Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon Page 3

  Peggy’s nostrils flared alarmingly. “How dare you—”

  “We will, of course, donate a portion of the proceeds to the church roof fund,” Calvin interjected quickly.

  “Seems very generous to me,” said Christine Peacock.

  “Extremely generous,” chorused the women sitting near her.

  “No, my ladies,” said Calvin, kissing his fingertips to them. “It is the village of Finch that is generous. I thank you for welcoming me with such warmth and affection, and I look forward to seeing all of you on opening day—and on many merrymaking weekends thereafter.” He snapped his fingers and the jester presented the crown to him. Calvin lowered the crown onto his own head, then raised a hand in farewell. “Adieu, good people of Finch. Until we meet again—at King Wilfred’s Faire!”

  “All hail good King Wilfred!” bellowed the heralds.

  The pair raised their trumpets and played another fanfare as Calvin strode up the aisle, then followed him out of the schoolroom, with the jester tumbling in their wake. Mr. Malvern left his seat to join them, but paused in the doorway to share a parting word.

  “It’s a done deal,” he said gruffly. “Just thought you ought to know.” He slapped his tweed cap on his head, spun on his heel, and was gone.

  A momentary silence ensued. Some people rubbed their chins, while others peered at the ceiling. A few women fingered their polyester blouses, frowning pensively.

  “It sounds good to me,” Miranda Morrow said at last. “And it will bring more people to the village on weekends.”

  “We could do with some new customers at the pub,” said Dick Peacock.

  “I wouldn’t mind filling the chairs in my tearoom,” said Sally Pyne.

  “They might need fresh meat and produce for their food stalls,” said Burt Hodge, a local farmer.

  “Fresh eggs never go amiss,” said Annelise’s mother. Mrs. Sciaparelli’s chickens were famously productive.

  “Tourists get flat tires, too,” Mr. Barlow observed. “And overheated radiators. A mechanic can always find work, but he’d be a fool to complain if the work comes to him.”

  “It goes without saying that the vicar and I will make good use of the fair’s donation to the church roof fund,” said Lilian Bunting.

  “King Wilfred’s Fair could put Finch on the map,” Charles Bellingham ventured timidly.

  “We’re already on the map,” Peggy protested. “The fair will compete with our summer events, block our roads, and bring undesirables into our community. Nothing good will come of it.”

  Jasper Taxman took his courage in his hands and turned to his wife. “The fair might increase the Emporium’s cash flow, Peggy. Tourists always need supplies, and you carry a bit of everything in your shop.”

  Peggy’s objections ceased abruptly.

  “Do you really think so, Jasper?” she asked. “Do you honestly believe that the Emporium could profit by this . . . this display of childish nonsense?”

  “I do,” Jasper replied firmly. “What’s more, I think that we should have a private meeting with Calvin Malvern as soon as possible. If we can rent a stall at his fair, we might . . .”

  As Jasper leaned sideways to have a quiet word with his wife, a torrent of talk swept through the schoolhouse. Everyone was chattering at once, so it was difficult to make out individual comments, but a few words floated above the hubbub.

  “. . . exciting . . .”

  “. . . colorful . . .”

  “. . . petticoats . . .”

  “. . . boots . . .”

  “. . . knights . . .”

  “. . . jousting . . .”

  While the clamor in the schoolhouse continued unchecked, Peggy listened intently to Jasper. When he finished speaking, she pursed her lips and nodded firmly. She seemed oblivious to the uproar when she turned to face the villagers. Instead of calling the meeting back to order, she brought it to an end with three decisive bangs of her gavel. She then thrust the summer work rosters at me, gathered up her notes, and gestured for Jasper to accompany her as she dashed down the center aisle and out of the schoolhouse.

  I wandered among the villagers, dutifully distributing the rosters, and watched in amazement at they were stuffed unexamined into pockets and purses. No one seemed interested in learning whether they’d been assigned to the dog show cleanup crew or to the tea urn polishing squad. Thoughts of present-day Finch had evidently been pushed aside to make room for dreams of merry old England, and the May meeting had ended not on its usual downbeat note, but on a crescendo of giddy anticipation.

