Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Good Deed

“Where’s the car?” I asked.

“Parked in a field up the road,” he replied. “I hadn’t planned to announce my arrival until tomorrow morning, but I got curious and decided to look the place over tonight.” He put down his fork and rubbed his side. “I did call your name, you know, but not loudly enough, apparently, to be heard over that confounded wind.”

“I’m so sorry, Bill,” I said, feeling a sympathetic twinge in my own ribs.

“Don’t be,” he told me, picking up his fork. “It’s no more than I deserve. I’ve been a complete idiot, Lori. Do you know why the Biddifords have refused to settle Quentin Biddiford’s will for all these years? They’ve been fighting over a fishing pole. They’ve kept the firm tied up in knots for thirty years because of an antique bamboo Japanese goddamned fishing pole.” He jabbed his fork savagely into a chunk of roast beef.

“That’s absurd,” I said, giving myself strict orders not to laugh.

“If I’d talked to Father, I‘d’ve been forewarned,” Bill went on bitterly. “But, no, I couldn’t possibly ask for his advice. What a stiff-necked, pompous fathead I’ve been.”

“I suppose Miss Kingsley told you about your father,” I said.

“What about my father?” Bill looked up from his plate. “Isn’t he here with you?”

I cleared my throat. “Not exactly....”

Bill pushed his plate aside and listened intently while I recounted what had happened from the moment I’d left Emma’s vegetable garden to the moment I’d crossed the courtyard to close the stable door. It took more than an hour to tell him everything. Well, almost everything.

When I’d finished, Bill was silent for a long time. Then he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’m too tired to sort this out tonight,” he said. “Let’s sleep on it, see what we come up with in the morning.” He pushed his chair back and took his dishes to the sink. He ran water on the dishes, turned the water off, then remained standing, with his back to me. His light-colored sweater stood out against the darkened windows, his left arm hung limply at his side, and his right hand gripped the lip of the sink, as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.

“Lori,” he said, “I know it’s not only Father I’ve treated carelessly. Maybe it took an exploding stove to clear my mind, but I figured out a few things while I was lying on top of that woodpile.”

I crossed the room to wrap my arms around him and pressed my forehead to his back. “Not now,” I said.

“Yes, now.” Bill turned to face me. “I never meant to abandon you, Lori, but when you started talking about having children, I felt... He shrugged helplessly, searching for the right words. ”As though I had to do something impressive every minute of the day to be worthy of them. Can you understand that?“

I took a deep breath. “Bill,” I said, “I did not fall in love with, or marry, an unimpressive man.”

“You’re sure? Because I couldn’t help noticing ...” He reached for my left hand, from which my wedding ring was conspicuously absent.

I gazed up at my husband and saw a clean-shaven jaw set with pain, a sunburned face lined with exhaustion, and a pair of beautiful brown eyes shadowed by the fear that perhaps he’s taken too long to figure things out.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” I told him with absolute conviction.

Bill enfolded me in his arms. I was aware of the plaster cast across my lower back, and the soft expanse of his broad shoulder. I nestled my face into the crook of his neck, closed my eyes, and inhaled the oiled-wool scent of his new sweater, the spicy fragrance of his shampoo, the rich aromas that lingered in the kitchen, and, underneath it all, his own scent, unmistakable, indescribable, and I felt in my bones how much I’d longed to breathe him in.

“Ah, Lori,” he murmured, “how I’ve missed you.” He kissed my forehead and my eyelids, then took me by the hand. “Come, love. It’s time for bed.”

Upstairs, beneath the patchwork coverlet, we held each other close and talked for hours. But sometime in the stillness before dawn, when the wind had faded and the birds had not yet wakened, the talking stopped, the wedding ring was slipped back on my finger, and our second honeymoon began at last.

25.

When I saw the look of consternation on Lucy Willis’s face as she entered my bedroom the following morning, I nearly woke Bill up by laughing.

“I-I’m so sorry,” she whispered, averting her eyes. “I-I‘ll—”

“Hush,” I said. I wriggled carefully out of bed, slipped into my nightie, robe, and slippers, pulled Lucy into the hallway, and closed the door.

“Lori, I didn’t mean to—” she began, but I cut her off.

“Don’t worry, Lucy. That’s my husband, Bill. He showed up unexpectedly, late last night, and he’s pretty beat, so I’d like to let him sleep in.”

Lucy seemed immensely relieved, though there was a bruised look to her eyes, as though her night had not been a restful one. “He won’t be disturbed,” she assured me. “Mother and Swann have taken Nell out for a gallop, and your man Paul is reading in the sitting room.”

I linked my arm through Lucy’s. “We’ll have the kitchen to ourselves, then. Let’s go down and make a pot of tea.”

“The kettle’s already boiling,” Lucy said.

I gave her a brief account of Bill’s adventures as we made our way to the kitchen, and Lucy toasted muffins and put out pots of preserves and marmalade while the tea steeped. By the time we sat down at the table, I’d reached the point where she burst in on Bill and me.

“I shouldn’t have come in without knocking,” she acknowledged. “But I wanted so much to apologize for making a scene last night. I don’t know what came over me. I’m not usually so—”

“It’s all right, Lucy,” I said. “I know about you and Gerald.”

“Everyone says that.” Her voice held an echo of the bitterness I’d heard in London, and her lips compressed into a thin line as she lowered her gaze to the steaming cup of tea in front of her. “Can you honestly tell me that you understand what it’s like to watch someone you love slip beyond your reach?”

“Yes,” I replied, and when Lucy looked up, startled, I held her gaze. “I do understand.”

Lucy spread a spoonful of marmalade on a slice of toast and regarded me intently. “What did you do about it?”

I smiled. “I got lucky. Bill figured things out on his own—with the help of the exploding stove I told you about.” I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, Lucy, the Larches is in pretty bad shape. Maybe we could arrange a little ...” I held out my hand and waggled it. “Accident?”

Lucy shook her head ruefully. “Not with Mrs. Burweed in the kitchen.”

“In that case, we’re just going to have to do Gerald’s figuring for him.” I added sugar to my tea and took a sip. “Do you mind if I ask a few questions about him?”

“Go right ahead,” said Lucy. “I don’t mind being questioned by the Voice of Experience.”

“It’s about this woman he meets at the Flamborough,” I began. “Arthur told me about her. Have you ever actually seen her?”

“Not at close range,” Lucy said stiffly. “Why?”

I looked over her shoulder at the windows above the sink and fiddled with a triangle of toast on my plate. “I don’t know quite how to put this, but ... Your mother was telling us about Douglas last night, and the doctor he got mixed up with.”

“Sally the Slut,” Lucy said readily. “The tomato on sticks, as Mother calls her. Do you know that she once tried to blackmail Mother?”