Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Good Deed

I gazed in awe at Julia Louise’s portrait and wondered if I’d ever have any sons to inspire. “What about her other boys?”

“She had only one other child,” Lucy replied. “Lord William, Sir Williston’s twin. He was a sore disappointment to her, I’m afraid. He drank, gambled, took up with unsuitable women. In the end, she was forced to ship him off to the colonies.”

I blinked. “You mean ... he founded the American branch of the family?” Despite my respect for Willis, Sr., I nearly whooped with laughter. Lord William, whose name had been passed down through seven generations of American Willises, whose portrait was treated like a religious icon back in Boston, had been nothing more than a wastrel packed off to the colonies by a mother who would no longer tolerate his shameful behavior. The staid and respectable Willis family in Boston had been founded by an Evil Twin. I couldn’t wait to break the news to Honoria and Charlotte. “Is that why the two branches have been incommunicado for so long?” I asked, fascinated. “Because Lord William was banished?”

“That’s part of it,” Lucy informed me. “Lord William made some terrible accusations against his mother and his brother. He claimed that this building and everything in it belonged to him, and that—”

“Lucy?” Nell piped up. “You said that Sir Williston was the elder‘son. If the boys were twins, then how ... ?”

“Sir Williston preceded his brother into the world by seven minutes,” Lucy explained, “and thanks to Julia Louise, we can prove it. We have the sworn testimony of the midwife and two other attendants. Julia Louise wanted there to be no doubt about who was first in line to inherit.”

“Just think,” I said, looking around the room, “if Lord William had been born seven minutes sooner, all of this would have been ours.”

“Alas ...” Lucy turned at the sound of the hall door opening. “Ah, thank you, George.”

Tea had arrived. I watched attentively as George wheeled the trolley to where Lucy was sitting, and was relieved to observe plates of petits fours and crustless sandwiches between the silver tea service and the Wedgwood cups. The burst of energy provided by my sugary breakfast had begun to wane.

“I don’t understand why there should be any question about who owns this building,” I said after George had left the room. “There must be a deed somewhere.”

Lucy reached for the teapot. “There is. Unfortunately, it’s with some other research material I sent to my mother just last week. My mother ...” Lucy’s hand trembled, and a splash of steaming tea landed on the tablecloth. “My mother has retired to our farm up in Yorkshire,” she finished in a rush. “She’s writing Julia Louise’s biography.”

I accepted the cup Lucy passed to me and asked, “Do you think William might have gone to see her?”

Lucy put the teapot down, looking thoroughly exasperated with herself. “Of course he has. Why didn’t I think of that sooner? I don’t know where my mind is these days.”

I was about to tell her that she was in no way responsible for keeping tabs on my peripatetic father-in-law, but there was a subdued knock at the door, and I turned to see Arthur enter, with his hands in his trouser pockets and an injured expression on his face.

“Lucy,” he said gruffly. “Sorry to break in, but d‘you think you could have a word with Lady Rutherford?”

Lucy’s eyes clouded with dismay. “Oh, Arthur, what have you done now?”

“Gave her our condolences,” Arthur replied belliger ently. “How was I to know she loathed her old goat of a husband? Thought wives loved their husbands once they had ‘em in the ground.”

“They usually do, Arthur, but not in this case. I thought I told you ...” Lucy sighed. “Never mind, dear. You stay here and entertain our guests while I soothe Lady Rutherford’s ruffled feathers.” Lucy quickly introduced us to her cousin and left the room.

Arthur remained where he was, standing just inside the door, glancing shyly at us while he ran a hand back and forth through his hair.

“Arthur ... ?” Nell called softly. “Won’t you join us? I’ve brought something rather special for tea.”

“Eh?” said Arthur, his interest aroused. “What’s that?”

Nell took Gerald’s tin out of her shoulder bag. “Come and see.”

15.

“Haven’t had one of these in an age.” Arthur sighed with pleasure as he polished off the last of the butterscotch brownies. “Old Uncle Tom baked ‘em up every Sunday before his ticker went west. Miss him. And the brownies.” He leaned back to brush crumbs out of his beard and his fragile chair emitted a tiny groan. “Uncle Tom’d enjoy meeting Cousin William. Good chap. Certainly hope he sends in reinforcements. Could use ’em.”

“Reinforcements?” I repeated, the light beginning to dawn. “Arthur, did my father-in-law talk to you about moving to England?”

“What?” Arthur cast a furtive glance in my direction, as though he’d only just remembered who I was. “Can’t say. No. Certainly not. Not a word. Ahem.” The arms of Arthur’s chair bowed dangerously as he heaved himself to his feet and strolled over to peer out of the windows. “Talked Lucy’s ear off, though. Poor old Lucy. That’s who I feel sorry for.”

“Why?” I half-turned on the settee to watch Arthur as he lumbered back and forth before the windows.

Arthur shrugged. “Ancien régime pooped out all at once. Aunt Anthea retired early, Uncle Tom took sick, m‘father went bonkers. Then Gerald left. Hasn’t been easy on her. Love the law, myself—set your own hours, dine well. Not much good at it, though. Detail work, not my forte. Great disappointment to m’father.”

“Lucy’s sisters ... ?” Nell asked.

“Sprats,” said Arthur. He wandered over to examine Lucy’s books. “Only just sprung from university, both of ‘em.”

“You’re not much older than that yourself,” Nell pointed out.

“Ah, but I’m a man. Different set of rules. Old trouts prefer an idiot male to a clever young woman. Stupid, but true.” He pointed to the portrait above the mantelpiece. “ ‘S’why Lucy makes such a fuss about old Julia Louise. Strong woman. Respected in her day. So Lucy says.”

I finished my first cup of tea and poured a second. I’d consumed an embarrassingly large number of the tiny sandwiches, but consoled myself with the thought that Lucy would assume Arthur had eaten most of them. Turning to him, I said sympathetically, “I can understand why you were all so upset with Gerald when he left.”

Arthur swung around to face me. “Did she tell you?” he said, his hand flying to his head. “Imagine that. Not Lucy’s style to moan. Still, if the love of my life went over the moon for a whey-faced old cow, suppose I’d want to howl about it every now and then. Good of you to lend her an ear.”

I sipped my tea and waited for my brain to finish translating Arthur’s staccato patter into standard English. Then I choked. Good Lord, I thought, coughing into a napkin, Lucy’s in love with Gerald, too.

I should have seen it coming. Lucy had given a different set of signals from those of poor red-faced Miss Coombs, but the signs had been there all along, if only I’d had the wit to interpret them correctly. The irony made me wince. Lucy Willis, champion of an exceptional woman, was herself enacting one of the most traditional roles of all: a woman scorned.

“Ger-Gerald told us he was looking after his father,” I managed, wheezing.

“Looking after Uncle Tom? Up in Bedfordshire?” Arthur’s laughter rumbled up from deep within his barrel chest and burst out in a series of hearty guffaws. “Suppose he had to tell you something, but ... What’s he doing? Commuting from Surrey? Good old Gerald. Looking after Uncle Tom ...”