05 - Aunt Dimity's Christmas Read online

  Willis, Sr., had his coat in hand when we came bursting through the front door of the cottage. I gasped out an apology, which he accepted gracefully, but it wasn’t until he’d driven off in the Mercedes that I thought to ask if he’d had dinner.

  “I am the worst daughter-in-law who ever lived,” I said mournfully, watching the Mercedes’ taillights through the bow windows.

  “I wouldn’t say that.” Julian came up behind me and put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I’d say you’re good enough.”

  I sent Julian off with the rest of the angel cookies to share with the men at Saint Benedict’s. When he’d gone, it was playtime, bath time, and finally, bedtime for the twins.

  After clearing the kitchen, straightening the living room, and mopping up the bathroom, I was too worn out to even consider decorating the cottage. Instead, I carried Kit’s canvas carryall upstairs to the master bedroom, placing it on the blanket chest at the foot of the bed, where the boys were less likely to get at it. As I tucked the brown horse in beside the suede pouch, I wondered for the thousandth time what had brought Kit to a honey-colored cottage in the Cotswolds, in the midst of a winter storm.

  With an ear attuned to the telephone, and Miss Kingsley’s much-anticipated call, I tore the wrapping paper from the book Luke had loaned me, scanned the table of contents, and saw a chapter title that caught my interest: “The Birth of the Pathfinder Force.” Intrigued, I sat on the edge of the bed and started reading.

  Two hours later, I heard a sneeze and glanced up from my book to see Willis, Sr., standing in the doorway.

  “I have looked in on my grandsons,” he informed me, “and now I shall retire for the night.”

  “Let me get you a bite to eat,” I insisted, rising hastily from the bed.

  “I am not excessively hungry.” Willis, Sr., touched a linen handkerchief to his patrician nose. “Did you learn anything of value in Oxford today?”

  I needed no further encouragement to tell him everything I’d learned about the mysterious, charismatic man known as Kit Smith.

  I repeated the story to Bill three hours later, when he telephoned from Boston. Willis, Sr., had gone to bed and the boys were sleeping soundly in the nursery. I’d been lying on the bed in the master bedroom for some time, fully clothed and staring at the ceiling, when Bill called.

  “You’ve taken a surprising interest in this Kit Smith,” Bill observed, echoing Luke Boswell’s words.

  “Wouldn’t you?” I retorted. “He’s either a madman or a saint.”

  “You seem to be leaning toward the latter,” said Bill.

  “Someone has to,” I said. “Practically everyone else thinks he’s nuts.”

  There was a pause. Then Bill said carefully, “What if they’re right?”

  I stiffened and thought, Et tu, Bill? “They’re not,” I said shortly. “What time is your plane arriving tomorrow?”

  Bill cleared his throat. “To tell you the truth, that’s why I called….”

  I listened calmly while Bill explained why he wouldn’t be coming home on Friday. Hyram Collier’s widow, it seemed, needed help settling her late husband’s estate, and Bill felt duty-bound to offer his services. I gave my blessing to his extended stay. How could I object to him helping an old friend’s widow in her time of need?

  “I don’t care how long you’re away,” I told him, “as long as you’re home by Christmas Eve.”

  “I’ll be home long before then,” Bill promised.

  I hung up the phone, turned off the bedside lamp, and lay back against the pillows. I’d intended to speak with Aunt Dimity before turning in, but the long day had finally caught up with me. All I wanted was a hot bath, a flannel nightie, and sleep.

  Moonlight streamed into the bedroom, casting long-fingered shadows across the ceiling. The shadows bucked and quivered as a biting northeast wind shook the leafless trees beyond the windowpane. I trailed my fingers across Bill’s pillow, thought of Kit’s exquisite hands, then crawled to the foot of the bed to kneel before the canvas carryall.

  It seemed strangely alive in the trembling moonlight, like the crumpled body of a man struggling for breath. I touched a fingertip to a roughened seam, then slowly unzipped the zipper and slipped a hand inside. The suede pouch full of medals clinked softly as I pressed it to my lips.

  “Kit,” I whispered, “why did you come here?”

