Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Death

Much to my surprise, Willis, Sr., was also willing to go along with my request to end our question-and-answer sessions. He seemed to understand when I told him that they weren’t needed anymore, that I was ready to begin writing. I called Bill into the study to say hello, and when he had hung up the phone, I pointed to the door. “Now go away,” I ordered. “I have an introduction to write.”

From that moment on, Bill was like a second ghost haunting the cottage. Sandwiches and pots of tea mysteriously appeared and the empty plates and pots seemed to vanish on their own.

At one point, a cot showed up in the study, then an electric typewriter, with Reginald perched jauntily on the keys. Needless to say, my memory of those days is hazy at best, but nine drafts later, with a week left to the end of the month, the introduction to Lori’s Stories was finished.

I slept for fourteen hours straight, then typed it up and went looking for Bill. He was upstairs on the deck, luxuriating in the sun. He squinted up at me, then waved. “Hello, stranger. I’ve been meaning to ask you, have you talked to Dimity lately?”

“Yes, but there was no reply. I didn’t expect one. She had a lot of catching up to do. Have a look at this, will you?” I handed the pages to him, then stood by the railing to wait while he read them.

I had put into them all that I had learned since I had come to the cottage. I wrote about pain and loss and disappointment; about splendid plans going tragically awry. And I wrote about courage and hope and healing. It wasn’t hard to do—it was all there already, in the stories. There were no names mentioned, of course, and the sentences were simple, and that had been the most difficult part: to say what I needed to say, in a voice that would speak to a child.

I also tried to speak to the adult that child would one day become. I urged her not to let the book lie dusty and forgotten on a shelf, but to keep it nearby and to reread it now and again, as a reminder of all the good things that life’s trials might tempt her to forget.

I had added a final paragraph, one that I would not include in the next and final draft because it was intended for one pair of eyes only. In it I wrote of the terrible, wonderful power of love; how it could be used to hold someone captive or to set someone free; how it could be given without hope of return and rejected without ever being lost. Most of all, I wrote of how vital it was to believe in the love offered by an honest heart, no matter how impractical or absurd or fearful the circumstances. Because all times were uncertain and the chance might never come again.

Bill seemed to take forever to finish reading it, but when he did, the look in his eyes told me that it had done what I had hoped it would do. “It’s good,” he said. “It’s very good. I think the critics will be writing about this instead of the stories.”

“As long as the children remember the stories.”

“If they pay attention to what you’ve said here, they’ll remember them all their lives.” Bill left the typed sheets on the deck chair and came over to me. “That last part might be a little tricky for them, though. It’s beyond the scope of the assignment, isn’t it?”

“It’s not part of the assignment.”

“I see.” Bill’s hand reached out to cover mine, where it rested on the railing. “And did you mean what you wrote?”

“Every word.”

“In that case…” He got down on one knee and looked up at me. “Lori Shepherd, I have nothing to offer you but… well… the family fortune and a slightly warped sense of humor. And my heart, naturally. Will you marry me?”

“An interesting idea,” I said judiciously, “and one to which I have given much thought. After due consideration—”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you,” Bill grumbled, shifting his weight from one knee to the other.

“After due consideration,” I repeated, “I have decided that I will accept your proposal, with two conditions.”

“Name them.”

“First, that you tell me what the ‘A’ stands for in William A. Willis. Does it really stand for Arthur or am I just imagining a family resemblance?”

“I prefer to think of it as an affinity with a great, imaginative mind,” Bill said haughtily, “but yes, you’re right. Quick now, before my leg falls asleep—what’s the second condition?”

“That we spend our honeymoon here at the cottage.”

Bill’s face fell, and this time there was nothing theatrical about it. “Lori, you know I’d arrange it if I could, but it’s impossible. The cottage has already been sold. The new owner is moving in at the end of the month.”

My gaze swept out over the back garden. Emma’s skillful hands had woven a glorious tapestry of colors, textures, scents, and I hoped that whoever lived here next would pause to savor its loveliness. Every petal seemed to glow, every leaf fluttered spring-green and shining. The shallow pond reflected clouds of roses in a crisp blue sky, and tiny purple blossoms cascaded over the gray stone walls. The oak grove loomed cool and inviting, and the meadow beyond the sunken terrace was awash in daffodils. I looked from their bright yellow trumpets to Bill’s anxious face.

“In that case,” I said, “I guess I’ll have to accept your proposal without any conditions at all.”

“You will?”

“Of course I will. Rise, Sir Knight, and claim your lady.” I reached down to take his hand, but he stayed where he was.

“Then you accept?” he asked.

“Would you like me to write it in blood?”

“I would like you to say yes.”

“Yes, William Arthur Willis. I will marry you.”

I expected him to rise to his feet and sweep me into a passionate embrace. Instead, he sat back on his heels and let out a whooshing sigh of relief. “Thank God,” he said. “I thought I’d never pry it out of you.”

“You didn’t seriously think I would refuse, did you?”

“No, but you had to say yes. You had to say that particular word, and I didn’t think you would ever say it.” He stood up and began to put his arms around me, but I held him off.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Why that particular word? Why do I get the feeling that there’s something you’re not telling me?”

“Because you’re right. I couldn’t tell you before, but now I can.” He leaned forward on the railing. “You remember those stories I told you about, the ones Dimity told me when Father and I were staying at her town house in London?”

“Yes.”

“I never told you who the heroine was. She was a feisty, irrepressible, entirely enchanting little girl, and her name just happened to be… Lori.”

“You’re not saying—”

“All I’m saying is that I never got her out of my mind, especially after Dimity promised that I’d get to meet her one day. She said I’d meet her and fall in love with her and that she would fall in love with me, too, though it would take her a while to realize it. And she said that I couldn’t tell her anything about any of this until I’d won her heart and hand.”

“Dimity? Dimity was our matchmaker?”

“Now, Lori, you said yourself that you have nothing against matchmaking. And we have it on the very highest authority—that of the inestimable Pym sisters and the experience of your own parents—that Dimity was the best.”

“But… but…” I gave up and shook my head. “No wonder they call twelve an impressionable age.”

“I’m sorry for pushing all those clothes on you, by the way. I should have known it would be too much too soon. But I’d waited so long and I was so happy. … And, uh, there’s one other thing I should probably clarify as long as I’m at it.” He pulled a small box from his pocket. It was covered with dark blue leather. He held it out to me and said, “Ngee oot sanzi, Lori.”