Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity Digs In

No sign of life.

“Francesca?” I called, flying back downstairs. “Emma?”

No answer.

I ran into the kitchen only to be waylaid by a cloud of delectable aromas emanating from a stockpot that had been left simmering on the stove. I crept over to lift the lid and stood inhaling the heady fragrance of garlic, onions, herbs, and fresh tomatoes until, faint above the sauce’s bubbling, I caught the sound of Rob’s raspy laughter.

The sound was coming from the back garden. I dropped the lid onto the pot, flew through the solarium to the back door, and was brought up short once again.

Francesca and Emma were sitting in two wicker armchairs in the shade of the apple tree. Emma had pulled her gray-blond hair back into a single thick braid that hung past her waist, and placed her black velvet riding helmet on the stone bench. She wore black riding boots and fawn breeches, but had dispensed with her fitted jacket in favor of a short-sleeved cotton top that was better suited to the heat of the day. She was cradling Will in her arms and feeding him with a bottle.

The sight of Emma Harris playing nursemaid was enough to make my jaw drop. Emma had about as much maternal instinct as a frying pan. She’d stumbled into stepmotherhood by marrying a widower who had a son and daughter already in place. No one could deny that she’d made a go of it—her stepchildren adored her—but she was the first to admit that her success with Peter and Nell owed far more to their patient coaching than to her natural aptitude.

Yet there she sat, with my son in her arms, looking for all the world as though she knew what she was doing. Stranger still, Will seemed to think so, too.

He sucked industriously at his bottle, while his brother lay on a blanket at Francesca’s feet, kicking and grabbing at an array of circus animals that hung from strings tied to the apple tree’s lower branches. Each time he made contact, the elephants, monkeys, and zebras would bounce and sway and Rob would give a triumphant giggle.

I took in the homely scene and felt bereft, so superfluous and inconsequential that if Rob hadn’t caught sight of me and promptly let out a piteous wail, I might have beaten him to it.

“My poor little angel,” I crooned, scooping Rob up from the blanket and cuddling him to within an inch of his life. “I’m so sorry I was late.” The moment I spoke, Will pulled away from his bottle and set up a racket that sparked panic in Emma’s eyes. Francesca quickly motioned for me to take her place in the armchair, and deposited Will alongside Rob as soon as I was seated.

“Good grief,” said Emma, mopping her brow, “what was that all about? One minute they were fine and the next . . .” She handed the half-empty bottle to Francesca.

“ They’re letting Lori know they missed her, is all. You wait and see. They’ll settle down in two ticks.” Francesca tucked the bottle into the pocket of the apron she’d tied over her shirtdress. The apron, I noted in passing, was spotless.

Two ticks later, the boys had finished offloading their grievances and were competing to see who could wriggle out of my arms first. Francesca returned Rob to the blanket, where he resumed his game with the dangling circus animals, while I took up the task of feeding Will.

“Sorry I’m late,” I told Francesca.

“No trouble,” she said. “I spotted the bottles you’d left in the fridge—”

“Did you use the right ones?” I asked anxiously.

“Would the ones labeled My Milk be the right ones?” Francesca asked.

I blushed. “Yes, well . . . Bill sort of mixed them up a few weeks ago and—”

“Stop!” Emma clapped her hands over her ears and shuddered. “Remind me to thank Derek for presenting me with two children who were already weaned and potty-trained.”

Francesca smiled. “Rob’s finished his supper,” she informed me, “so I’ll pop inside and get on with ours. I hope you don’t mind, but I used the tomatoes and such Mrs. Harris brought over from her garden. I’ll manage better once I’ve learnt the trick of opening the kitchen cupboards.”

“I don’t mind at all,” I assured her, and as Francesca went back into the cottage, I made a mental note to take a screwdriver to the cupboards’ safety catches first thing in the morning. If my new nanny could whip up a sauce like that from a bag of miscellaneous veg, there was no telling what she might do with a fully stocked kitchen at her fingertips.

“Thanks for the fresh produce,” I said, turning to Emma.

“I can’t guarantee the quality. This drought is wreaking havoc on my garden. I shudder to think what the farmers are going through.” She leaned forward to straighten Rob’s blanket. “When did you decide to hire live-in help?”

“I didn’t,” I told her. “I’m the victim of a conspiracy.” I gave Emma a quick rundown of my action-packed day, then sat back with Will and waited patiently while she laughed herself hoarse. “Go ahead, yuck it up,” I said darkly.

“Sorry,” Emma said, wiping her eyes. “But wait till you see this. ” Chuckles continued to percolate from her as she reached over to her riding helmet and pulled a familiar-looking sheet of harvest-gold paper out from under it. “I found it in my mailbox this afternoon. It’s the reason I came over in the first place.” She cleared her throat and declaimed, with appropriate emphasis:

S!O!F!

Save Our Finch!!!

Do you want YOUR village ruled by OUTSIDERS?

Do you want STRANGERS knocking down YOUR door?

Stop them NOW!!

PETITION the BISHOP to STOP the INVASION!!

Signers welcome, night and day,

at Kitchen’s Emporium.

But if any provide not for his own,

and specially for those of his own house,

he hath denied the faith,

and is worse than an infidel.

—I Timothy 5:8

“ Take that, Vicar!” Emma peeked at me over the flyer and came perilously close to losing her tenuous grip on sobriety. She was saved by the sound of two hands clapping.

“Bravo,” called Bill. My husband had come up the side path and stood at the rear corner of the cottage, grinning broadly as he applauded Emma’s performance. He’d exchanged his workaday suit and tie for sneakers, shorts, and an old Harvard sweatshirt. Thanks to the bicycle, his legs were shaping up nicely, his face was ruddy with good health, and he was beginning to lose the broker’s bulge he’d brought with him from Boston. Some men went to seed under the burden of fatherhood, but my Bill was blossoming. “No need to ask who composed that call to arms. Will your name be on the petition, Emma?”

“Absolutely not,” she declared. “After what Lori’s told me, I’m going to stay as far away from Peggy’s shop as possible. Are you going to sign the petition, Lori?”

“I have to,” I replied gloomily, “or Peggy’ll be out here with a bullhorn. I can’t wait until she moves to Little Stubbing.”

“I pity the poor people of Little Stubbing. They don’t know what’s about to hit them.” Emma reached for her riding helmet and got to her feet. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. My computer skills are, as always, at your service.”

“What’s all this about Little Stubbing?” Bill asked as he bent to examine Rob’s bouncing menagerie.

“I’ll tell you after dinner.” Will had long since finished his afternoon meal, so I handed him to his father and buttoned my blouse. “You’re home early. Rainey wore you out, did she?” I expected a bantering reply, but Bill answered seriously.

“ To tell you the truth, I feel sorry for her,” he said. “She doesn’t have anyone her own age to play with.”