Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree Page 2

  “Yes,” I said limply. “They can bring the ice as well, but how ... how are we going to feed everyone?”

  “Easy,” said Bill, with a nonchalant shrug. “Put out an S.O.S. to Father’s Handmaidens.”

  I straightened slowly and felt the color return to my face.

  “The Handmaidens?” I said, peering dazedly at the diamond-paned windows above the desk. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of them?”

  “You were in shock. I’m sure you would have thought of them eventually.” Bill glanced at his watch. “I’ll be in the office until noon, love. After that, I’m yours to command.”

  I jumped to my feet and kissed him soundly, then pushed him firmly out of the study.

  “Go,” I said. “I have to marshal my troops.”

  “Good luck, mon capitaine!” he threw over his shoulder.

  I picked up the phone and began dialing, confident that the village’s cadre of unmarried ladies would rally to my cause and produce a nontoxic feast for two hundred guests on time and under budget, if for no other reason than to impress the man of their dreams. I honestly believed that my greatest challenge would be to prevent food fights from breaking out among them as the evening wore on.

  I hadn’t the slightest inkling that, before the day was through, I would become embroiled in the greatest act of deception ever perpetrated on the good people of Finch.

  Life in an English village is never dull.

  Two

  News of the catering crisis spread through Finch faster than fleas in a kennel. Before long, offers of help were pouring in from all of my neighbors, regardless of age, sex, or marital status. The speed and urgency of their response didn’t surprise me. The villagers were generous souls, always willing to lend a hand in an emergency, but a force more powerful than generosity drove them to salvage the housewarming party. As Lilian Bunting, the vicar’s wife, put it: “They’re quite simply agog to see what William’s done with Fairworth House!”

  I shared Lilian’s belief that most of my neighbors regarded the party as a golden opportunity to sidle furtively from room to room, critiquing carpets, draperies, wall colors, and furniture arrangements while debating how much every painting, book, and bauble had cost. I was fully prepared, therefore, to handle the flurry of phone calls that came in from volunteers eager to roll up their sleeves and do whatever they could to ensure that the long-awaited show would go on.

  I carefully doled out assignments, to avoid having too many pâtés and not enough profiteroles, then let the villagers take it from there. Those who could cook retreated to their kitchens. Those who didn’t know one end of a piping bag from the other made themselves useful by fetching supplies from the village shops or from the big grocery store in the nearby market town of Upper Deeping.

  Almost everyone gathered fresh herbs and vegetables from their own gardens, and a pair of local farmers drove from cottage to cottage, delivering eggs, poultry, bacon, milk, cream, butter, and cheese to those in need. By noon, Finch smelled so deliciously sweet and savory that I could have eaten the air.

  Once the ball was rolling, I arranged for Will and Rob to spend the entire day at their riding school—the twins’ idea of heaven—and moved my command post from the cottage to Fairworth House. After a brief search, I found my father-in-law settled comfortably in a leather armchair in his study, a light and airy room appended to the library.

  Willis, Sr., was perusing an old and dusty volume embossed with the thrilling title: Notes on Sheep. I recognized it as the book we’d unearthed in the ruins of the old stables, along with a painting that was in dire need of cleaning. Willis, Sr., kept Notes on Sheep on his desk, but the painting leaned against the wall near the Sheraton sideboard, awaiting the ministrations of our local art restorer.

  The painting wasn’t merely soiled, it was hazardous—I’d nearly sliced my hand open on a shard of broken glass protruding from the frame’s inner edge. God alone knew what it depicted, because no human eye could penetrate the layers of grime that obscured the image. Its filthiness struck a discordant note in an otherwise spotless room.

  A refreshing breeze wafted in from the garden through the open French doors, and the tall windows gleamed in the sunlight. Willis, Sr., inspired, perhaps, by the glorious summer day, was dressed as casually as I’d ever seen him, in a white flannel suit, a pale blue shirt, a yellow silk tie, white socks, and tasseled loafers. A silver tray on his walnut desk held a cut-glass pitcher filled with iced lemonade, and a glass of lemonade sat on the small satinwood table at his elbow. Although the weather was ideal for long walks across open meadows, my father-in-law clearly planned to spend the rest of the day indoors.

