Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Good Deed

I stood for a moment unnoticed in the doorway. The sitting room was as inviting as the kitchen and as generously proportioned. The walls were hung with framed watercolors of horses, and the mantelpiece was chocka- block with trophies, rosettes, and ribbons. An eclectic collection of furniture added to the cheerfully cluttered atmosphere—an island of chintz-covered chairs and a cushy sofa filled the space before the fireplace, with a sprinkling of unmatched ottomans, paisley cushions, and tables of assorted shapes and sizes. Heavy drapes had been drawn across the windows to keep out the cool night air.

One corner of the room had been turned into a kind of study, with another Irish-pine bookcase to match the one that held dishes in the kitchen, and a long dining-room table serving as a desk. The table was littered with pens and pencils and a score of well-thumbed books, but an ancient Remington typewriter held pride of place, surrounded by piles of paper that I thought must be Anthea’s biography of Julia Louise, the one Lucy had mentioned back in London. A peculiar sensation crept over me when I saw another portrait of Julia Louise on the wall in front of the typewriter. She was dressed in gold brocade, with a choker of diamonds and pearls, and it was hard to shake the feeling that she was watching me.

Anthea sat between Lucy and Nell on the couch in front of the fireplace, with a photograph album opened in her lap. Lucy still wore her casual clothes, but Nell had, predictably, decided to dress for dinner. She’d changed into a blue velvet dress with long sleeves and a crocheted collar; Bertie, who sat in her lap, wore a dashing black cape lined in red silk.

“Lori,” Anthea said, coming over to greet me. She’d let her gray hair down and exchanged her riding clothes for a spectacular flowing gown of sea-foam green. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. I’m sorry for that shout-up in the village as well. Selling a horse always puts me in a foul temper. I simply hate to let one of my darlings go.”

“You must be famished,” Lucy put in, joining us. “I’ll ask Swann to bring a tray in here for you, shall I? He and your man Paul are doing the washing up.”

“Swann’s tickled to have another man about the place,” Anthea told me as Lucy left the room. “I’m afraid your father-in-law wasn’t much use. Too preoccupied with...” She waved toward the work space in the corner. “Bores poor Swann speechless, which is quite a feat. Now, you must come and hear what Nell’s been up to while you were resting.”

Nell had evidently gone horse-crazy. She couldn’t say enough about the chestnut mare and foal Swann had introduced to her, and the excitement of Anthea’s return on the big bay gelding made her trip over her words. I’d never thought I’d see Nell’s cornflower eyes fill with rapture at the mention of currycombs, but Swann’s tour—as well as his sunny disposition—had made a convert of her.

Lucy returned, and Swann followed soon after, bearing a tray filled with the warmed-over remnants of the roast-beef-and-Yorkshire-pudding feast he’d prepared in our honor.

“Paul’s gone up,” Swann announced, placing the tray on a table Lucy had pulled in front of my chair. “I’m yours for the evening, ladies, though I warn you: One whisper in praise of the dragon and I’ll vanish.”

“Poor Swann,” said Anthea with mock solemnity. “He suffers from overexposure to you-know-who.” She pointed to the portrait over the typewriter, then held her hand out to her husband. “Pax , my dear. I hereby declare a moratorium on family history—for the moment.”

Swann took Anthea’s hand, and she drew him down beside her on the couch, while Lucy curled up in a chair by the fire and Nell launched into another hymn in praise of horseflesh. I started in on the roast beef and contributed little to the ensuing conversation, preferring instead to observe my host and hostess.

They made a splendid couple. Swann was attentive but not fawning, Anthea affectionate but not doting, and though they reigned over separate kingdoms, Swann seemed to take as keen an interest in the stableyard as Anthea did in the affairs of the house. They listened to each other, laughed with fresh delight at stories they’d probably heard a thousand times, and left me feeling curiously elated. If this unlikely pair could achieve such a perfect partnership, surely there was hope for Bill and me.

When I’d finished as much of the meal as I could manage, Swann took the tray back to the kitchen and returned with a pot of Sir Poppet’s tea.

“This is wonderful stuff,” he told me. “Goes down a treat after a large meal.”

“And stays down,” I commented wryly. “I’ve got a trunkful of it. I’ll give you a supply first thing in the morning. I have a feeling that large meals are the rule around here. You’re a brilliant cook.”

“Swann is a treasure,” Lucy agreed. “I put on at least a stone every time I come to visit.”

“Which isn’t often enough,” said Anthea.

Lucy rested her chin on her fist. “It’s not easy to get away, Mother, particularly now, with—”

“With the girls at home having babies and only that great oaf Arthur to lend a hand.” Anthea nodded. “I understand, Lucy, but it’s no use running yourself ragged.”

Nell smoothed Bertie’s cape and suggested innocently, “You could ask Gerald to help.”

The effect of her words was quite startling. Lucy flinched, as though she’d been slapped; then her face crumpled and she ran from the room without speaking. I stared after her, stunned, and for a few moments no one spoke.

“Poor girl,” said Anthea, making no move to follow her daughter. “She’s exhausted.”

Swann snorted. “Nonsense. She’s heartbroken and you know it. Gerald is, too, but he won’t admit it.” His blue eyes flashed in my direction. “Did you speak with Gerald when you visited him in Surrey? Did he happen to mention why he left London?”

I shrugged noncommittally. “He said he made some mistakes and had to leave, for the good of the firm.”

“Utter nonsense,” Swann declared.

“Swann ...” Anthea murmured.

“Sorry, darling, but I’m sick unto death of all of you tiptoeing around the subject. Lucy’s miserable, and when she’s miserable you’re miserable, and that makes me miserable as well.” He returned his attention to me. “Gerald, unlike that great oaf Arthur, is a gifted solicitor. He’s intelligent, charming, discreet, and he loved what he was doing. I simply don’t believe that he decided to leave the firm because of one easily remedied mistake.”

I looked uncertainly at Anthea. “I thought Lucy asked him to leave.”

“Lucy?” Anthea said, her eyes widening. “Ask Gerald to leave?” She gave her teacup to Swann and got up to retrieve a framed photograph from the mantelpiece. After glancing briefly at the picture, she brought it over and handed it to me.

The photograph showed five children, three girls and two boys, decked out in riding gear and posed in the open doorway of the stable. Although it was a group portrait, the two oldest children, a dark-haired girl and a boy with chestnut hair, had pulled slightly apart from the rest and were smiling at each other instead of at the camera.

“Swann is quite right,” Anthea said. “Those two have been in love with each other ever since they first conceived the idea of being in love. They never talked of marriage. It was simply understood. I don’t know why Gerald decided to leave the firm, but I can assure you that it wasn’t because my daughter asked him to.”

The fire crackled and a gust of wind rattled the windows. Anthea returned the photograph to the mantelpiece, resumed her place on the couch, and took her teacup back from Swann. I thought about Lucy, crying her heart out upstairs, and Gerald, eating his heart out in Haslemere. It made no sense whatsoever.