Aunt Dimity Digs In Read online

  The dark-eyed woman picked her way down a narrow path leading from the doorway to the playpen, but I had to kick aside a set of building blocks, a sock puppet, and a whole circus of plastic animals to enable Ruth and Louise to reach the sofa.

  “Sorry about the mess,” I mumbled, scooting ahead to clear the sofa’s cushions by shoving an army of stuffed animals onto the floor. “I guess things have gotten a little out of hand.”

  “That’s why we’ve come,” said Ruth. “That’s why we’ve brought you . . .”

  “. . . an extra pair of hands,” Louise went on. “Please allow us to introduce . . .”

  “...our very dear friend...”

  “. . . Francesca Angelica Sciaparelli.”

  The dark-eyed woman straightened from the playpen, where she’d carefully deposited a gurgling Will. “How d’you do?” she said.

  As if in answer, Rob threw up on my shoulder.

  “Come, give him to me.” The woman crossed to where I stood, and held out her arms. “I’ll give him a wash while you get yourself a fresh blouse.”

  I don’t know why I handed Rob over to her so readily. It may have been because I trusted the Pyms’ judgment. It may have been because of her willingness to take charge of a pukey, avocado-stained four-month-old, or because of my acute awareness of the aroma rising from what was already my second blouse of the day. But I think it was the smile in her eyes that did the trick, the understated gleam of understanding.

  “It’ll save time if you call me Francesca,” she added in a soft, west-country burr that seemed at odds with her distinctly un-west-country name. “Sciaparelli is too much of a mouthful for every day.”

  “I’m Lori,” I told her.

  “I know.” Francesca turned slowly to survey the room. “I’ve always been fond of this place.”

  “You’ve been here before?” I asked.

  “Many times,” said Francesca. “Miss Westwood moved to London after the war, but she kept the cottage, as a kind of retreat. My father looked after it for her when she was away. Miss Westwood was always a good friend to my family.”

  “She was a good friend to me, too,” I said.

  “I’m sure she was.” Francesca closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Lilacs. Such a pretty scent. Lilacs were Miss Westwood’s favorite flower. Funny how scents can bring back memories. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Miss Westwood was somewhere about the place.”

  “It’s because I haven’t changed anything,” I said quickly. “ The cottage is pretty much as Dimity left it—except for the mess.”

  I steeled myself for the moment of separation, then told myself firmly not to be such a ninny. If Dimity had decided to lay down a lilac-scented welcome mat for Francesca Sciaparelli, I had nothing to worry about.

  “I guess I’ll . . . I’ll be right back.” I kissed Rob’s foot and, for the first time since the twins had been born, climbed the stairs alone.

  Panic assailed me the moment I reached the bedroom. I peeled off my soiled apron and blouse, flung them in the general direction of the hamper, and grabbed a fresh blouse from a pile in the closet. I was dashing out of the bedroom, still doing up my buttons, when a glance in the full-length mirror stopped me cold.

  Who was that wretched wraith staring back at me?

  Her short dark curls were dappled with dried avocado, her brown eyes smudged with bruises of fatigue, and although her blouse stretched tightly across unusually full breasts, her jeans hung from her hips as though she were a scarecrow. I stretched a hand out toward the mirror and realized, with a shudder, that I was staring at a sickly pale imitation of me.

  “Good grief,” I murmured dazedly. “I’m in worse shape than the living room. Why hasn’t Bill—”

  I left the foolish question hanging fire. Bill could’ve shot off flares and sent up fireworks and it wouldn’t have made any difference. For the past four months I’d put myself on hold for the twins’ sake, and no amount of nagging, pleading, or reasonable argument would have persuaded me to alter my priorities.

  But things were different now. As Bill had said, the boys were fit as fleas. They’d not only caught up with their peers, they’d outpaced every growth chart Dr. Hawkings could produce. The boys’ doctor couldn’t explain it, but maybe Bill had hit the nail on the head: Maybe I had done a magnificent job.

  I began to preen proudly in front of the mirror, but the reflected image was so pathetic that I wound up cringing. Maternal boot camp had definitely taken its toll.

  “Ruth?” I called, moving toward the top of the stairs. “Louise? Will you be okay without me for a few more minutes?”

  “Take your time,” Ruth warbled. “We’re getting along . . .”