  He closed his book and set it aside as I entered the room.

  “I am considering the acquisition of a small flock of sheep,” he announced.

  “Sheep?” I said, caught off guard.

  “Cotswold Sheep, to be precise,” he said, “also known as Cotswold Lions, an ancient and threatened domestic breed endowed with a magnificent fleece. It would be a worthy endeavor to aid in the breed’s preservation.”

  “Uh-huh,” I agreed, and moved on to more pressing matters. When I began a breathless account of the sudden change in plans, however, Willis, Sr., raised a well-manicured hand to silence me.

  “There is no need to explain,” he said. “Bill came to see me on his way to the office. He informed me of the food-poisoning incident. It is a most distressing turn of events, to be sure, but I have no doubt that you will rise like a phoenix from the ashes and soar triumphantly over the hurdles that have been placed so inconsiderately in your path.” He sighed contentedly as his gaze traveled around the sunlit room. “As you can see, I have chosen to follow my son’s advice to, ahem, ‘lie low until Hurricane Lori passes.’”

  “Clever boy, that son of yours,” I said with a rueful chuckle. “Why didn’t you abandon ship and seek sanctuary in Bill’s office?”

  “I wished to be near at hand in the unlikely event that you should ask for my advice,” said Willis, Sr. “Your manner suggests, however, that you have already solved the catering dilemma.”

  “As a matter of fact, I have,” I said. “The villagers are pitching in to provide party fare. I don’t know what they’ll bring or when they’ll bring it, and I have a thousand other arrangements to make before their contributions start trickling in, so there’s bound to be a fair amount of chaos, but I’ll see to it that no one bothers you in here. Your study will be off limits during the party, too. I don’t want anyone rummaging through your desk.”

  Willis, Sr.’s eyebrows rose. “Who would have the audacity to rummage through my desk?”

  “Anyone who wants to know how much you paid for your collection of miniatures,” I replied bluntly. “The villagers have inquiring minds. It’s best to lead them not into temptation.”

  He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I will lock the study’s doors when I leave. It may also be advisable to drape a decorative swag across the bottom of the main staircase, to discourage exploration of the upper stories.”

  “An excellent suggestion. I’ll ask the florist to take care of it.” I glanced at the cut-glass pitcher, wondering if a Handmaiden had dropped in to fuss over Willis, Sr., while I’d been fielding phone calls at the cottage. “Did Bill make the lemonade for you?”

  “I cannot tell a lie,” said Willis, Sr., his gray eyes twinkling. “I made it. I squeezed the lemons, added the sugar, poured the water, and stirred in the ice without assistance of any kind. You may find it difficult to believe, my dear Lori, but I am not entirely helpless.”

  “I don’t think you’re helpless,” I protested. “But if you get hungry—”

  “I shall make a valiant attempt to find my way back to the kitchen,” Willis, Sr., interrupted, “where I have set aside a loaf of granary bread, a generous wedge of Stilton cheese, and a pair of ripe apples. I may be overly optimistic, Lori, but I believe that, with an effort, I will successfully avoid starvation.”

  “I ge
t it,” I said, smiling wryly. “Not helpless. Do you have your cell phone?”

  “I do,” he said, patting his breast pocket, “and I promise to use it to contact you if the need arises. In the meantime, I beg you to dismiss me from your thoughts. You have far more important business to attend to.”

  “You may have to attend to business, too,” I said. “Davina Trent called to tell me that she found another couple for you to interview—the Donovans. She said they’ll be here before nightfall.”

  “‘Before nightfall’ is a rather elastic time frame,” Willis, Sr., observed, frowning. “Mrs. Trent is an exceptionally well-organized woman. I wonder why she was unable to be more precise?”

  “I have no idea,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Maybe the Donovans will tell us. Keep an eye out for them, will you?” I gestured toward the windows. “You have a clear view of the drive from here. If you see a strange couple pull up in an unfamiliar car—”

  “—I shall use my cell phone to notify you.” Willis, Sr., nodded patiently, then peered through the window closest to him. “Do the Donovans own a paneled van decorated with a floral motif?”

