I rewarded my escort’s gallantry by asking him to fetch a clean blanket from the stables and drape it across the passenger seat before I slid into his precious vehicle. He obeyed with alacrity—and with visible relief—and we were soon cruising down Anscombe Manor’s long and curving drive.
Although Friedrich drove with great restraint, I quickly realized that the Porsche wasn’t the right car for me. It was lovely to look at, but it didn’t offer much in the way of elbow room and it was so low to the ground that I would have had to be as limber as my sons to get in and out of it daily without straining vital muscles. More important, there was no place to put a week’s worth of groceries, a deluxe cat carrier, or a pair of wriggly boys.
“Who told you I needed a lift?” I inquired as we made a stately turn onto the lane leading to the cottage.
“Eleanor Harris,” Friedrich replied. “She is a friend of yours, I believe.”
“She is,” I said, smiling at his use of Nell’s proper name. “I understand that you met her at the Sorbonne.”
“Yes, we met in Paris,” he acknowledged, then went on boldly, “I fell in love with her immediately, of course. She is quite…” He sighed, and his eyes took on the faraway look common to young men in the throes of Nell-worship.
“Beautiful?” I hazarded.
“She is of course beautiful,” Friedrich agreed, “but there are many beautiful girls in the world. Eleanor is more than beautiful. She has a small bear—”
“Bertie,” I said promptly. One couldn’t know Nell for long without making the acquaintance of Sir Bertram, her chocolate-brown teddy bear. While I kept my relationship with Reginald under wraps, Nell kept hers with Bertie out in the open, for everyone to see.
“Yes, Bertie.” Friedrich nodded. “She speaks of this bear without embarrassment. This is character, I think. She is also quite clever, you know. She completed a three-year degree at the Sorbonne in one year. She is altogether remarkable.” He glanced earnestly at me. “I have much to offer Eleanor. Not only my love, but comfort, stability, security. My family is quite well-off. We have homes in many beautiful places. Our stables are famous. If you are her friend, you will tell her this.”
As Friedrich spoke, it gradually dawned on me that he was driving slowly not because of the inclement weather but because he needed time to convince me that he was the best candidate to marry Nell. He couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d held up a sign saying VOTE FOR ME. If he hadn’t been so young and so sincere, I would have burst out laughing.
“I think she probably knows about your background already,” I said gently.
“But to hear it from a friend may…open her eyes,” he reasoned.
“I doubt it,” I said. “Nell’s not easily swayed by other people’s opinions.”
Friedrich gave me a puzzled look. “But she speaks so highly of you….”
“She does?” I said, astounded. Nell was so superior to me on every measurable scale that I’d never imagined her speaking of me at all, let alone highly. “I’m glad to hear it, but it doesn’t mean that I have any influence over her. I’m afraid you’ll have to court Nell on your own, Friedrich.”
“I see.” He lapsed into a disappointed silence but rallied when we arrived at the cottage. “Your sons are fine equestrians, Ms. Shepherd. If they were my sons, I would be very proud.”
“Thank you,” I said, climbing out of the car. “And thank you very much for bringing me home.”
“It was my pleasure,” he said with a courteous nod.
I closed the Porsche’s door and gave Friedrich a friendly wave as he drove off. I couldn’t think ill of him for trying to win me over. Nell’s refusal to go along with his marvelous plans for her future had evidently made him desperate enough to try anything—following her to England, shoveling muck, flattering me. I felt sorry for him, but I also thought Nell would be good for him. She would add the word “humility” to his vocabulary.
As I sloshed up the flagstone path to the cottage’s front door, I wondered if I’d be subjected to the same treatment by Mario from Milan, Rafael from Barcelona, and the French boys Annelise had mentioned. If I played my cards right, I thought, giggling, I’d get to ride in every flashy sports car on the market.
I had seldom been so happy to walk into a warm, dry house. Since the twins were still in school and Annelise was browsing the shops in Upper Deeping, Stanley was the only family member to greet me when I came in. He sniffed my boots with the profound concentration of a naturalist examining a new specimen from a foreign land, then followed me through the cottage as I made my rounds.