  “. . . famously.”

  I hesitated, then turned and marched resolutely into the bathroom for a shower and shampoo. It was the height of luxury to wash my hair in the middle of the morning, even though I had to clear the tub of squeaky toys and sail-boats. I felt almost sinful as I changed into a completely fresh set of clothes and descended to the ground floor smelling of soap instead of baby.

  I felt irredeemably sinful when I saw what had happened to the living room. Toys had been piled in one corner, stuffed animals in another, and the dangling yards of cotton batting had been folded into soft bumpers that fit each table snugly. The laundry basket, along with assorted booties, had been whisked out of sight, and my parenting magazines, standing in ranks beneath the window seat, no longer blocked the sunlight streaming through the diamond-paned bow window. Ruth and Louise stood over my sons, who were not only green-spot-less but contentedly blowing spit-bubbles in the playpen.

  I tiptoed toward the kitchen, drawn by the sound of sloshing water, and stood in the doorway, blinking dazedly. Francesca was mopping the floor, having already removed the spattered evidence of the blender incident from the cabinet doors and countertops, and put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Overwhelmed by the sight of a gleaming floor and an empty sink, I leaned against the door frame and began to blubber.

  “What’s all this, then?” Francesca said, setting the mop aside.

  “It’s . . . just . . . so . . .” I covered my face with my hands and hiccupped helplessly.

  “A breath of fresh air . . .”

  “. . . will soon put you right, my dear.”

  Ruth and Louise swept up the hall to take me by the elbows and steer me out into the back garden. Ruth used her cambric handkerchief to dust off the stone bench beneath the apple tree, and Louise handed her own embroidered hankie to me.

  I blotted my tears as I sat down, bracketed by solicitous Pyms. “You must think I’m a terrible mother,” I sniffled.

  “We think nothing of the sort,” Ruth declared. “You’re simply . . .”

  “. . . a new mother,” said Louise. “And no amount of studying can possibly prepare a woman . . .”

  “. . . for the demands of motherhood.” Ruth nodded. “We’ve seen it . . .”

  “. . . all too often. Why, when Mrs. Farnham, the greengrocer’s wife, had her three delightful daughters . . .”

  “. . . Mr. Farnham’s shop was at sixes and sevens for months!” Ruth smiled fondly at the memory. “Damsons with the onions, sultanas with the almonds . . .”

  “. . . and cabbages everywhere!” Louise’s identical smile appeared. “It’s only to be expected. A truly good mother . . .”

  “. . . always puts her children before her cabbages.”

  I looked from one pair of bright eyes to the other. “Is that what I’ve done?”

  “Of course it is!” Ruth exclaimed. “ That’s why we’ve brought Francesca to you. While you look after the boys . . .”

  “. . . she’ll keep your cabbages in order.” Louise clasped her gloved hands together excitedly. “She cooks, cleans, sews . . .”

  “. . . and she’s perfectly magical with children,” Ruth informed me.

  “But who is she?” I asked. “Is she from Finch?”

  “Francesca was born and raised o
n her father’s farm . . .”

  “. . . not far from the village,” said Louise. “She lives there now with her eldest brother and his wife . . .”

  “. . . and their eight children.”

  “Eight children . . . ?” I nearly swooned.

  “Yes, the Sciaparelli farm is quite a lively place. Francesca’s had . . .”

  “. . . bags of experience with babies.” Louise exchanged a hesitant glance with her sister before adding, delicately, “We’d rather hoped, however, that you might have room for her . . .”

  “. . . here at the cottage,” said Ruth. “Francesca’s thirty-seven years old, you know. She’s spent all of her adult life nursing her sick parents and looking after her brother’s children. She needs a change of scene . . .”

  “. . . as much as you do, Lori. Would it be too great an imposition?”

  Images of sparkling kitchens and clutterless living rooms danced in my bedazzled brain. “Well,” I said slowly, “there’s the guest room. It’s right next to the nursery, so—”

  “Perfect!” Ruth got to her feet. “We’ll retrieve Francesca’s things from our motor . . .”

  “. . . and tell her the happy news.” Louise had also risen. “You rest quietly in the shade awhile, Lori . . .”

  “. . . while we help Francesca settle in.” Ruth linked arms with her sister, and they fluttered back into the solarium.