  “A floral motif?” I followed his gaze and yelped, “It’s the florists! They’re early! And they’re supposed to use the back door! I’d better get out there before they drip water on your beautiful floors. I’ll touch base with you later, William.” I glanced darkly at the grimy painting, then sprinted for the entrance hall to begin what would be a very long day of trying to be in too many places at once.

  By six o’clock, the flowers were in place, the champagne was chilling, the musicians were seated in the library, and the kitchen was filled to overflowing with an astonishing array of finger food, all of it provided by my industrious and highly motivated neighbors.

  Charles Bellingham and Grant Tavistock had closed their art appraisal and restoration business for the day in order to construct exquisite canapés featuring caviar, foie gras, truffles, and other splendidly high-end ingredients. At the other end of the taste spectrum, Dick Peacock, the publican, had turned out sausage rolls by the score while his wife, Christine, had spent hours sticking toothpicks into bite-sized pieces of cheese and fruit.

  Nineteen-year-old Bree Pym contributed miniature pavlovas, which made sense, since she was from New Zealand, and Emma Harris teamed up with Miranda Morrow, the village witch, to make low-fat, vegetarian hors d’oeuvres that, I feared, many would admire, but few would eat.

  Lilian Bunting had recruited a dozen volunteers to work on a finger-sandwich assembly line in the old schoolhouse, which, under normal circumstances, served as the village hall. Her husband, Theodore Bunting, the mild-mannered vicar of St. George’s Church in Finch, presented the fruits of their labor to me along with a fervent prayer for deliverance from food poisoning. Although I prayed with him, I also made sure that perishable items were stored in the refrigerated truck I’d rented from a restaurant supply company in Upper Deeping. I was sure that God would understand. He was rather keen on helping those who helped themselves.

  The Handmaidens produced so many pastries that Willis, Sr., could have opened his own bake shop. Elspeth Binney, a retired schoolteacher, turned out hundreds of pastel-colored petits fours. Millicent Scroggins, a retired secretary, made madeleines, macaroons, and meringues. Selena Buxton, a retired wedding planner, delivered a variety of dainty fruit tartlets. Opal Taylor, who had the unfair advantage of being a retired professional cook, outdid them all by baking batch after batch of vol-au-vents filled with everything from smoked oysters to curried prawns.

  The only villager missing in action was Sally Pyne, the energetic, grandmother-shaped widow who owned the village tearoom. When I heard Sally’s hoarse voice and rasping cough on the telephone, I told her to go back to bed and to stay there. Her sixteen-year-old granddaughter, Rainey Dawson, was on hand to look after her, but even so, the timing of Sally’s illness couldn’t have been worse. She and Rainey would miss the party, which would be a great disappointment to them both. I was disappointed, too, because Sally would have been a model guest—she was the only widow in town who’d shown no interest in seducing my father-in-law.

  The kitchen crew and the waitstaff I’d hired at great expense through a catering firm in Oxford arrived at half past six to set up food stations and to learn the layout of the ground floor. A young man named Chad appointed himself head butler and took up his post in the entrance hall, while his friend Rupert volunteered to act as car valet, a position that hadn’t even occurred to me. Though Fairworth still smelled of fresh paint and damp plaster, we were as ready as we could be to welcome our guests. At seven fifteen, Willis, Sr., who’d exchanged his casual flannels for an immaculate black three-piece suit, gave me my marching orders.

  I made a mad dash for the cottage, where, much to my delight, I found a pair of freshly bathed and neatly dressed little boys as well as a dapper husband. I took a quick shower, passed a blow dryer over my dark, curly hair, and slipped into the summery forget-me-not-blue silk dress I’d had made for the occasion.

  Bill forced me to take a calming breath before he would allow me to join Rob and Will in our canary-yellow Range Rover. After I was seated, he took his place behind the wheel, paused to caress my cheek lightly with his hand, then hit the gas and gunned it all the way to Fairworth House while the boys egged him on from the backseat.

