Aunt Dimity Down Under Read online

  “I suggest that you pour Dick’s wine down the sink,” I said. “I’m sure he means well, but—”

  “It’s not for the faint of heart,” Kit put in.

  “Or the weak of stomach,” I added. I surveyed the villagers’ gifts in silence, then said, “It looks as though people are anticipating a prolonged siege. Are they being optimistic?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Kit ran a hand through his short, prematurely gray hair. “Dr. Finisterre says that his patients have proved him wrong too often for him make predictions.”

  “I didn’t see the doctor’s car out front,” I said. “Is he still here?”

  “No,” said Kit. “He showed Nell what to do, then went home. He’ll stop by again in the morning.” Kit cocked his head toward the hallway. “You’d better go up.”

  “I’ve never been upstairs before,” I confessed. “Which bedroom is theirs? ”

  “Turn left at the top of the stairs,” said Kit. “Their bedroom is the first one on the left.”

  “Thanks.” I started to leave the dining room, hesitated‚ and turned back. “Did they really ask for me, Kit?”

  “Several times,” he replied. “I don’t know what’s on their minds, but it definitely involves you.”

  “Maybe it’s something to do with the twins,” I said, frowning puzzledly.

  “There’s one way to find out,” said Kit with a meaningful look.

  “I’m going,” I said, and left him gazing at the gifts on the dining room table.

  Kit’s directions were unnecessary, as it turned out, because Nell was waiting for me at the top of the stairs.

  “I heard your voice,” she said.

  Nell looked more like a fairy princess than a nurse. She was tall and willowy, with golden hair that fell in soft ringlets around a face so exquisite that case-hardened men of the world tended to melt when they caught sight of it. She was dressed, like Kit, in blue jeans, an old pullover, and woolen socks, but she somehow managed to look regal no matter what she was wearing. I couldn’t detect the slightest trace of sorrow, regret, or fatigue in her. Her midnight-blue eyes were as serene as ever, and her manner was calm and entirely self-assured. Although Nell was only nineteen years old, she was, and always had been, more mature than I’d ever be.

  “I’m sorry about the wedding,” I said.

  “The wedding will keep,” said Nell. “Ruth and Louise won’t.”

  I looked down the darkened hallway. “How are they?”

  “They’re waiting for you,” she said. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me. Kit’s in desperate need of a cup of cocoa. He’s been a bit overwhelmed by well-wishers.” She bent to kiss me softly on the cheek, then floated down the stairs as gracefully as an autumn leaf.

  I took a steadying breath, walked to the first door on the left, and let myself in to the Pyms’ bedroom. The room was just as I’d imagined it would be—spacious, airy, and unmistakably feminine. The ceiling was white and the walls were covered with a pretty wallpaper patterned with pale blue ribbons and bunches of bright red poppies. A wood fire crackled in the tiled fireplace to my left, throwing bright reflections across the polished floorboards.

  To my right, a matching pair of white-painted iron beds sat on either side of an oval night table that held two rose-shaded lamps and a pair of well-thumbed Bibles. The bedclothes on each bed were identical, from the crocheted coverlets layered atop the white duvets to the ruffled bed skirts and the lace-edged pillowcases. A splendidly carved oak wardrobe filled the wall next to the doorway, and two white-painted dressing tables sat side by side between a pair of tall windows that overlooked the front garden. The dressing tables held matching silver-backed brushes, yellowing ivory combs, hand-painted porcelain boxes, and delicate bottles filled with the lavender water the sisters made every summer.

  The only discordant notes in the room were struck by the medical paraphernalia Dr. Finisterre had left behind. An oxygen tank sat beside each bed, and a card table placed discreetly in a dim corner held medicine bottles, a blood-pressure cuff, and a thermometer. I averted my eyes from the card table and turned to regard the Pyms.

  Ruth and Louise sat upright in their beds, propped against piled pillows. They weren’t wearing oxygen masks or tubes to help them breathe, so I assumed they weren’t in the final throes of their illness. Their long white hair had been loosed from the buns they usually wore and lay fanned across their pillows like bridal veils. They were clad in matching dove-gray bed jackets made of quilted silk and trimmed at neckline and cuff with ivory lace. Their blue-veined hands lay motionless atop the coverlets, but their bright bird’s eyes followed me closely as I crossed from the doorway to stand between their beds.

