Aunt Dimity and the Heart of Gold Read online

  “Very well.” Tilly clasped her hands together like a schoolmarm reciting the times table and went on with a confidence she hadn’t shown in the great hall. “When Henry VIII parted ways with the Roman Catholic Church, he established the Church of England as a state religion with the monarch as its head. Those who remained faithful to Roman Catholic beliefs and practices were regarded as traitors, because they pledged their allegiance to the pope rather than to the English monarch.”

  “Did Queen Elizabeth—the first one—regard them as traitors, too?” Emma asked.

  “I’m afraid she did,” said Tilly. “She enforced her father’s anti-Catholic laws and added some of her own. For instance, she made attendance at Church of England services compulsory. Those who refused to attend were punished.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “Roman Catholics were not allowed to inherit or to purchase land,” said Tilly, “and the land they already owned could be confiscated by the Crown. They couldn’t hold public office or serve in the military or receive degrees from the universities in Oxford and Cambridge. In far too many cases, they were imprisoned, tortured, and put to death. Take the case of Margaret Clitherow, for example.”

  “Who is Margaret Clitherow?” Emma asked.

  “Margaret Clitherow was a butcher’s wife in York,” said Tilly. “She was raised in the Protestant religion, but she converted to Roman Catholicism in 1574. She was later arrested for the crime of harboring fugitive priests in her home. Since it was a capital offense to harbor Roman Catholic priests, she was crushed to death on Lady Day 1586.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask,” I said, “but what does it mean to be crushed to death?”

  “Margaret Clitherow was stripped down to her shift,” Tilly replied, blushing faintly and averting her eyes from the men in the room. “She was forced to lie on her back with a sharp rock positioned beneath her spine. A door from her own house was then placed on top of her. Heavy weights were piled upon the door until the sharp rock broke her spine. She died within fifteen minutes, but her mangled body was left beneath the weighted door for a full six hours.”

  “It’s barbaric,” said Emma, looking queasy.

  “When Queen Elizabeth was informed of the execution, she, too, was horrified by its barbarity,” said Tilly, “but her anti-Catholic laws made it possible.”

  “I’ll never call her Good Queen Bess again,” Charles said, clucking his tongue in disgust.

  “She was good in many ways,” Tilly said hastily, “but she was also at war with Spain, a Roman Catholic country closely allied with the pope. The Spanish were determined to restore the Roman Catholic Church in England and to replace Elizabeth with a Roman Catholic monarch. In concert with the pope, they created a network of spies—and it must be admitted that many of them were priests—to undermine her sovereignty. Elizabeth couldn’t afford to show mercy to those who aided and abetted the enemy in a time of war. She passed stringent anti-Catholic laws for secular as well as for spiritual reasons.”

  “They must have been repealed at some point,” I said.

  “Anti-Catholic penal laws remained on the books in England until 1829,” Tilly said, “though the most extreme punishments were no longer enforced by then.”

  “Thank goodness for small blessings,” Emma muttered. She cast a haunted look around the peculiar room. “And thank you, Tilly. I think I understand why the chapel is . . . understated.”

  “It was inadvisable to advertise one’s allegiance to the church of Rome during the Tudor period in England,” said Tilly. “If Roman Catholic families wished to avoid persecution, they practiced their faith privately in rooms that could not readily be identified as places of worship.” She pointed to the ceiling. “The sanctuary lamp could be removed in a trice.” She pointed at the worn spots on the floor. “The altar could be pushed against the wall.” She pointed at a sconce. “The only permanent symbols of the Roman Catholic faith were cleverly disguised as the stems of Tudor roses.”

  Charles turned to Emma. “You have your answer, Emma. The peculiar room was a clandestine Roman Catholic chapel.”

  “The Mandevilles must have been Roman Catholics,” said Emma, “because the Anscombes were staunch Anglicans.”

  “May I ask who the Mandevilles and the Anscombes are?” Tilly inquired.

  “The Mandevilles built this part of the manor house,” Emma explained, “and the Anscombes lived in the manor after them.”