  11

  Both Willis, Sr., and I were in pensive moods at breakfast the following morning. When I asked how the rehearsal had gone, he gave a forlorn little sigh and set his toast aside, untasted.

  “It’s an amateur production,” I reminded him.

  “Of that there can be no doubt whatsoever,” he declared. “The shepherds can scarcely hobble across the stage, the three wise men are being played by women, the angel of the Lord must perch precariously atop an unstable stepladder, and as for Eleanor…” He clucked his tongue sadly.

  I paused with a last bite of toast halfway to my mouth. Willis, Sr., was usually full of praise for Nell Harris. I’d expected him to enjoy playing Joseph opposite her Mary. “What’s wrong with Nell?”

  “Some of her ideas will have to be revised,” said Willis, Sr. “I do realize that her character is supposed to be with child, but I cannot recall a single scriptural passage describing the Holy Virgin as suffering from morning sickness.”

  “Morning sickness?” I repeated.

  “Violent morning sickness,” Willis, Sr., said darkly. “Nor do I recall the Virgin toppling from her donkey in a dead faint. I was most surprised when Eleanor landed at my feet.”

  “I bet she was, too.” I popped the toast into my mouth and began clearing the table, taking care to step around the twins and over an assortment of pots and pans—their second-favorite toys—on my way to the sink.

  “Mrs. Bunting said nothing to me about catching a fainting virgin,” Willis, Sr., pointed out, “but then, Mrs. Bunting scarcely spoke all evening. She may be the play’s nominal director, but Mrs. Kitchen is clearly in command.” He pushed his omelet away, uneaten. “A most unfortunate turn of events, in my opinion.”

  “Did Peggy give you a hard time?” I asked, knowing full well that Peggy Kitchen was constitutionally incapable of doing anything else.

  “Mrs. Kitchen took issue with my American accent,” said Willis, Sr., indignantly. “When I ventured to point out that the play’s events took place nearly two thousand years ago in the Middle East and that all of our accents were therefore suspect, she told me in no uncertain terms that Joseph would speak the Queen’s English or none at all.”

  I winced. As a lawyer, my father-in-law took great pride in his elocutionary skills. Peggy Kitchen had hit him where it hurt. “What did Lilian say to that?”

  “Mrs. Bunting covered her face with her hands and retreated to the cloakroom,” said Willis, Sr., “where she remained for the duration of the evening. I must say that I was tempted to join her.”

  I surveyed his resigned expression and felt a pang of conscience. He’d done me a big favor by filling in for Bill. I had to think of a way to cheer him up.

  “Look,” I said, leaning back against the sink, “why don’t you and I corral the boys in the playpen and get to work decorating the cottage? It’ll take your mind off of Peggy Kitchen and be a nice surprise for Bill when he gets home.”

  Willis, Sr., shook his head. “It is an enticing suggestion, Lori, but I must confess that I do not feel up to it.” He touched his forehead with the back of his hand. “I seem to be unusually warm, in fact. I believe I may have caught the vicar’s cold.”

  It wasn’t until he spoke those words that I noticed his heightened color and a mild hoarseness in his mellow voice. Guilt stabbed me with a thousand sharpened blades. For the past three days I’d been so absorbed in Kit Smith that Willis, Sr., could have dropped dead at my feet without attracting my attention. It wasn’t good enough, not by a long shot, no matter what Julian said.

  I immediately ordered Willis, Sr., into his silk pa
jamas, tucked him up in the master bedroom, and brought tea to him on a tray. While he sipped languidly, I called Dr. Finisterre, the semiretired physician who ministered to the local population.

  The doctor arrived at the cottage a half hour later. I led him to the master bedroom, then paced the hallway, wringing my hands. My father-in-law had a heart condition. If his cold turned into pneumonia, he might end up in intensive care, like Kit, with IVs in his arms, and a bank of beeping monitors looming over him. And it would be my fault. By the time Dr. Finisterre emerged from the master bedroom, I was nearly in tears.

  “His heart?” I said anxiously.

  “Nothing to do with his heart,” the doctor said. “Your father-in-law has a head cold. It’s par for the course, this time of year. No need to call out the RAF.” He gave a rumbling chuckle as he descended the stairs. “I should keep him away from the twins for the time being. It’s for his benefit, not theirs. William needs rest.”

