painting, wondering if Mae Bowen would remember Jane Willis, the bright-eyed, enchanting woman who’d lived with her face turned to the sun.

Five

I 
left Fairworth House in a somber mood, all thoughts of lunch forgotten, and drove straight to Morningside School in Upper Deeping to pick up the boys. Will and Rob were somewhat taken aback by the ferocious hugs and kisses I bestowed upon them before depositing them in the Rover, but I couldn’t help myself. Jane Willis’s tragic death had reminded me of how fortunate Bill and I were to have robustly healthy children.

I listened while the twins rattled on about their day at school, fed them milk and homemade cookies when we got home, then turned them loose in the garden to blow off steam while I prepared dinner. My preparations were interrupted by no fewer than seven telephone calls from villagers who regarded it as their civic duty to describe to me each and every item that had come out of Mrs. Thistle’s moving truck. I stemmed the tide by telling my informants that Bill had already filled me in, and with a truly heroic effort succeeded in rescuing the roast from the oven before it was burned to a crisp.

Since Bill had spent half the morning peering through his windows instead of sitting at his desk, he brought work home from the office. After he demolished dinner and put his sons to bed, he repaired to his favorite armchair in the living room with his cell phone, his laptop, his briefcase, and his cat. Stanley made several sneaky attempts to insinuate himself between the computer and Bill’s lap, but finally settled for a lesser perch, draped across the back of the chair.

I stretched out on the sofa, feeling as if the day had been a thousand hours long.

“I stopped at Fairworth on my way home from the village,” I said.

“I thought you might,” said Bill. “Did Father show you the Bowen?”

“Yes,” I said. “He also told me who gave it to him.”

“I hoped he would.” Bill opened his computer and began tapping away at the keyboard. “I would have given you a heads-up, Lori, but—”

“It wasn’t your story to tell,” I broke in, nodding. “It’s okay. I preferred hearing it from him.”

“What did you think of the painting?” Bill asked.

“It took my breath away,” I replied. “Literally. I can understand why people get worked up about Mae Bowen. She sees the world in a very special way.” I hesitated before adding, “Your father wants to meet her.”

“Then an introduction will be made,” Bill declared, in a tone of voice that brooked no contradiction.

“Of course it will,” I said. “If William can’t keep a secret, no one can.”

The laptop
dinged
. Bill glanced down at the screen, then looked at me apologetically.

“It’s from Gerard Delacroix,” he said. “The latest codicil to his ever-evolving will. I should probably give it my undivided attention.”

“Go ahead,” I told him, hauling myself into an upright position. “I’ll be in the study.”

“Enjoy your reading,” he said, giving me a wink.

I smiled as I strolled up the hallway. Bill was one of a scant handful of people who knew about the curious book I kept on a shelf beside the mantelpiece in the study. The book had been—and was still being—written by the cottage’s previous owner. Her name was Dimity Westwood and her tale provided irrefutable proof that truth was much stranger than fiction.

Dimity Westwood had been my late mother’s closest friend. The two women had met in London while serving their respective
countries during the Second World War, and the bond of affection they forged during those dark and turbulent years was never severed.

After the war ended and my mother sailed back to the States, she and Dimity strengthened their friendship by sending hundreds of letters back and forth across the Atlantic. When my father died unexpectedly, those letters became my mother’s refuge, a retreat from the everyday pressures of working full-time as a teacher while raising a boisterous daughter on her own.

My mother was extremely protective of her refuge. She told no one about it, including me. As a child, I knew Dimity Westwood only as Aunt Dimity, the heroine of a series of bedtime stories invented by my mother. I didn’t learn about the real Dimity Westwood until both she and my mother were dead.

It was then that the fictional heroine of my favorite stories became very real to me. To my everlasting astonishment, the woman I knew as Aunt Dimity bequeathed to me a considerable fortune, the honey-colored cottage in which she’d grown up, the precious correspondence she’d exchanged with my mother, and a blue-leather-bound journal filled with blank pages.

It was through the blue journal that I finally came to know my benefactress. Whenever I opened it, her handwriting would appear, an old-fashioned copperplate taught in the village school at a time when the only book most cottagers owned was a family Bible. Although I had a minor fit of hysteria the first time it happened, I soon came to realize that there was no reason to fear and every reason to love Aunt Dimity’s unconventional means of communication.

I still had no idea how Aunt Dimity managed to bridge the gap between life and afterlife, and she wasn’t too clear about it herself, but I didn’t require a technical explanation. It was enough for me to know that she was as good a friend to me as she’d been to my mother.

The study was dark, but not silent when I entered it. The wind
moaned in the chimney and rattled the dried strands of ivy crisscrossing the diamond-paned windows above the old oak desk. Shivering, I switched on the mantel lamps and knelt to light a fire in the hearth. It wasn’t until the flames caught that I stood to greet Reginald.