  Rupert took Bill’s car keys, Chad opened the front door, and Willis, Sr., greeted us in the high-ceilinged entrance hall. As we strolled into the morning room, I heard the faint strains of a Mozart concerto floating toward me from the library, breathed in the heady scent of tuberoses, and smiled as one fresh-faced young woman offered the adults champagne, another offered sparkling cider to the children, and still another presented us with a gleaming silver salver dotted with delicate canapés. I took a glass of champagne and turned to Willis, Sr., but before I could salute him, he raised his glass to me.

  “To the heroine of the hour,” he said.

  “To Hurricane Lori,” Bill added.

  “To Mummy!” the twins chorused.

  I blushed happily, accepted their accolades, and allowed myself to savor the first moment of peace I’d had all day.

  It would also be the last.

  By half past eight, I understood why houses had ballrooms. Parties confined to one space were easier to monitor than parties spread through many separate chambers.

  Since Fairworth House lacked a ballroom, I had to wander from one room to the next to reassure myself that everyone was having a good time. Fortunately, the rooms were connected to the main corridor and to one another by a series of arched doorways, which made it relatively easy for me to circulate. The buzz of lively conversation, the frequent outbursts of laughter, and the glow emanating from Willis, Sr.’s face as he welcomed family and friends eventually convinced me that all was well.

  At nine o’clock I handed my hostess duties over to Emma Harris and Lilian Bunting—the most sensible women present—and threw myself into the challenging task of convincing my two thoroughly overexcited sons that it was time for them to go to bed. After much discussion, Will and Rob agreed to return to the cottage with newly-weds Nell and Kit Smith, who’d volunteered to babysit. Since Kit and Nell got along well with the twins, and since they still preferred each other’s company to anyone else’s, they were perfectly content to leave Fairworth House behind and enjoy a quiet evening at the cottage.

  By the time I finished attending to my sons, the party was in full swing. A beaming Willis, Sr., was holding court in the drawing room, surrounded by new friends and old. Emma, who looked unusually alert, had positioned herself just behind him, but Lilian was nowhere to be found. When I ran into Bill in the billiards room, I asked if he knew where she was.

  “Lilian’s in the kitchen,” he told me, “reading the riot act to the Handmaidens.”

  My stomach clenched. “Why? What did they do?”

  “The minute you went upstairs they barged into the kitchen to fill trays wit
h their own special goodies,” he said. “Then they began to stalk Father. I shudder to think what would have happened if they’d caught up with him simultaneously.”

  “Dear Lord,” I said, putting a hand to my forehead. “It would have been total war.”

  “Total war,” Bill repeated gravely. “Vol-au-vents splattered on the ceiling, tartlets zipping through the air, innocent bystanders laid low by flying macaroons ...” His words trailed off in a gurgle of laughter.

  I dropped my hand and regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Have you ever tried to remove curried prawns from a freshly plastered ceiling medallion?”

  “No,” Bill replied, grinning, “and thanks to Lilian, I won’t have to. She spotted danger approaching, headed it off, and herded the offenders into the kitchen for a refresher course on good manners.”

  “Leaving Emma to look after William,” I said, as comprehension dawned.

  “You chose his bodyguards well,” said Bill. “I don’t think the Handmaidens will cause any more trouble. Uh-oh.” He looked past me and murmured, “Speaking of trouble ...”

  I swung around to see Peggy Taxman step through from the library into the billiards room. She scanned the room hastily, as though she were searching for someone, then made a beeline straight for me.

  “Time to check on Father, I think.” Bill spun on his heels and beat a hasty retreat to the drawing room.

  “Coward,” I said under my breath, but I smiled as I said it.

  I couldn’t blame Bill for steering clear of Peggy Taxman. Peggy was a formidable woman, a mover and shaker who ruled Finch with an iron hand and a stentorian voice. She ran the post office, the general store, and the greengrocer’s shop, and she had a nasty habit of “volunteering” people to serve on the committees she invariably chaired. Village life would have come to a standstill without her, but no one could deny that she was officious, opinionated, overbearing, and, quite frankly, terrifying. When Peggy Taxman’s majestic bosom and her rhinestone-studded glasses hove into view, most men—and many women—ran for cover.