I threw my hiking clothes into the washer and myself into a blessedly hot bath, then dressed in clean jeans, a sweater, and sneakers and ran downstairs to make dinner. I chose something quick and easy—ham, scalloped potatoes, and broccoli—because I wanted to spend some time in the study while I still had the cottage to myself. I had an awful lot to tell Aunt Dimity.
Twenty minutes later, dinner was ready for launch, my hiking clothes were in the dryer, and I was seated in the study with the blue journal in my hands, a fire in the hearth, and Stanley curled and purring in my lap. Reginald looked beneficently at us from his shelf, as if to say, “I don’t mind sharing you with the cat. He needs your warmth more than I do.” I gave him a grateful nod, stroked Stanley between the ears, and opened the journal.
“Dimity?” I said. “Want to hear about my day?”
The familiar lines of royal-blue ink spun across the page without a moment’s hesitation.
I always want to hear about your days, my dear, but I must confess that I’m particularly eager to hear about this one. I can tell by the tremor in your voice that it was eventful. Did Kit agree to help you with your vampire hunt?
“Yes,” I said, “but only after I agreed to take riding lessons.”
You agreed to take riding lessons? At last! How clever of Kit to persuade you.
“It wasn’t clever,” I protested. “It was heartlessly cruel and devious, and he only did it to torment me.”
Don’t be silly, Lori. Kit is as kind as summer. He would never do anything to torment you.
“He did today,” I said. “I gave him the perfect excuse to get away from the stables, and instead of thanking me for it, he used it to blackmail me into doing something I’ve been avoiding for years. Pure, unadulterated torment.”
Why would Kit wish to get away from the stables?
“Because he can’t stand the new stable hands,” I explained with a slightly malicious smile. “A small, multinational army of rich young bachelors followed Nell home from Paris and volunteered to work at Anscombe Manor. They’re falling all over themselves trying to prove that they’re worthy of Nell. Emma’s taking advantage of them shamelessly, but they’re driving Kit nuts.”
I imagine they would.
“I could hardly keep up with his mood swings today,” I said. “First he blackmailed me into riding, then he got really touchy when I discovered some footprints he missed on Sunday. When I mentioned Nell’s name, he went all wistful and sad-eyed, and on the way home he blew up at me.”
Defensiveness, irritability, melancholy, unreasonable fits of bad temper… The ghost of a bosom-heaving sigh seemed to waft through the room. He sounds like a man very much in love. Nell’s scheme seems to be having the desired effect.
I frowned uncomprehendingly, then gasped as the penny dropped.
“Dimity,” I said, with a note of disapproval in my voice. “You’re not suggesting that Nell invited those guys to Anscombe Manor, are you?”
I’m suggesting no such thing. Nell is an honorable young woman. I’m certain that her admirers came to Anscombe Manor without any encouragement from her. I’m equally certain, however, that she hasn’t gone out of her way to send them packing.
“She’s keeping them around to torture Kit?” I said, dismayed.
Kit is torturing himself, Lori. Never forget that. I suspect that Nell is simply using the situation as an opportunity to demonstrate—before his eyes—her unswerving devotion to him. If the scheme fails, I have no doubt that she’ll dismiss her young suitors in a trice and think of another way to rid Kit of his foolish conviction that he is too old for her.
“You know what, Dimity?” I said. “I think we may be wrong about the age thing. Kit’s always used his age as an excuse to push Nell away, but I have a feeling that something else is going on.”
Such as?
“I’m not sure,” I said slowly. “When he blew up at me this afternoon, he told me that he has no intention of ever getting married. He told me that he’s meant to be alone. He said that it would be wrong of him to marry, not just Nell but anyone.”
He’s meant to be alone and it would be wrong of him to marry. What interesting statements. I wonder what he means by them? Is he, by any chance, homosexual?
“I asked him if he was, and he denied it,” I said.
Perhaps he has a physical problem, then, a problem that, in his mind, renders him unfit to play the role of a husband. You must find out if this is indeed what’s troubling him.
“How?” I asked uneasily.
Men are, of course, more reticent about such problems than women are, but if you found the courage to ask Kit about his sexual orientation, I’m certain that you’ll find a way to discuss with him other subjects of an intimate nature.
I gaped at the blue journal in disbelief. “You want me to ask Kit about his…his manliness?”
