Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Christmas

“We’re sorry to be so long in coming,” Ruth began, as I ushered them into the hallway. “Dear sweet Nell was kind enough to transport us…”

“…in her sleigh,” Louise continued. The Pyms’ alternating speech pattern was as distinctive as their antiquated clothing. “Our motor, as you know, requires a great deal of coaxing…”

“…to start in such weather,” Ruth went on. Since the Pyms’ “motor” had been built shortly after the horse-and-buggy era, it was a miracle that it started in any weather.

“Otherwise, we would have been here much sooner. Except that the snow might have…”

“…impeded our progress,” explained Louise. “The lane is blocked from here to Finch, and Mr. Barlow hasn’t yet plowed.”

I felt a familiar sense of confusion settle over me as I took their coats and helped them step out of their boots. I had no idea why the Pyms were apologizing for their late arrival, since I’d never expected them in the first place.

“Did we have plans for this morning?” I asked.

“We certainly did,” said Ruth. “Louise and I are woefully behind in our crochet work, and unless we get started soon…”

“…we shall not be able to deliver our Christmas presents on time,” said Louise worriedly. “However, such plans are of no consequence when compared with the urgent business at hand.”

“Right,” I said, knowing that all would be made clear eventually. “Please, come in. Bill? Will you see to our guests?”

While my husband looked after the Pyms, I went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. I’d just carried the tea tray into the living room when Nell knocked at the front door. I placed the tray on the coffee table and hastened to let her in.

Nell Harris swept into the cottage with Bertie in the crook of her arm. Bertie looked like a fuzzy elf in his forest-green sweater and red-and-green-striped scarf, but Nell looked like a snow queen. Her hooded velvet cloak was nearly as blue as her eyes, and her golden curls gleamed like a crown in the bright morning light.

“Please, tell us he isn’t dead,” she said, her voice quivering with emotion.

“Who?” I asked.

“Reginald,” she replied, as if the answer were self-evident. “Bertie’s been frantic ever since he saw the rescue helicopter flying toward the cottage. Has an accident befallen Reginald?”

Nell’s myriad eccentricities had long since ceased to amaze me. If she wanted to believe that her teddy bear was worried sick about my pink flannel rabbit, who was I to criticize? I was simply thankful that she hadn’t dyed her golden hair black or defiled her fair skin with tattoos.

“Reginald’s fine,” I said, taking her cape, “apart from a little baby drool in the ear.”

“Thank heavens,” Nell said fervently. She paused, then asked in a puzzled voice, “Are Ruth and Louise right, then? Did you really call out the RAF to rescue a tramp?”

I stared at her. “How did Ruth and Louise know about him?”

Nell shrugged. “I have no idea. They flagged me down as I was riding past their house and asked me to take them here directly, because they were worried about a tramp. Did you really call out the RAF—”

“Yes, Nell,” I said. “In fact, William called out the RAF to rescue a tramp. Is that so hard to believe?”

Nell’s blue eyes became thoughtful. “I suppose not. I’ve just never heard of anyone doing it before.”

“Come on,” I said. “I want to find out what the Pyms know about my uninvited guest.”

Nell exchanged greetings with Bill and Willis, Sr., and bestowed a kiss apiece on Rob and Will, neatly dodging Will’s attempts to grab a handful of enticing golden curls. She coaxed Rob into trading Reginald for a purple plush dinosaur and placed my pink rabbit on the window seat with Bertie before perching on an ottoman beside Willis, Sr.’s chair.

I sat on the couch, bracketed by the Pyms, and began to serve the tea, wondering how long it would take the loquacious sisters to come to the point of their visit. They surprised me by coming to it at once.

“We knew the moment we heard the helicopter that something terrible had happened,” said Ruth. “Such a pity. If only the poor gentleman…”

“…had come into our house, as we asked him to.” Louise shook her head sadly. “But he wouldn’t stop.”

I looked from one sister to the other. “Did you speak with the tramp last night?”

“We heard him coughing on the bridle path,” Ruth replied, “a terrible, racking cough. Louise called to him, and I offered him hot soup…”

“…but he wouldn’t stop.” Louise’s bright bird’s eyes widened as she added, “It was rather eerie, to be honest. He reminded us so strongly…”

“…of poor Robert Anscombe, who died so long ago,” said Ruth. “He lost an arm in the trenches in 1917, and his face was so sadly disfigured that he couldn’t bear to be with other people…”

“…so he always took the bridle path, to avoid being seen,” Louise finished.

I saw Nell nod. The Harrises had lived in Anscombe Manor for the past eight years. The house had been a wreck when they’d moved into it, and the grounds had been sorely neglected. The Anscombe family, once Finch’s local gentry, had faded from the scene some thirty years earlier. Now there was little to remember them by but a pair of effigies and assorted marble plaques in Saint George’sChurch.

“We urged him to come in out of the storm,” said Ruth, “but he said he would be stopping soon enough.”

“Where?” said Bill.

“At Dimity Westwood’s cottage,” said Louise.

Of course, I thought. If the tramp had come to the cottage to see anyone, it had to have been Dimity Westwood. The woman from whom I’d inherited the cottage had known a wide range of people during her lifetime, including those at the lowest end of the social scale.

Willis, Sr., shifted Will from his shoulder to his lap before stating the obvious. “The gentleman must be ignorant of the fact that Miss Westwood is dead.”

The sisters nodded in tandem.

“We tried to tell him,” Ruth said. “But he couldn’t hear us…”

“…over the wind,” said Louise, “and the coughing.”

“Did he say anything else about Dimity?” Bill asked.

“Nothing,” said Ruth. “He simply waved…”

“…and went on his way,” said Louise. “We’ve been terribly concerned about him. How is the poor gentleman?”

Bill caught my eye and jutted his chin toward the hallway. While he launched into a detailed description of the morning’s activities, I excused myself and headed for the study. It was clear that my husband wanted me to speak with Aunt Dimity.

3

Dimity Westwood was not, in an official sense, my aunt. Nor was she, technically speaking, alive. The former was far easier to explain than the latter.

Dimity Westwood had been my late mother’s closest friend. They’d met in London during the Second World War and maintained a steady correspondence long after the war was over. I grew up hearing about Aunt Dimity, but only as a fictional character in a series of bedtime stories. I didn’t learn about the real Dimity Westwood until after her death, when she bequeathed to me a considerable fortune, a honey-colored cottage in the Cotswolds, and a blue leather-bound journal with blank pages, which I kept on a shelf in the study.

It was through the blue journal that I came to know my benefactress. Dimity Westwood was not the sort of person who’d let a little thing like death interrupt the habits of a lifetime, so she continued her correspondence long after her mortal remains had dwindled into dust.

When I opened the blue journal, Aunt Dimity’s handwriting appeared, an elegant copperplate taught in the village school at a time when high-buttoned shoes were still in vogue. I had no idea how Dimity managed to bridge the gap between earth and eternity, and I kept the blue journal a closely held secret, but I cherished her presence in the cottage and hoped she would never leave.