  Rest quietly, while a stranger moved into my cottage? Panic bubbled ominously, but I clamped a lid on it. I needed help, I reminded myself, and I was getting it from the most exclusive employment agency in the British Isles. Pyms, Extremely Ltd., was as reliable as April rain, and Dimity had already signaled her lilac-scented approval.

  A warm breeze drifted through my damp curls and I drifted with it, soothed by the sounds of high summer. We’d had a dry start to the season, and were in the midst of a hot, muggy spell reminiscent of the sticky Chicago summers of my childhood.

  Still, the apple tree’s shade was delicious, and the light breeze helped cool the humid air. I might, with a little practice, grow accustomed to resting quietly. A robin whistled in the leafy branches above my head, bumblebees hummed among the daisies and delphiniums, and a pair of sparrows splashed in the rose-wreathed reflecting pool. I gazed from one tranquil tableau to the next with growing anxiety and muttered dismally, “Emma will kill me.”

  My best friend and next-door neighbor, Emma Harris, had designed, built, and painstakingly planted my back garden. Spring was Emma’s favorite season, but it had come and gone without my noticing. I’d missed the lilacs and tulips, the bluebells and daffodils, the redbuds flowering down by the brook. I glanced guiltily at the leaves overhead, knowing I’d missed the apple blossoms, too.

  Emma Harris was an artist. Her greatest reward was a quiet sigh of admiration, but I hadn’t managed so much as a grunt this year. I’d spent Emma’s favorite season holed up inside the cottage, scarcely conscious of the marvels she’d wrought with hoe and spade. I felt like an ungrateful worm.

  “I’ll make it up to her,” I vowed. And I’d start right now, by making the most of this opportunity to savor the peaceful haven she’d created. I leaned back against the apple tree, tried fully to appreciate each trembling leaf, each glorious blossom, and failed. My eyelids were too heavy, nature’s music too hypnotic. I tuned in to the bumblebees . . . dozed . . . and was rudely awakened.

  “Lori Shepherd!” a voice thundered, sending birds and bees scrambling for cover. “ That man must be stopped or there’ll be bloodshed!”

  3.

  “Wh-what?” I blinked the apparition into focus and felt my blood run cold.

  Peggy Kitchen was standing in my garden.

  Peggy Kitchen—shopkeeper, postmistress, and undisputed empress of Finch—had not only talked me into donating an irreplaceable heirloom afghan to the Saint George’s church-fund auction, she’d also convinced my semisedentary and wholly unmusical husband to strap on bells and dance at dawn on May Day with Finch’s geriatric troupe of morris dancers. Bill bought back the afghan—for the price of a year’s beeswax candles—but he could do nothing to keep Peggy from plastering her shop with incriminating photographs of him waving a white hankie while prancing dementedly on the village green.

  Peggy Kitchen was an extremely dangerous woman. Pointy glasses dotted with rhinestones, graying hair in an obligatory bun at the back of her head, flowery dress cloaking a mature figure—her disguise would have been perfect but for the lunatic glitter in her pale blue eyes. Peggy Kitchen was on the warpath—again—and I’d somehow ended up in her line of fire.

  “Hi, Peggy,” I croaked.

  “Would’ve rung first,” Peggy barked, “but Bill agreed that this matter was far too pressing to be discussed over the telephone.” I flinched as she smacked fist against palm for emphasis.

  “I’m sure he’s right,” I said gravely, wondering how many more unannounced callers Bill planned to send my way before lunchtime.

  “He is!” Peggy roared. “If that man”—smack, smack—“isn’t gone by the seventeenth of August, I won’t be responsible for my actions!”

  “Er,” I began, but relapsed into silence when Francesca’s statuesque figure appeared in the solarium’s doorway.

  “Morning, Mrs. Kitchen.” Francesca squared her shoulders and folded her strong arms. “Fine day, isn’t it? All this peace and quiet—just the ticket for a pair of babes like the two I’m looking after.” The faintest hint of steel entered her purr. “You’ll keep the noise down, for their sake, won’t you, Mrs. Kitchen.”

  It was not a question, and Francesca didn’t wait for a reply. She simply turned on her heel and disappeared into the cottage, leaving me alone with a ticking Peggy Kitchen. I held my breath, awaiting the explosion.