You needn’t be quite so direct, my dear. You might simply suggest, as a way of opening the conversation, that Nell wouldn’t care if he were blind, deaf, and paralyzed from the neck down. She’s bound to his spirit, not to his body. You must reassure him on that score.
“I’ll do what I can,” I said weakly, shooting a horrified look at Reginald. My pink bunny seemed to understand the excruciating awkwardness of the task Aunt Dimity had set for me. Kit was one of my dearest friends, but I wasn’t sure he’d remain one if I started quizzing him on subjects of a much-too-intimate nature.
I know you’ll do your best, Lori. Now, tell me about the vampire hunt. You mentioned footprints. Did they lead you to Rendor?
“Not yet,” I said, overjoyed to move on to another topic. “But the footprints and a scrap of silk he left behind prove that he’s not a figment of the twins’ imaginations. Kit thinks he was heading for a place called Aldercot Hall, but before we could follow him there, we smelled smoke. When we went to check it out, we found a man camping in Gypsy Hollow, and we ended up having a very enjoyable lunch with him. I don’t know what his last name is, but his first name is Leo, and he’s a real charmer. Did you ever hear of him, Dimity? He’s spent most of his adult life in Australia, but he grew up in England, and he told us that he spent a fair amount of time around here when he was young.”
I’ve known a number of Leos. It’s a pity you didn’t ascertain his surname. Did your lunch with Leo put an end to your vampire hunt?
“No, but the rain did,” I said. “It started coming down in buckets, so Kit and I decided to storm Aldercot Hall tomorrow.” I stroked Stanley absentmindedly, then asked, “Why don’t I know about Aldercot Hall, Dimity? It’s only a few miles away, but I’d never heard of it until today.”
Aldercot Hall is a private residence. It has never been opened to the public, and its owners, the DuCarals, have never involved themselves in the affairs of neighboring communities.
“Is that how they’ve escaped the gossip grapevine?” I asked. “I mean, I’m a card-carrying member of the Finch busybody society, but I haven’t heard so much as a whisper about the DuCarals.”
You haven’t listened to the right people, Lori. Most of the villagers with whom you exchange gossip are relative newcomers to Finch. They are no doubt unaware of certain…stories…associated with the DuCaral family. If you wish to hear those stories, you’ll have to listen to someone who has deep roots in the region, someone whose memories go back a long, long way.
“Like the Pyms?” I asked, referring to a pair of ancient and identical twin sisters who lived between Anscombe Manor and Finch.
No. Ruth and Louise Pym won’t be able to help you. As churchgoers they would find it distasteful to discuss the…legends…that are associated with the DuCarals.
“What does churchgoing have to do with it?” I asked. “What kind of legends are you talking about, Dimity?”
The kind that would make a creature such as Rendor seek sanctuary in Aldercot Hall.
I stared hard at Aunt Dimity’s reply, then glanced foolishly around the study, as though I were afraid of being overheard, before whispering excitedly, “Are you saying that the DuCarals are vampires?”
I would never say such a thing, Lori, but there have always been strange rumors connected to the family. Have you ever met a woman named Lizzie Black?
“No,” I said. “Who is she?”
She’s someone I think you should meet. She has a small freehold on the other side of Horace Malvern’s property. It’s called Hilltop Farm, and it’s been in Lizzie’s family for seven generations.
“The Fowlers live on the other side of Mr. Malvern’s farm,” I reminded her.
Hilltop Farm is tucked between the two properties, at the end of a rather uninviting lane. I’m sure you’ve passed it many times without giving it a second glance.
I shook my head despondently. “There are way too many gaps in my local knowledge, Dimity. I didn’t know about the pet cemetery on Emma’s Hill until I stumbled into it today. I’d never heard of Aldercot Hall and the DuCarals until Kit mentioned them. Now you’re springing Hilltop Farm and Lizzie Black on me, and I’ve never heard of them either. I feel like a stranger in my own backyard.”
You’re far from a stranger, Lori, but it will take you many years to become familiar with every nook and cranny of the countryside surrounding the cottage. As for the DuCaral family and Lizzie Black—they are equally reclusive. I would have been surprised if you’d claimed an acquaintance with them.
“Is Lizzie Black related to the DuCarals?” I asked.
