Nancy Atherton (9 page)
Authors: Aunt Dimity [14] Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon
three hours.” He closed the cargo door, climbed into the driver’s
seat, and pulled out of the driveway, bellowing, “Onward, knights of
the realm! Your steeds await!”
I ran to the mouth of the drive and waved to them, feeling like a
damsel left behind to dust the castle while her men galloped off on
a crusade. When the Rover vanished around the first curve, I returned to the kitchen to wash the breakfast dishes, then wandered
54 Nancy Atherton
into the back garden to peer longingly in the direction of Bishop’s
Wood.
The air was filled with the familiar sounds of birdsong and rustling leaves, but silence reigned on the other side of the stile. Unlike
my sons—and, to be honest, myself—Jinks recognized the virtues
of sleeping past dawn.
The builders were awake, though. As I turned toward the cottage, the faint buzz of a solitary handsaw drifted to me on the morning breeze. Someone, it seemed, was finishing a last-minute project
at the fair. I wondered if he was working on the three-tiered, moated
castle or the gigantic fi re-breathing dragon, told myself I’d fi nd out
soon, and went into the cottage, tingling with anticipation.
You must be very proud of yourself, Lori.
I smiled down at the blue journal. I’d decided to spend a few
minutes in the study before leaving for the fair, and Aunt Dimity’s
praise made me feel as though I’d made the right choice.
You’ve exercised an unprecedented amount of self-restraint over the past
month, my dear. The old Lori would have clambered to the top of Pouter’s
Hill twice a day with a pair of high-powered binoculars to monitor the
building site in Bishop’s Wood, but the new Lori has successfully quelled her
curiosity.
“Yes, she has,” I said, preening.
You’ve also resisted the urge to peer over the stile at your interesting new
neighbor.
“I’m not a Peeping Tom,” I protested.
Of course you’re not. You are, however, a trained and talented member
of the Finch Busybody Society. As such, I would have expected you to keep
abreast of Mr. Jinks’s activities. You have, however, defi ed my expectations.
“Thank you,” I said.
Finally, while the old Lori would have worn her medieval finery without
pausing to consider the consequences, the new Lori refuses to behave impul-
sively.
Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon
55
I glanced down at my sandals and my apple-green summer
frock and felt a distinct twinge of regret for the costume I’d left
hanging in my wardrobe. I’d tried it on a dozen times, after Sally
had given me instructions on how to wear it. The long-sleeved cotton chemise came first, then the underskirt, the overskirt, and the
apron, after which I would lace myself into the tight-fitting bodice,
wrap the leather belt around my hips, and pull the f loppy muffin cap onto my head at a becoming angle. A pair of knee-high
white socks and brown suede flats completed the ensemble. I’d
practiced the routine so often that I could don my garb in less than
fifteen minutes, but I hadn’t shown the end result to Bill yet. Like
the twins, I wanted to wait until I was in the proper setting to reveal my new look.
“I’m not ecstatic about going to the fair dressed as myself,” I
admitted. “I love my peasant clothes.”
The colors Sally had chosen were fairly dull—the chemise and
the apron were off-white, the underskirt was hunter-green, the overskirt was rust-colored, and the bodice was a dusty blue—but the
costume she’d created wasn’t exactly boring. Although the full
skirts were long enough to hide my ankles, the bodice gave me a
shape I hadn’t had since the twins had started eating solid foods,
and the chemise’s neckline was so low that I’d discovered brandnew places to put sunblock. I wasn’t sure how Bill would react to
seeing so much of his wife on display, but I thought I looked rather
fetching.
I admire your determination, Lori.
While I’d been daydreaming,
Aunt Dimity’s handwriting had continued to scroll across the page.
It may be vexing to postpone the pleasure of wearing your period attire until
you know more about the fair, but your decision to do so is indisputably
sensible. I can say without reservation that your cautious, levelheaded ap-
proach to the matter is one I would expect from Emma Harris.
“Really?” I said, delighted.
Really and truly.
“You’ve made my day, Dimity.” I looked at the mantelshelf clock
56 Nancy Atherton
and smiled. “I’d better be going. I don’t want to miss the grand
opening.”
Have a wonderful time, my dear.
“I intend to,” I said.
I closed the journal, returned it to its shelf, and curtsyed to
Reginald. Then I scurried into the hallway, called a hasty good-bye
to Stanley, and grabbed my shoulder bag as I dashed past the hat
rack. I climbed into the Mini at precisely nine-fi fteen. Although it
would take me no more than ten minutes to drive to Bishop’s
Wood, I didn’t think it would hurt to get there early. Apart from
that, I was fed up to the back teeth with waiting.
Unfortunately, I had to wait a little longer than usual to back
out of the driveway, because I was held up by a string of cars cruising along my lane. Most were driven by neighbors, who waved as
they drove past, but at least a dozen were driven by sunburned
strangers with screaming children in the backseats and loud music
on the radios. Since my lane wasn’t even included on most road
maps, I was surprised to see so many unfamiliar drivers using it.
Perhaps Mr. Barlow had been right, I told myself. Perhaps the fair
would
cause traffic problems in the village. I experienced a moment’s concern, then began to laugh.
“You’ve lived in the country for too long, Lori Shepherd,” I said
to my reflection in the rearview mirror. “Six cars
do not
constitute
a traffic jam.”
I shook my head at my own foolishness, backed cautiously into
the lane, and gave the Mini a little extra gas. I didn’t want to be the
last one to arrive at the fair.
My cheerfulness increased tenfold when I saw the sign on the Oxford Road marking the turnoff to the fair. The billboard was ten
feet tall and at least twelve feet wide, and its bright red Gothic lettering was bracketed by delightfully lurid paintings of a fearsome
black dragon and a rearing unicorn.
Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon
57
KING WILFRED’S FAIRE
Open: Sat & Sun
July & August
10 am–5 pm
www.kingwilfredsfaire.com
I smiled at the Web site address, knowing that Calvin Malvern
would take particular pride in adding his Ren fest to the list of
those that had inspired his dream, but the lurid paintings turned
my smile into a broad grin. I felt as if I were being rewarded for my
patience, as if the ferocious dragon and the noble unicorn were
mere hints of still more splendid surprises to come.
I followed the arrow directing me onto a newly graded dirt
road to my left and drove along it until a spiky-haired young woman
in disappointingly modern blue jeans and a boring white T-shirt
waved me into the pasture that had become a parking lot. When I
saw the number of cars that were already parked there, I wished I’d
left the cottage earlier.
I was in such a hurry to catch up with the rest of the fairgoers
that I almost forgot to lock the Mini. I never locked it when I was at
home or in Finch, but the sight of unfamiliar cars on my lane served
as a salutary reminder that I was no longer surrounded by people I
knew and trusted.
I could see from the car park that Bishop’s Wood had been enclosed by a ten-foot-tall wooden security fence intended, no doubt,
to keep freeloaders at bay. The most dramatic piece of construction
wasn’t apparent until I’d joined the hundred or so onlookers who
were waiting for the fair to begin. Calvin Malvern’s builders hadn’t
created a moated castle or a fire-breathing dragon, but they’d done
a marvelous job of recreating a grand, medieval gate house.
58 Nancy Atherton
The imposing structure was hung with colorful banners, surmounted by a crenellated walkway, and flanked by two square,
battlemented towers that were at least thirty feet tall. A small door
halfway up each tower gave access to the walkway, and fl ags flying
from the tops of the towers suggested that their roofs were accessible through trapdoors. The gate house was pierced at ground level
by three wide, round-headed wooden doors placed side by side
beneath a large gilded wooden sign whose red and blue Gothic lettering spelled out the words: mayne entrance.
I suspected that the gate house had been constructed out of plywood
and plaster, but the surfaces had been skillfully shaped and painted to
resemble rough-hewn stone, and each door looked as if it were made of
solid oak. The smell of fresh paint and sawdust lingered in the air, testifying to how recently the building work had been completed.
Although the three “Mayne Entrance” doors were still firmly
shut, the entertainment had already begun. A juggler, a lute player,
and a woman with a large snake draped across her shoulders stood
on the gravel apron before the gate house. Each was suitably attired
in period clothing and each kept up a steady patter of witty repartee
that caused the onlookers to erupt in repeated explosions of laughter.
I was gazing at the snake and thinking of how much Rob and Will
would enjoy petting it when Lilian Bunting appeared at my elbow.
“Isn’t it exciting?” she asked, her gray eyes shining.
“So far, so good,” I replied. “Calvin must have mounted a strong
publicity campaign. I didn’t expect to see so many people here on
opening day.”
“Did you notice the extra motorcars on your lane this morning?” said Lilian.
“It was hard not to,” I said. “I’m not used to looking both ways
before I back out of my driveway.”
“You’ll have to get used to it,” said Lilian. “I’ve no doubt that
day-trippers will use your lane as a shortcut. Apart from that,
several performers are staying in the village, so they’ll be passing
your cottage on their way to work on weekends.”
Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon
59
“When did performers move into the village?” I asked, surprised.
“Yesterday,” said Lilian. “Sally has a wizard in her spare room, the
Peacocks have a magician and two jugglers in the rooms over the pub,
and the new people in Crabtree Cottage are playing host to a mime.”
“If you ask me, Grant and Charles made the best choice,” I said.
“A mime would be an ideal houseguest. You’d hardly know he was
there.”
“True.” Lilian paused to watch the juggler take bites out of the
apples he was juggling, then added wistfully, “There are times
when I wish I’d married a milkman instead of a vicar. I don’t know
how I’ll be able to concentrate on Teddy’s sermons tomorrow,
knowing what I’ll be missing here. I’m afraid we may see a decline
in church attendance this summer, which will mean a corresponding decline in the offerings on the collection plate.”
“Maybe King Wilfred’s donation to the church roof fund will
make up for it,” I said.
“One can only hope. Have you bought your ticket yet?” she asked,
and when I shook my head, she pointed to a counter built into a windowlike opening in the security fence to the left of the gate house.
“The ticket booth,” she explained.
I thanked her and hastened over to pay my entry fee to a buxom
girl wearing a costume not unlike the one I’d left at the cottage.
“Well come, my lady,” she said. “Have you traveled far this fine
morning?”
“I live just around the corner,” I told her.
“May all of your journeys be short and free from care.” She
handed over my change and what appeared to be an advertising
leaflet. She nodded at the leaflet and explained, “A program book
with a map of the grounds, my lady, for those who wish to know
where they are and where they have been and where they may be
going. If you’d rather not know, you may tuck it into your pouch”—
she indicated my shoulder bag—“and banish it from your thoughts.”
“Thanks,” I said, and as I turned away from the ticket booth, I
slipped the program book into my bag along with my change.
60 Nancy Atherton
By the time I rejoined Lilian Bunting, a knot of neighbors had gathered around her. As Bill had forewarned, they were wearing ordinary,
everyday clothing, but the looks on their faces suggested that the next
time they attended the fair, they’d be dressed less conservatively.
“Do you have a costume in mind?” I asked Lilian.
“I have one hanging in my wardrobe,” she replied. “I’m to be an
abbess. I want to pay tribute to the intelligent, powerful women of
the Middle Ages. And you?”
“A peasant,” I said. “I’m paying tribute to Sally Pyne for fitting
me into her overbooked sewing schedule.”
“I believe peasant women are known as wenches at the fair,”