  “Humph,” said Peggy. She stared daggers at Francesca’s retreating back, sat beside me on the bench, and murmured, “You’re letting that woman look after your cubs? After what her father did?”

  “What did her father—”

  “I’ve no time for gossip,” Peggy interrupted, glancing nervously at the cottage. “I’ve a crisis on my hands and I need your help.”

  “What crisis?” I asked.

  “It’s that man!” Peggy repeated in a furious whisper.

  “That specky professor who digs things up. If he wants to muck about in Scrag End, that’s his affair, but I won’t have him mucking up my festival!”

  “The festival . . .” I clung to those words as to a slender reed of sense in a rushing river of babble. That specky professor and Scrag End meant nothing to me, but even I, in my self-imposed isolation, had heard about Peggy’s festival. I doubted that there was a kayaking Inuit or a Sherpa climbing Everest who hadn’t received one of her harvest-gold flyers. My cottage had been bombarded by no fewer than seven.

  Come One, Come All

  to the

  Harvest Festival!

  Saturday, August 17—10:00 A.M.

  Exhibitions! Competitions!

  Demonstrations of Arts & Crafts!

  Traditional Music & Dance!

  Refreshments at Peacock’s Pub

  Organ Recital

  and

  Blessing of the Beasts

  at

  Saint George’s Church—9:00 A.M.

  £2 General Admission Pets and Under 5’s Free!

  “Is there a problem with the Harvest Festival?” I asked timorously.

  “Is there a problem?” Peggy snorted. “I’ve been stabbed in the back, that’s the problem!”

  “By the specky professor?” I hazarded.

  “No,” Peggy said with exaggerated patience. “By the vicar, of course.”

  “What’s the vicar done?” I was unable to conceive of a less likely backstabber than the mild-mannered man who’d performed my marriage ceremony and christened my children.

  “He’s only gone and given over the schoolhouse to that specky chap. Don’t know what he was thinking, handing it over without asking me first. How am
I to run the Harvest Festival without the schoolhouse?”

  “Well . . .” I fell silent as Peggy leapt to her feet and began listing what I assumed to be contest categories.

  “There’s the Shepherd’s Crooks, the Local Vegetables, the Best Floral Arrangement in a Gravy Boat!” she fretted. “There’s the Photography, the Hand-Spun Fleece, the Wines and Beer! Not to mention the Sponge Fruit Flans and Lemon Bars! Where are we to put ’em all, if we don’t have the schoolhouse?”

  “Tables in the school yard?” I ventured meekly.

  “No room!” Peggy exclaimed. She glanced over her shoulder before continuing, in a strangled murmur, “Not with the poultry, rabbits, goats, sheep, and ponies. And don’t bother mentioning the square because the Merry Morrismen and the Finch Minstrels’ll be there.” She flung her hands into the air and sagged onto the bench.

  “I see your point,” I said, and I meant it. I’d envisioned the Harvest Festival as a sort of al fresco picnic on the square, but Peggy’s plans were more complex than that. The vicar had to have been in a fugue state when he’d snatched the schoolhouse from her—if, in fact, he had. Peggy had a habit of overdramatizing events, but if she’d truly lost the schoolhouse, she had a right to be miffed. Apart from the church it was the largest building in Finch, and the only one suited to the kind of pageant Peggy had in mind.

  “Can the vicar give the schoolhouse away, just like that?” I asked.

  “It belongs to the church,” Peggy informed me. “Most village schools do. It hasn’t been a proper school for donkey’s years, but it’s still church property. But it’s not whether he can,” she huffed indignantly, “it’s whether he should. He’s no right to fill my schoolhouse with Scrag End rubbish less than two months before the Harvest Festival. Especially since—” She broke off and gave me a sidelong look. “I’ll tell you something, Lori, and it’s not something I’ve told very many people. As soon as the Harvest Festival is over, I’m leaving Finch. For good.”

  I gaped at her in disbelief. “You’re leaving Finch?”

  “Don’t try to talk me out of it,” said Peggy. “My old friend Mr. Taxman tried that already, and I’ll tell you what I told him: I’ve done what I set out to do in Finch. I’ve livened the place up a bit, set a good example for the villagers, and now it’s time for me to move on.”