  We couldn’t have known it at the time, but the invasion of Finch had begun.

  Three

  After eight pleasant but predictable summers in a row, something unexpected was about to happen in Finch. I couldn’t wait to share the news with Bill. If I’d driven my reliable Range Rover to the May meeting, I would have shattered all known speed records in my haste to return to the cottage.

  Unfortunately, I’d driven the rusty old Morris Mini Bill and I used for child-free trips to the village, so I was forced to putter sedately over the humpbacked bridge and along the hedge-lined, winding lane that led to the cottage, while my brain fizzed with fresh ideas involving sabers, hoop earrings, and rose-colored wimples. I wasn’t sure what a wimple was, but I was determined to have a rose-colored one.

  It was nearing ten o’clock when I turned into our graveled drive, a good two hours past the twins’ bedtime but not necessarily past Bill’s. Hoping fervently that my husband had waited up for me, I parked the Mini between my Rover and his Mercedes, and sprinted up the flagstone path, scarcely noticing the early roses that had appeared on the trellis framing the front door or the sweet springtime scent of the late lilacs.

  As I stepped into the front hall, I raised my copy of the summer roster high into the air and called out, “All hail good King Wilfred!”

  I held the pose, but when Bill didn’t emerge from the living room to ask what on earth I was doing, I tossed the roster onto the telephone table, hung my shoulder bag on the hat rack, and went looking for him.

  I found him upstairs, in bed, with Stanley, our black cat, curled at his feet. Stanley opened one dandelion-yellow eye when I walked into the master bedroom, but quickly closed it again. He liked me well enough, but he adored Bill, and he would have been perfectly content to spend the rest of his life curled at my husband’s feet.

  Bill was sleeping so soundly that he didn’t stir when I bent to kiss his cheek, and when I accidentally bumped the bed a few times with my knee, he simply rolled over and settled his head more snugly into his pillow. I heaved a disappointed sigh, which also failed to wake him, then tiptoed out of the master bedroom.

  I went up the hall to look in on the twins, but they were as deeply asleep as their father. I gazed down at their identical faces and imagined how their dark brown eyes would light up when I described jousting to them in the morning. Smiling, I tucked their blankets in around them, kissed their tousled heads, and returned to the first floor. My menfolk were precious to me, but I wasn’t ready to join them in dreamland just yet. I was bursting to tell someone about the fair.

  My best friend, Emma Harris, had missed the May meeting because she was tending to a sick horse, but it was too late in the evening to telephone her. A glance at my watch told me that it was too late to call any of my early-bird friends, so I headed for the study, where I knew I would find someone who was always wide-awake.

  The study was still and silent. Not a breath of wind stirred the strands of ivy covering the diamond-paned window above the old oak desk. After closing the door carefully behind me, I turned on the mantelshelf lights, lit a fire in the fireplace, and bowed deeply to Reginald, who gazed down at me from his special niche in the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

  Reginald was a rabbit made of powder-pink flannel. He had black button eyes, beautifully hand-stitched whiskers, and a faded purple stain on his snout, a memento of a day in my childhood when I’d let him try my grape juice. Regin
ald had been at my side for as long as I could remember and, as my oldest friend, deserved his place of honor in the cottage. I didn’t usually bow to him, but it would have been unthinkable to enter the study without greeting him, and I was caught up in Calvin Malvern’s dream.

  “What ho, Sir Reginald,” I said, straightening. “How farest thee on this marvelous May evening? Art thou well? Dost thou reliveth brave deeds of yore whilst thou sitteth on thy . . . shelf?” I finished lamely, then grinned. “I don’t have the lingo down pat, Reg, but I’ve got a month to practice. Thou wilt be impressed!”

  Reginald’s black button eyes glimmered with vague understanding, as if he thought I might be crazy but was willing to await further developments. I tweaked his pink ears fondly, took a blue-leather-bound book from a nearby shelf, and sank into one of the tall leather armchairs that faced the hearth. While the fire snapped and crackled in a satisfyingly medieval way, I cradled the book in my arms and called to mind the first time I’d opened it.

