Nancy Atherton: Aunt Dimity Digs In

“That’s why we’ve come,” said Ruth. “That’s why we’ve brought you . . .”

“. . . an extra pair of hands,” Louise went on. “Please allow us to introduce . . .”

“...our very dear friend...”

“. . . Francesca Angelica Sciaparelli.”

The dark-eyed woman straightened from the playpen, where she’d carefully deposited a gurgling Will. “How d’you do?” she said.

As if in answer, Rob threw up on my shoulder.

“Come, give him to me.” The woman crossed to where I stood, and held out her arms. “I’ll give him a wash while you get yourself a fresh blouse.”

I don’t know why I handed Rob over to her so readily. It may have been because I trusted the Pyms’ judgment. It may have been because of her willingness to take charge of a pukey, avocado-stained four-month-old, or because of my acute awareness of the aroma rising from what was already my second blouse of the day. But I think it was the smile in her eyes that did the trick, the understated gleam of understanding.

“It’ll save time if you call me Francesca,” she added in a soft, west-country burr that seemed at odds with her distinctly un-west-country name. “Sciaparelli is too much of a mouthful for every day.”

“I’m Lori,” I told her.

“I know.” Francesca turned slowly to survey the room. “I’ve always been fond of this place.”

“You’ve been here before?” I asked.

“Many times,” said Francesca. “Miss Westwood moved to London after the war, but she kept the cottage, as a kind of retreat. My father looked after it for her when she was away. Miss Westwood was always a good friend to my family.”

“She was a good friend to me, too,” I said.

“I’m sure she was.” Francesca closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Lilacs. Such a pretty scent. Lilacs were Miss Westwood’s favorite flower. Funny how scents can bring back memories. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Miss Westwood was somewhere about the place.”

“It’s because I haven’t changed anything,” I said quickly. “ The cottage is pretty much as Dimity left it—except for the mess.”

I steeled myself for the moment of separation, then told myself firmly not to be such a ninny. If Dimity had decided to lay down a lilac-scented welcome mat for Francesca Sciaparelli, I had nothing to worry about.

“I guess I’ll . . . I’ll be right back.” I kissed Rob’s foot and, for the first time since the twins had been born, climbed the stairs alone.

Panic assailed me the moment I reached the bedroom. I peeled off my soiled apron and blouse, flung them in the general direction of the hamper, and grabbed a fresh blouse from a pile in the closet. I was dashing out of the bedroom, still doing up my buttons, when a glance in the full-length mirror stopped me cold.

Who was that wretched wraith staring back at me?

Her short dark curls were dappled with dried avocado, her brown eyes smudged with bruises of fatigue, and although her blouse stretched tightly across unusually full breasts, her jeans hung from her hips as though she were a scarecrow. I stretched a hand out toward the mirror and realized, with a shudder, that I was staring at a sickly pale imitation of me.

“Good grief,” I murmured dazedly. “I’m in worse shape than the living room. Why hasn’t Bill—”

I left the foolish question hanging fire. Bill could’ve shot off flares and sent up fireworks and it wouldn’t have made any difference. For the past four months I’d put myself on hold for the twins’ sake, and no amount of nagging, pleading, or reasonable argument would have persuaded me to alter my priorities.

But things were different now. As Bill had said, the boys were fit as fleas. They’d not only caught up with their peers, they’d outpaced every growth chart Dr. Hawkings could produce. The boys’ doctor couldn’t explain it, but maybe Bill had hit the nail on the head: Maybe I had done a magnificent job.

I began to preen proudly in front of the mirror, but the reflected image was so pathetic that I wound up cringing. Maternal boot camp had definitely taken its toll.

“Ruth?” I called, moving toward the top of the stairs. “Louise? Will you be okay without me for a few more minutes?”

“Take your time,” Ruth warbled. “We’re getting along . . .”

“. . . famously.”

I hesitated, then turned and marched resolutely into the bathroom for a shower and shampoo. It was the height of luxury to wash my hair in the middle of the morning, even though I had to clear the tub of squeaky toys and sail-boats. I felt almost sinful as I changed into a completely fresh set of clothes and descended to the ground floor smelling of soap instead of baby.

I felt irredeemably sinful when I saw what had happened to the living room. Toys had been piled in one corner, stuffed animals in another, and the dangling yards of cotton batting had been folded into soft bumpers that fit each table snugly. The laundry basket, along with assorted booties, had been whisked out of sight, and my parenting magazines, standing in ranks beneath the window seat, no longer blocked the sunlight streaming through the diamond-paned bow window. Ruth and Louise stood over my sons, who were not only green-spot-less but contentedly blowing spit-bubbles in the playpen.

I tiptoed toward the kitchen, drawn by the sound of sloshing water, and stood in the doorway, blinking dazedly. Francesca was mopping the floor, having already removed the spattered evidence of the blender incident from the cabinet doors and countertops, and put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Overwhelmed by the sight of a gleaming floor and an empty sink, I leaned against the door frame and began to blubber.

“What’s all this, then?” Francesca said, setting the mop aside.

“It’s . . . just . . . so . . .” I covered my face with my hands and hiccupped helplessly.

“A breath of fresh air . . .”

“. . . will soon put you right, my dear.”

Ruth and Louise swept up the hall to take me by the elbows and steer me out into the back garden. Ruth used her cambric handkerchief to dust off the stone bench beneath the apple tree, and Louise handed her own embroidered hankie to me.

I blotted my tears as I sat down, bracketed by solicitous Pyms. “You must think I’m a terrible mother,” I sniffled.

“We think nothing of the sort,” Ruth declared. “You’re simply . . .”

“. . . a new mother,” said Louise. “And no amount of studying can possibly prepare a woman . . .”

“. . . for the demands of motherhood.” Ruth nodded. “We’ve seen it . . .”

“. . . all too often. Why, when Mrs. Farnham, the greengrocer’s wife, had her three delightful daughters . . .”

“. . . Mr. Farnham’s shop was at sixes and sevens for months!” Ruth smiled fondly at the memory. “Damsons with the onions, sultanas with the almonds . . .”

“. . . and cabbages everywhere!” Louise’s identical smile appeared. “It’s only to be expected. A truly good mother . . .”

“. . . always puts her children before her cabbages.”

I looked from one pair of bright eyes to the other. “Is that what I’ve done?”

“Of course it is!” Ruth exclaimed. “ That’s why we’ve brought Francesca to you. While you look after the boys . . .”

“. . . she’ll keep your cabbages in order.” Louise clasped her gloved hands together excitedly. “She cooks, cleans, sews . . .”

“. . . and she’s perfectly magical with children,” Ruth informed me.

“But who is she?” I asked. “Is she from Finch?”

“Francesca was born and raised on her father’s farm . . .”

“. . . not far from the village,” said Louise. “She lives there now with her eldest brother and his wife . . .”