  “‘Mandeville’ is a Norman name,” Tilly said reflectively. “Many of the old Norman families refused to renounce their faith. The Crown could have appropriated the manor house from the Mandevilles and awarded it to the Ansc—” She broke off and quickly covered her mouth as a yawn overtook her.

  “Enough,” Mr. Barlow declared. “You can save the rest of your questions for the morning. Miss Trout needs her sleep. Show her to her room, will you, Emma?”

  Since Tilly’s yawn had triggered a general outbreak of yawns, no one argued with Mr. Barlow. We thanked Tilly and bade her good night as Emma escorted her from the chapel, but we said little else as we made our way to our respective bedrooms. It was half past two in the morning and we were all ready to turn in.

  My baby girl needed a diaper change, but she barely woke for it. I blessed her sleepy little head as I donned a borrowed nightgown and crawled into bed beside Bill.

  “A Christmas party we won’t soon forget,” he remarked.

  “Not in a month of Sundays,” I agreed. “How does it feel to be a hero?”

  “Sleepy,” Bill replied.

  “I wonder if Tilly Trout is a historian,” I said.

  “Could be,” said Bill, snuggling into his pillow.

  “Can you believe what happened to Bree?” I said. “I never thought Jack would break up with her.”

  “Neither did she,” Bill said drowsily.

  “I hope she’ll be okay,” I said. “Do you think she’ll be okay?”

  “Yep,” Bill murmured.

  “A broken engagement, a car crash, a mysterious stranger, and a secret chapel . . .” A snort of laughter escaped me. “The Handmaidens will spit tacks when they find out what they missed.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Bill mumbled.

  Grinning into the darkness, I rolled onto my side and slid gently into a deep, dreamless sleep. Had I known where the evening’s events would lead, I would have lain awake until dawn.

  Seven

  Since Bess rose with the larks on Sunday morning, Bill and I rose with them, too, but we were layabouts compared with our fellow house guests. We arrived in the bacon-scented kitchen to find Emma loading the dishwasher on her own, but only because everyone else was out and about, not only awake but active.

  “Kit, Nell, Cassie, and your sons are in the stables,” she informed us. “Derek, Peter, Mr. Barlow, and Bree are spreading a mixture of sand and straw on the lane. Charles and Grant are restoring order to the great hall, bless them, and Tilly’s in the chapel with Lilian and the vicar.” She smiled wryly. “I’m not used to having a clandestine chapel on the premises. I still think of it as a storage room.”

  “Was Lilian furious with us for not waking her last night?” I asked.

  “Quite the opposite,” Emma replied. “She claims she would have been furious if we’d dragged her out of bed.”

  “Good call,” I acknowledged.

  To judge by the number of egg-stained dishes Emma was handling, many breakfasts had already been eaten. I passed Bess to Bill and stepped up to the stove to make ours. Bess immediately squirmed out of her father’s arms to conduct a thorough examination of the kitchen’s lower reaches. Bill shadowed her to keep her from ransacking the cabinets.

  “Who should we thank for bringing the high chair to the kitchen?” he asked.

  “Derek,” Emma answered. “He loves having a little one in the house. He’s wanted to be a grandfather ever since he
became a father.”

  “Granddad Derek,” I said. “It has a nice ring to it. How’s Tilly doing?”

  “As far as I can tell, she’s fine,” said Emma. “Unfortunately, her car isn’t.”

  “Can Mr. Barlow repair it?” Bill asked.

  “He thinks so, but it may take a while.” Emma hit the switch on the dishwasher and seated herself at the table with a groan that suggested she’d been on her feet for too long. “I invited Tilly to stay with us until her car is ready, but she’s dithering.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Would she rather spend Christmas by herself in a hotel in Tewkesbury?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Emma, “but she’s reluctant to be a burden—her word, not mine.”

  “Tell her you owe her a month’s room and board for identifying the chapel,” Bill suggested.

  “Great idea,” said Emma. “I’ll try it. I’m going to invite Bree to stay with us, too.”

  “I was going to invite her to stay with us,” I protested.