  The book had once belonged to my late mother’s closest friend, an Englishwoman named Dimity Westwood. The two women had met in London while serving their respective countries during the Second World War, and their friendship had continued to blossom long after the war had ended and my mother had returned to the States.

  The two friends never met again in person, but they filled the postwar air with a steady stream of letters describing the everyday adventures of their lives. After my father’s sudden death, the letters became a refuge for my mother, a private place of peace and calm, an escape from the sometimes daunting challenges of full-time work and single parenthood. My mother told no one about her private refuge, not even her daughter. As a child, I knew Dimity Westwood only as Aunt Dimity, the fictional heroine of a series of bedtime stories invented by my mother.

  I didn’t learn about the real Dimity Westwood until after she and my mother had died, when Dimity bequeathed to me a comfortable fortune, a honey-colored cottage in the Cotswolds, the extraordinary letters she and my mother had written, and a very special book—a journal bound in dark blue leather.

  Whenever I opened the blue journal, Aunt Dimity’s handwriting would appear, an old-fashioned copperplate taught in the village school at a time when a woodstove in the parlor qualified as central heating. I nearly fainted the first time her writing streamed across the journal’s blank pages, but her kind words steadied me and I soon came to rely on her as a constant source of wisdom and support. I had no idea how she managed to bridge the gap between the earthly and the ethereal, but I knew one thing for certain: Aunt Dimity was as good a friend to me as she’d been to my mother. I didn’t want to think of life without her.

  Warmed by the memory—and the crackling fire—I rested the journal on my lap, opened it, and said, “Dimity? Are you there? I have amazing news to tell you!”

  The familiar lines of royal-blue ink curled instantly across the page. As you know, my dear, I’m always eager to hear amazing news. Don’t tell me, though. Let me guess. Did Peggy Taxman forget to assign you to the dog show?

  “I should be so lucky,” I said, rolling my eyes. “No, Dimity, it’s a thousand times more amazing than dodging poop duty.”

  My goodness. Have aliens landed on the village green?

  “Close,” I said, “but it’s better than aliens.” Unable to wait any longer, I blurted, “King Wilfred’s Faire is coming to Finch!”

  How thrilling! A short pause ensued before the handwriting continued. Who, may I ask, is King Wilfred? And why is he holding a fair in Finch?

  “King Wilfred is Calvin Malvern,” I explained. “And it’s King Wilfred’s Faire with an e tacked onto the end of ‘fair,’ to make it seem old and quaint. And the fair won’t be held in the village, but near it, in Bishop’s Wood.”

  Hold on a moment, Lori. Did you say Calvin Malvern? Are you speaking of Horace Malvern’s nephew?

  “That’s the chap,” I said.

  I knew Calvin Malvern when he was a little boy. I could have sworn that he came from a long line of farmers. How and when did he acquire royal blood?

  “I don’t think there’s a drop of royal blood in him,” I replied.

  “As far as I can tell, Calvin’s the self-appointed king of a make-believe kingdom.”

  Of course he is. Calvin always liked stories better than real life. His uncle hoped he’d grow out of it, but apparently he hasn’t.

  “Apparently not,” I agreed, laughing. “He showed up at the meeting tonight tricked out like Henry the Eighth, with a tumbling jester and two heralds in tow. You should have seen Peggy’s face when the heralds blew their trumpets.”

  A moment to treasure.

  “I’ll never forget it. I doubt if Peggy will ever call for ‘other business’ again.” I couldn’t stop smiling as I recounted the evening’s events, adding hand flourishes where appropriate, and concluding with, “I think the fair is going to be a kind of medieval theme park.”

  I’d love to see a medieval roller coaster. I wouldn’t want to ride one, necessarily, but I’d love to see one.

  “I don’t think there will be any rides,” I told her. “Just interesting performers, interesting food, interesting things to buy . . .”

  You make it all sound very . . . interesting.

  “I know,” I said, nodding cheerfully. “Isn’t it wonderful? Will and Rob will be over the moon when they hear about the jousting. You know how horse-crazy they are, and they love everything to do with knights. I’m going to make costumes for them, Dimity. Did I tell you that Calvin invited everyone to come in costume?”