  I let out a sobbing sigh and covered my mouth with my hand.

  “Get hold of yourself, Lori,” Dr. Finisterre scolded. “No need to make such a fuss over a simple head cold.” He pulled on his black wool coat, placed his homburg on his head, and opened the front door. “Bed rest, fluids, and aspirin will do the trick. William’ll be right as rain in a few days.”

  I thanked the doctor fervently, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it, weak-kneed with relief. From now on, I vowed, Kit Smith would take a backseat to my family. As I went upstairs to check on Willis, Sr., however, one part of my mind was still attuned to the telephone and the sound of Miss Kingsley’s voice.

  I was in the kitchen the next day, laboring over a vat of homemade chicken soup and wondering why Miss Kingsley hadn’t called, when the March of the Widows began. I’d known that widows made up a large segment of Finch’s modest population, but I’d had no idea how large a segment until the eligible male in my master bedroom began sneezing. It was as if he’d issued a mating call.

  The cottage was besieged by a chattering mob of white-haired dears bearing bits of flannel (“to tuck about his poor weak chest”), bowls of blancmange (“so soothing to a scratchy throat”), embroidered sleeping caps, crocheted foot-warmers, and several months’ worth of casseroles. I felt as though I were holding a wake.

  A wake might have been in order had I fed my ailing swain the curious nostrums offered by his aged groupies. Bottles filled with glutinous brown liquids and jars of hideous gray jellies were offered with exact directions for their use. I baked another batch of angel cookies to give as thank-you’s to each amateur physician but flushed their malodorous concoctions down the toilet.

  The only home remedy I would countenance was the tea Emma Harris brought over from Anscombe Manor on Saturday afternoon. If Emma said that burdock-root tea would ease Willis, Sr.’s chest congestion, I believed her.

  I invited Emma to stay for a cup of non-medicinal tea, and after looking in on my patient and putting the boys down for their naps, I joined her in the living room, where she was surveying my raftered ceiling and oak mantelpiece with a puzzled frown.

  “Looks like the Christmas fairy’s passed you by,” she commented as she settled beside me on the couch. “What happened to all of the holly you gathered, and the evergreen boughs? Shouldn’t they be up by now?”

  “Yep,” I acknowledged, filling her cup. “Bill and I were on the verge of decorating when he was called away to attend a funeral in Boston. I thought I might tackle the job with William’s help, but then he caught his cold.”

  “So what have you been up to?” Emma raised her teacup to her lips and took a sip.

  “I’ve been lusting after a comatose stranger and a Roman Catholic priest,” I tossed off nonchalantly. “You?”

  Emma choked and sputtered, splashing tea down the front of her handknit heather-gray sweater. I quickly took the teacup from her hand and dabbed at her sweater with a calico napkin.

  “F-forget about the sweater,” Emma managed, waving off my ministrations. “T-tell me about the priest!”

  So I told her about Julian, about his self-doubt, dedication, and touching vulnerability, and I told her about Kit, who still lay unconscious in intensive care. By the time I finished, Emma’s sweater had dried and the tea had grown cold.

  “Now I understand what Peggy Kitchen was grumbling about.” Emma kicked off her shoes, curled her legs beneath her, and turned to face me. “When I went into the Emporium this morning she muttered something about you flooding the village with undesirables. I thought she was talking about your Christmas Eve party, but she must have meant Kit.” Emma giggled wickedly. “Too bad Julian doesn’t wear his collar. That would really give Peggy something to talk about.”

  “Papists and vagrants.” I clasped my hands over my heart. “My people. But seriously, Emma”—I put my feet on the coffee table and rested my head on the back of the couch—“I don’t know why I feel so strongly about these two men.”

  “Well, you’ve teamed up with Julian, haven’t you? Being part of a team can make you feel very close to someone. As far as Kit’s concerned…” Emma reached for Reginald, who’d somehow ended up between the sofa cushions. “I think you want to mother him. It’s only natural. After all, he’s even more helpless than your babies.”

  I pursed my lips, marveling at Emma’s ability to drain the passion from the most emotionally charged situations. “In other words,” I said dryly, “I’m seething with a combination of team spirit and maternal instinct?”