  As always, I found it impossible to tell the sisters apart until one of them spoke. Ruth invariably opened our conversations.

  “Lori,” she said in a weak and breathy voice, “how kind of you . . .”

  “. . . to visit us at such a late hour.” Louise’s voice was as faint as her sister’s. “We won’t . . .”

  “. . . keep you long,” Ruth continued. “Please . . .”

  “. . . make yourself comfortable,” Louise finished.

  My throat tightened when I realized how much I would miss the Pyms’ ping-pong manner of speaking, but I swallowed my emotions, drew a chair from one of the dressing tables, and took a seat between the beds.

  “Rumor has it that you had a funny turn,” I said.

  “It’s only to be expected,” said Ruth. “We’re not . . .”

  “. . . spring chickens,” said Louise. “I rather think we’re . . .”

  “. . . ready for plucking,” said Ruth with a wheezy chuckle.

  “I wouldn’t put it quite so bluntly,” I said, wincing.

  “Ah, but we would,” Louise pointed out. “There’s no need to feel . . .”

  “. . . sad about our parting, Lori,” Ruth went on. “To everything . . .”

  “. . . there is a season,” said Louise. “Our season has been rich and full . . .”

  “. . . and much longer than most,” said Ruth. “My sister and I are almost ready to shuffle off . . .”

  To Buffalo? I thought wildly. The plucked-chicken metaphor had thrown me for a loop.

  “. . . our mortal coils.” Louise completed the Shakespearean tag matter-of-factly. “Before we do so, however, we must . . .”

  “. . . set our affairs in order,” said Ruth. “We must . . .”

  “. . . tie up some loose ends,” said Louise. “Unfortunately, we’ve left it . . .”

  “. . . a bit late,” said Ruth. “We are no longer able to do . . .”

  “. . . what needs to be done,” said Louise.

  “We need your help,” they chorused.

  “I’m yours to command,” I said promptly. “Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

  The Pyms’ voices had been growing steadily weaker and their eyelids were beginning to flutter. I was afraid they would fade into sleep—or worse—without clarifying their request, but they roused themselves sufficiently to manage a few more sentences.

  “Aubrey,” Ruth said. “Please . . .”

  “ . . . find Aubrey,” said Louise. “Mother and Father will want to know . . .”

  “. . . what happened to him,” Ruth said.

  They raised their right hands simultaneously to point at the fireplace.

  “Speak to Fortescue,” Ruth whispered. “He’ll explain . . .”

  “. . . everything,” Louise concluded.

  As their hands fell onto the coverlets, identical furrows appeared on their identical brows.

  “Don’t worry,” I told them. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Their brows smoothed, their bright eyes closed, and much to my relief, their thin chests rose and fell in the regular rhythm of sleep.

  “Save your strength,” I murmured, looking from one gently wrinkled face to the other. “I’ll speak to Fortescue. And I’ll find Aubrey for you.”

  It was a s
omewhat hollow boast since I had no idea who Fortescue was and I’d never heard of Aubrey, but ignorance had never kept me from taking action. I returned the chair to the dressing table, then went to search the fireplace for clues that might tell me what to do next.

  I found one immediately. A business card sat on the mantelshelf, propped against a charming porcelain tabby cat. Printed on the card in a flowery but legible script were the words:

  Fortescue Makepeace, Solicitor

  Number Twelve, Fanshaw Crescent

  Upper Deeping

  (01632) 45561

  “The family solicitor? ” I murmured, pocketing the card. “I hope Mr. Makepeace knows who the heck Aubrey is.”

  Even as I spoke, I thought of someone else who might be able to fill me in on the mysterious Aubrey, but to test my hunch, I would have to return to the cottage.

  I tiptoed out of the bedroom and crept downstairs as noiselessly as I could. I found Kit and Nell sitting before the fire in the front parlor, sipping cups of hot cocoa. Nell’s flawless face was tranquil and Kit’s haggard expression had been replaced by one of pure contentment. I hated to intrude on the cozy scene, but I couldn’t leave without asking the obvious questions. I motioned for them to keep their seats as I stepped into the room.