No, but I believe she knows things about them that would be of interest to you. Lizzie is a most unusual woman. She was raised by her grandmother after her parents died in an influenza outbreak. The outbreak drove Granny Black into virtual seclusion. Over the years, she and her granddaughter became almost entirely self-sufficient. They grew their own food and made their own clothes and learned to do without whatever they couldn’t grow or make.
“What about other people?” I asked.
They had little use for other people. Lizzie was still a young girl when I first met her, but she was already extraordinarily antisocial. She stopped attending school at the earliest opportunity, and she made no friends while she was there. She rarely showed her face in the village, and when she did, she seldom spoke to anyone. She had no interest in the modern world, but she had an in-depth knowledge of local lore and legends. Her grandmother told her stories, you see, stories that had been passed down from one generation of Blacks to the next.
“Stories about the DuCarals?” I said.
I heard only vague hints from her about the DuCaral family’s curious history, and I had no reason to pursue the matter further. You, however, have the best of reasons: your sons’ well-being. I would strongly advise you to visit Lizzie before you visit Aldercot Hall.
“Dimity,” I said, “if Lizzie Black is so antisocial, how did you come to know so much about her?”
I met her shortly after Bobby died.
The silence in the study seemed to deepen, and I found myself holding my breath. Bobby MacLaren had been Dimity’s fiancé, her heart’s delight, the one great love of her life. He’d died in the Second World War, his plane ripped to pieces by enemy fire and his body lost in the English Channel. After his death Dimity had almost lost the will to live. I hadn’t seen his name in the blue journal for many years.
I don’t remember how I got there, but one stormy night I found myself at Hilltop Farm—delirious, barefoot, and dressed in nothing but my nightgown. Granny Black took me in and nursed me until I was strong enough to return to the cottage. Young Lizzie kept watch over me at night. I can still remember the cool touch of her hand on my brow and the soothing sound of her voice, comforting me. I suppose she felt the same pity for me that she’d feel for an injured animal.
The handwriting stopped, and a log fell in the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. Stanley raised his sleek black head to see what had caused the commotion, then tucked his nose under his tail and went back to sleep. I remained silent, waiting for Aunt Dimity to go on. A moment later the handwriting resumed.
After Granny Black died, I was one of the fortunate few Lizzie allowed into her life—very occasionally, mind you, because her tolerance for company was severely limited. But I went to Hilltop Farm every now and again, to make sure that Lizzie had everything she needed. She always did.
“I’m sure she was glad to see you,” I said. “You grew up here, and you’ve always had a way with people. But what makes you think she’ll speak with me, Dimity? I’m not even English.”
You may not be able to persuade her to speak with you, Lori, but I think you would be wise to make the attempt. If anyone can prepare you for what awaits you at Aldercot Hall, it’s Lizzie Black.
Since I was beginning to get butterflies in my stomach every time I thought of what awaited me at Aldercot Hall, I decided to follow Aunt Dimity’s advice. It would mean missing dinner, but a missed meal would be a small price to pay if I could glean useful information about the DuCarals—and possibly Rendor—from Lizzie Black.
“I’ll have to go now,” I said, glancing at the clock on the mantelshelf. “I won’t have time to visit Lizzie in the morning, and if I wait until after dinner, I’ll be intruding on her evening. I’ll leave a note for Annelise and take her car.”
Don’t be put off by Lizzie’s manner, Lori. She can be somewhat…abrupt.
“Right,” I said.
And occasionally aggressive.
“Okay,” I said.
As well as abusive.
“Stop fussing,” I scolded. “I’ll give it a shot, but if she doesn’t want to talk to me, I’ll leave.”
My thoughts will be with you, my dear.
“Thanks,” I said, and closed the journal before Aunt Dimity could make me jumpier than I already was.
There was no denying that I was nervous about meeting Lizzie Black. Living alone year after year on an isolated farm could do strange things to a person. Lizzie might be a crazed survivalist by now, or a cackling, one-eyed hag—or an older, creepier version of Miss Archer. The awful possibilities were endless, but as I left the study, I reminded myself that whatever Lizzie Black had become, somewhere deep inside her was the girl who’d shown such kindness to Aunt Dimity.