  You did. Several times.

  “I’ll make page costumes for the twins.” I gazed dreamily into the fire for a moment, then frowned and looked inquiringly at the journal. “Pages were the little boys who helped knights prepare for combat, weren’t they? Or am I thinking of squires?”

  I believe squires were older boys. Rob and Will will make adorable pages. They’ll be believable, too, because they really do know how to groom and tack up horses. Are you going to make a costume for Bill as well?

  “I doubt it.” My smile faded slightly. “Bill’s not a costume sort of guy. I can’t picture him pulling on a pair of tights, which is a pity, because he has great legs.”

  Perhaps he could be a friar.

  “Like Friar Tuck?” I said, brightening.

  Like a tall, well-built Friar Tuck. He wouldn’t have to wear hose if he dressed as a friar, because the long robe would conceal his legs. If Bill dressed as a friar, you could dress as a nun.

  “A nun?” I said blankly.

  Nuns were all the rage in medieval England, Lori. They were often well-bred and highly intelligent women who exercised a great deal of power.

  “But they wore . . . habits . . . didn’t they?” I said, with a moue of distaste. “Dull, plain, boring habits. I was thinking of wearing something more colorful. Like a wimple. Do you happen to know what a wimple is?”

  Nuns wear wimples, Lori, but they’re rarely colorful. The kind of wimple you have in mind is probably a tall, thin, cone-shaped hat with a length of fluttery fabric attached at the point.

  “That’s what I had in mind,” I confirmed. “Calvin said that noblewomen wore wimples. I can see myself as a noblewoman, can’t you?”

  Lady Lori? It has a certain ring to it.

  “A pirate maiden would be pretty cool, too,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to be a swashbuckler.”

  Pirate Lori has a definite ring to it.

  “Pirate Lori,” I murmured happily. “It’d be fun to brandish a saber and shout, ‘Avast, me hearties!’ ”

  I’d urge you to keep your saber safely in its sheath, unless you want to add the sport of ear-lopping to the fair’s roster of medieval activities.

  “Killjoy,” I retorted, putting my feet on the ottoman. “I’m not sure what I want to be, Dimity, but making up my mind will be half the fun. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be a noblewoman and a pirate and a gypsy.” I shivered with excitement. “I can�
�t wait for opening day!”

  It sounds as though you’re anticipating King Wilfred’s Faire with a great deal of pleasure, my dear.

  “Well,” I said reasonably, “it makes for a change, doesn’t it?”

  Is a change what you need right now?

  “I could do with one,” I replied, adding quickly, “but it’s not just me, Dimity. The villagers were electrified by Calvin’s announcement.

  The roof nearly came off of the schoolhouse after he left. If you ask me, everyone’s a little bored with the usual summer routine.”

  I sense, however, that you’re more than a little bored.

  I took my lower lip between my teeth and looked up at Reginald. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the many blessings in my life, but honesty was almost always the best policy with Aunt Dimity, so I told her the truth.

  “I’m glad that something new is going to happen in Finch this summer,” I said. “Something unfamiliar. Something that wasn’t planned by Peggy Taxman. I haven’t had anything new and exciting to look forward to since Annelise got married.”

  Annelise got married nine days ago, Lori. You haven’t had enough time to become bored.

  “I’ve had eight years to become bored,” I countered. “Eight summers, anyway.”

  You’ve had seven summers, to be precise. You spent last summer in Colorado.

  “So I did,” I conceded. “And I had a grand time. I didn’t miss polishing the tea urns or changing the trash bin liners one bit.”

  I thought you cherished tradition.

  “I do, but you can have too much of a good thing.” I groaned impatiently. “Nothing ever changes in Finch. I’ve heard the same people talk about the same things for nearly a decade. It’s like being on a conversational treadmill.”

  May I remind you that another wedding will take place in September? You once described it as the fairy-tale wedding of the century. You can’t tell me that you’re not looking forward to Kit and Nell’s wedding.