  “Have the Pyms ever mentioned the name Aubrey to you? ” I asked.

  “No,” said Kit.

  “Never,” said Nell.

  “What about Fortescue Makepeace? ” I said.

  “He’s the family solicitor,” said Kit, confirming my guess. “He popped in for a chat with Ruth and Louise shortly after the doctor left.”

  “How are they?” asked Nell.

  “Sleeping,” I said. “Which is what I should be doing. Good night, you two. Take care of Ruth and Louise—and each other.”

  I left the nearly-weds to their vigil and drove away from the Pyms’ house, wishing I’d been a fly on the wall when the sisters had had their little chat with Fortescue Makepeace.

  Four

  The lights in the living room were still lit when I reached the cottage, and the fire was still crackling in the hearth. Bill and Willis, Sr., had waited up for me, though Willis, Sr., had exchanged his three-piece suit and immaculate leather shoes for neatly pressed pajamas, a paisley silk robe, and handmade Italian bedroom slippers. Stanley had apparently been keeping watch at the bay window for my return because he’d moved from Bill’s lap to the cushioned window seat, but he’d fallen asleep on duty, curled into a glossy black ball.

  While I warmed my hands at the fire, Bill made a cup of chamomile tea to warm the rest of me. I drank it gratefully as I told him and Willis, Sr., about my extraordinary evening at the Pyms’. They were impressed but not surprised by the villagers’ spirited response to the tragic situation.

  “Your neighbors have always rallied around one another in times of need,” said Willis, Sr. “I would have been shocked and dismayed if they’d neglected to do so under the present circumstances.”

  “Ditto,” said Bill. “I’m particularly glad to hear that Nell’s there to look after Ruth and Louise. Nell’s as capable as any nurse-for-hire and she’s always had a special relationship with the Pyms.”

  “The dear ladies are extremely fond of Eleanor,” Willis, Sr., concurred. He was the only person I knew who used Nell’s proper name. “I believe her presence will be highly beneficial to them, whatever the eventual outcome.”

  Neither Bill nor his father had ever heard of Fortescue Makepeace, and the name Aubrey meant nothing to them, but they urged me nonetheless to visit the family solicitor as soon as possible.

  “I shall take my grandsons to school tomorrow morning,” Willis, Sr., informed me, “and I shall retrieve them after school, leaving you free to confer with Mr. Makepeace.”

  “My docket’s pretty full, but I’ll do whatever I can to help,” Bill chimed in.

  “Wow,” I said, beaming at them. “The villagers may not have surprised you, but you’ve managed to astonish me.”

  “In what way? ” asked Willis, Sr.

  “I didn’t expect you to be so supportive,” I replied. “I thought you’d accuse me of making a promise I couldn’t keep and plunging headlong into yet another wild goose chase.”

  Bill shook his head. “You seem to forget that, as estate attorneys, Father and I have had rather a lot of experience with last wills and testaments.”

  “A deathbed wish is sacrosanct,” Willis, Sr., explained. “Whether you can fulfill it or not is irrelevant. The pursuit is all.”

  “You may succeed or you may fail,” Bill put in, “but you’re obliged to try. By the same token, we’re obliged to help you. Not that obligation matters in this case. We’ll do our best for the Pyms because”—he shrugged—“they’re family.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “Thanks, both of you. With Team Willis behind me, I can’t fail.”

  “And on that hopeful note,” said Bill, getting to his feet, “I will bid you good night. I have to be at the office by seven tomorrow for a conference call, so it’s time for me to hit the sack.”

  “I, too, shall retire,” said Willis, Sr., rising. “Will and Rob will expect a certain degree of energetic enthusiasm from me on the way to school, and I must not disappoint them.”

  “Coming, Lori?” said Bill.

  “I’ll be up in a bit,” I replied. “My brain is spinning too fast for sleep right now.”

  “Don’t let it overheat,” he said. “You’ll need to keep your wits about you when you meet with Fortescue Makepeace.”