  “I wouldn’t rule out lust,” Emma temporized. “You do have a weak spot for wounded princes.” She gave me a sly, sidelong glance. “I’d better tell Bill to walk with a limp when he gets home.”

  “If he’s not home by Christmas Eve,” I growled, “I’ll give him a limp.”

  “See?” said Emma. “You’re still in love with your husband.” She propped Reginald on the arm of the couch and folded her arms. “I ran a search on a random sample of names from Kit’s scroll yesterday. Three of the men were killed in action, flying bombers over Germany. One was a POW. The rest survived the war without a scratch.”

  “The living and the dead,” I murmured pensively. “It’s not what I expected.”

  “Kit squeezed in about six hundred names per page,” Emma explained. “That’s over a hundred thousand names. The man at the Imperial War Museum put the total number of men who served with Bomber Command at one hundred twenty-five thousand. It looks as if Kit listed them all.”

  “I suppose the living need prayers as much as the dead,” I reasoned.

  “Maybe more so,” said Emma. “May I have a look at those medals Kit was carrying?”

  “Of course.” While I fetched the suede pouch from the master bedroom, Emma took a pen and notebook from her purse. When I returned, she made a complete inventory of the pouch’s contents, listing every badge, medal, ribbon, and bar.

  “What are you up to?” I asked.

  “It seems to me,” she said, tucking the notebook back into her purse, “that only a handful of men would have been so highly decorated during the war. If I put the list of medals out on the Internet, maybe someone will recognize it and tell us who they belong to. Assuming they all belong to one man.”

  “It’s worth a try,” I said. Emma started to get up, but I put a hand on her arm to restrain her. “Emma, my best and dearest friend,” I said, in my most wheedling tones, “would you please do another favor for me?”

  Emma eyed me suspiciously. “Depends on what it is.”

  “I promised William that I’d stand in for him at tonight’s rehearsal,” I informed her. “And I was hoping you’d be an absolute angel and babysit for me. It’ll just be for a couple of hours, and I’ll have the boys bathed and in their pajamas by the time you get here.”

  “You want me to look after the twins?” Emma gaped in disbelief. Emma’s stepchildren had come to her fully weaned and potty-trained. She claimed to have no discernible maternal instinct.

  “Either that or spend th
e evening in Finch with Peggy Kitchen,” I said, fluttering my eyelashes.

  “I’d love to look after the twins,” Emma declared. “If things get too desperate, Derek can always bail me out.”

  I heaved a sigh of relief and gave her a hug. Emma’s husband knew all there was to know about babies. With Derek as backup, Emma would have a peaceful, trouble-free evening.

  I somehow doubted that the same would hold true for me.

  12

  Finch sparkled like a cheap dime-store bracelet that evening. Each building on the square had been outlined in fairy lights, in imitation of the annual display at Harrods, and garish garlands had been wound around each tree. The pub’s plastic choirboys swayed drunkenly in the icy breeze and Sally Pyne’s Santa heads leered from the tearoom’s shadowy windows. The darkness softened the features of Peggy Kitchen’s mad-eyed, mechanical Father Christmas, however, and made him appear marginally less hostile.

  Every business on the square seemed to be closed for the evening, but the schoolhouse had come alive. Light shone from the gothic windows, and smoke rose from the narrow chimney. The succession of frigid days following the blizzard had left a glaze of ice across the schoolyard, but the show was going on regardless, thanks to a thick layer of sand spread across the treacherous surface by Mr. Barlow. The retired mechanic stood in the doorway admiring his handiwork, and Buster, his yappy terrier, barked a greeting as I approached.

  I bent to scratch Buster’s chin, then straightened and cocked an ear toward the sound of voices coming from within the schoolhouse. “I guess everyone’s shut up shop to come to the rehearsal, huh?”

  “You guess right,” Mr. Barlow answered, ushering me into the cloakroom. “Won’t be a business open in Finch from now until the ruddy thing’s done with.” He set his sand bucket on a wooden stool and closed the door behind us. “William feeling better, I hope? And how’s that chap you found in your driveway? Hasn’t packed it in, has he?”