  “There may be a bidding war,” Lilian warned as she, the vicar, Tilly, Grant, and Charles entered the kitchen. “None of us like the thought of leaving the poor girl alone in that big house of hers at Christmastime.”

  “It’s unthinkable,” said the vicar. “She can have her choice of guest rooms at the vicarage.”

  “We may have only one guest room,” said Charles, “but it’s beautifully decorated.”

  “See what I mean?” said Lilian. “A bidding war.”

  “Pop Bess in her chair, Bill,” I said. “Our breakfast is ready.”

  “Is there any more tea in the pot?” Grant inquired.

  “I could do with another slice of toast,” said Charles.

  “I could do with another breakfast,” Peter declared.

  Peter’s sentiment was echoed by the rest of the stable crew as they streamed into the kitchen, and by the road crew, who followed close upon their heels. Rob and Will looked none the worse for wear after their night in the hayloft. Like the others, they were rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed, and, evidently, famished. Emma, by contrast, looked as though she wanted nothing more than to go back to bed.

  Charles must have noticed her expression, because he planted his hands on her shoulders, saying, “Do not stir, good lady. We will shift for ourselves.”

  And shift they did, setting the table, raiding the refrigerator, and falling upon the leftover leftovers like a pack of ravenous wolves. Tilly, Lilian, and the vicar were more decorous, but they, too, filled their plates while Bill, Bess, and I continued to work our way through modest portions of scrambled eggs and thick slices of buttered toast. I’d felt that a light meal was in order after the previous evening’s indulgences, but mine was clearly a minority opinion.

  “Have you been introduced to everyone, Tilly?” the vicar asked.

  “Not quite,” she replied, turning to look at Bill and me.

  “I’m Lori Shepherd,” I said.

  “I’m Lori’s husband, Bill Willis,” said Bill. “The twins are our sons, Will and Rob, and the little girl with egg on her face is our daughter, Bess.”

  “I Bess,” said Bess through a mouthful of toast.

  “You’re adorable, Bess,” said Tilly. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  Tilly was more neatly attired than those of us who hadn’t had the foresight to bring a change of clothes with us to the party. She was, however, dressed as somberly as she had been when she’d arrived at Anscombe Manor, though the jet brooch pinned to her black cardigan was scarcely visible.

  I cocked my head toward the brooch and shot an inquiring look across the table at Lilian. She indicated with a minute shrug that she’d been unable to discover whether our new acquaintance was in mourning or whether she was merely partial to Victorian jewelry.

  While Lilian and I conducted our mute dialogue, my husband interrogated Derek about the road conditions.

  “Is the lane still frozen?” he asked.

  “It’s slick,” Derek allowed, “but we’ve made it navigable. If you take it easy, you’ll be able to drive home without—” He broke off and glanced apologetically at Tilly, who finished the sentence for him.

  “Without ending up in a ditch,” she said, blushing furiously. “So stupid of me.”

  “Nothing stupid about it,” said Mr. Barlow. “It’s tricky to drive on ice.”

  “Just ask Lori,” Bill put in.

  “I slid into a ditch once, a long time ago,” I said, kicking him under the table. “It’s the sort of thing that could happen to anyone.”

  “The ice should be gone by noon in any case,” Emma interjected. “According to the weather report, a warm-up is on the way.”

  “Ice or no ice,” said Mr. Barlow, “you won’t be going anywhere soon, Miss Trout. Derek towed your car to my workshop and I took a closer look at it. You were right about the struts—they’re busted. Fact is, they were hanging on by the turn of a screw. It’s just as well they broke when they did. At speed . . .” He shook his head. “Would’ve been catastrophic.”

  “But it wasn’t,” I said quickly as the color drained from Tilly’s face. “You’re safe and sound, Tilly.”

  “It seems as if I’m lucky, too,” she said faintly.

  “You are,” said Mr. Barlow. “Old cars need proper maintenance, Miss Trout, but don’t worry. Bree and I will make sure your vehicle is up to snuff before you get behind the wheel again.”