  He bent to kiss the top of my head, then accompanied his father upstairs. Stanley promptly jumped down from the window seat and padded after them, determined, no doubt, to hop into bed with Bill and claim the warm spot behind Bill’s knees.

  I waited until silence reigned on the second floor, then made a beeline for the study, where I hoped to speak with the one person who might be able to calm my spinning brain. I’d kept mum about my little side trip because, although Willis, Sr., understood many things, I wasn’t convinced that he’d understand my relationship with Aunt Dimity.

  It was, to be sure, a fairly odd relationship. For one thing, Aunt Dimity wasn’t my aunt. For another, she wasn’t entirely alive. Since her body had been laid to rest in St. George’s graveyard before Bill and I had moved into the cottage, most people would, in fact, describe her as completely dead. But I wasn’t one of them.

  Dimity Westwood had been born and raised in England. She’d also 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 they’d maintained a steady correspondence long after the guns had fallen silent and my mother had sailed back to America.

  To call the pair pen pals would be to understate the depth of their friendship. Dimity’s letters had helped my mother to recover from my father’s early death and to face the subsequent challenges of full-time work and single parenthood. Their lifelong correspondence had provided my mother with an oasis of peace in her unexpectedly chaotic world.

  My mother was very protective of her oasis. When I was growing up, I knew Dimity Westwood only as Aunt Dimity, the redoubtable heroine of my favorite bedtime stories. I didn’t learn about the real Dimity Westwood until both she and my mother had joined the ranks of the dearly departed. It was then that Dimity had bequeathed to me a comfortable fortune, a honey-colored cottage in the Cotswolds, the letters she and my mother had exchanged, and a curious blue-leather-bound journal.

  It was through the blue journal that I finally came to know my benefactress. Whenever I spoke to its blank pages, Aunt Dimity’s handwriting would appear, an elegant copperplate taught in the village school at a time when a computer was a clever man who worked with numbers. I’d nearly fainted the first time Aunt Dimity had communed with me from beyond the grave, but I’d long since accepted her as an indispensable presence in my life. I considered myself thrice blessed to call the heroine of my childhood my friend.
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br />   The study was dark, but it wasn’t silent. A rising wind moaned in the chimney and made the dried strands of ivy rattle insistently against the many-paned window above the old oak desk. I crossed the book-lined room to light the mantelshelf lamps, then knelt to touch a match to the tinder in the hearth. When the wood caught fire, I straightened and looked toward a special niche in the bookcase beside the fireplace.

  The niche was occupied by a small rabbit with black button eyes and a pale pink flannel hide. His name was Reginald and he’d been my companion in adventure for as long as I could remember. I never entered the study without greeting him, but tonight’s greeting was a somber announcement rather than a cheery “Hello, Reg!”

  “The Pym sisters are sick,” I said, touching the faded grape juice stain on Reginald’s powder-pink snout. “They may not last the night, so I hope you won’t mind if I skip the small talk. I need to speak with Aunt Dimity.”

  Reginald’s eyes seemed to gleam solemnly in the firelight, as if he understood the gravity of the situation. I nodded to him, then pulled the blue journal from its shelf and sat in one of the tall leather armchairs facing the fireplace. Instead of opening the journal, however, I rested my hand on its smooth front cover and gazed at the leaping flames.

  Until that moment I hadn’t considered how difficult it would be to tell Aunt Dimity about the Pyms. The cottage she’d bequeathed to me had been the one in which she’d been born and raised. She’d known Ruth and Louise her entire life. Although she was intimately familiar with death, I wasn’t sure how she’d react when I told her that two of her oldest friends were about to join her in the great beyond.

  I looked up at Reginald, found strength in his kindly gaze, and opened the journal.

  “Dimity?” I said. “I’m afraid I have some sad news to tell you.”

  I blinked as Aunt Dimity’s elegant handwriting swept across the page in a blur of royal-blue ink.

  Does it concern Will, Rob, Bill, or William?

  “They’re fine,” I assured her hastily. “So am I and so is Stanley. But Ruth and Louise Pym aren’t.”