  “Are you a mechanic, Bree?” Tilly asked.

  “Bree’s my apprentice,” Mr. Barlow said proudly. “Don’t know what I’d do without her.”

  Bree, who hadn’t spoken since she’d entered the kitchen, glanced gratefully at Mr. Barlow, then continued to stare bleakly at the untouched food on her plate.

  “How wonderful,” said Tilly. “I envy you, Bree.”

  “Do you?” Bree said wanly. “I don’t know why you would.”

  Though it was clear to me that Bree was thinking of her unenviable position as a jilted fiancée, it evidently wasn’t clear to Tilly.

  “I envy you because you have so many avenues open to you,” Tilly explained. “Women worked as motor mechanics during the war, of course, but they lost their jobs as soon as the men came home. When I was a girl, I wasn’t given the option of learning how to repair cars. You’re fortunate to be able to do as you please.”

  “I suppose so,” said Bree, and while she didn’t seize her fork and begin to shovel reheated potatoes into her mouth, she sat up a bit straighter and nibbled on a sliver of cold turkey.

  I longed to give Tilly a pat on the back for reminding Bree that there was more to life than marriage, but I didn’t want to startle her, so I restrained myself. Meanwhile, Derek took the conversation in a completely different direction.

  “Well?” he said, looking from Lilian to the vicar. “What do you think of our chapel?”

  “I think it’s a treasure,” said Lilian. “At the same time, I can’t help seeing it as a sad reminder of England’s long history of religious intolerance.”

  “It’s both a treasure and a sad reminder,” said the vicar, “but I doubt that it’s unique. There must be other disguised chapels in other English homes waiting for a keen-eyed scholar to recognize them.”

  Tilly didn’t seem to realize that he’d paid her an oblique compliment, but she proved that she deserved it by contributing to the discussion with the enthusiasm of a keen-eyed scholar.

  “Some are quite easily identified,” she said. “The Bar Convent chapel in York has a neoclassical domed sanctuary, a nave with three bays, a north and south transept, and a Lady Chapel. It’s quite large and it’s unmistakably Roman Catholic, yet it was kept hidden from unfriendly eyes for more than a hundred years.”

  “Fascinating,” I said. “Are you a historian?”

  Tilly shook her head, saying modestly, “I would n
ever lay claim to such an exalted title.”

  “Are you a librarian?” asked Grant.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Tilly.

  “You know a lot about York,” Charles pointed out. “Did you live there before you moved to Oxford?”

  “I-I’ve always lived in Oxford,” Tilly stammered, sounding flustered. “I’ve never even visited York.”

  “Then why—” I began, but Mr. Barlow cut me off.

  “Let her alone, will you?” he scolded. “I know what a nosy lot you are, but she doesn’t. It’s too early in the day to be poking and prying into her personal life.”

  “Sorry, Tilly,” I said.

  “Sorry,” said Grant.

  “Apologies,” said Charles.

  “Not at all,” Tilly murmured, her gaze fixed on her teacup.

  Bill ended the awkward pause that followed by asking, “Will you hold the morning service in the chapel, Vicar?”

  “I will not,” the vicar stated firmly. “It would be highly disrespectful to hold an Anglican service in a Roman Catholic chapel. If no one objects, we can hold the service here, in the kitchen. Our Lord won’t mind.”

  “For where two or three are gathered together in my name,” Lilian recited, “I am in the midst of them.”

  “Matthew,” Tilly said half to herself, “chapter eighteen, verse twenty.”

  “Quite right,” said the vicar. “We’ll finish eating first, of course.”

  After the table was cleared, the vicar said a heartfelt and quite lengthy prayer of thanksgiving for, among many other things, family, friends, food, drink, the queen, the queen’s family, and the safe deliverance of Miss Matilda Trout. Tilly blinked confusedly when the vicar mentioned her by name, but by the time he gave the final blessing, she’d regained her composure.

  After the blessing, Lilian slipped her arm into her husband’s, saying, “Let us now give Emma and Derek a chance to recover from the rigors of their delightful Christmas party.”