Since Bill was in the midst of a three-way conference call with a client in Milan and a colleague in Cologne, the invasion was short-lived. I blew a kiss to my husband, seized Bess’s hand, and led her back to the Rover before she could cause an international incident. While I buckled her into her car seat, I assured her that she could tell Daddy about the ducks when he came home from work.
As I drove slowly up the cobbled lane toward the humpbacked bridge, I wondered again what Tommy had meant when he’d said he’d seen other faces change in the same unsettling way as Mr. Windle’s. I’d never seen anything like it, but Tommy had witnessed a range of human suffering I could scarcely imagine, both in combat and in the hospital where he’d spent months recuperating from his injuries. It would never have occurred to me to compare our new neighbor to a wounded veteran, but it might have occurred to Tommy.
I glanced uneasily at Pussywillows. The profound sadness I’d sensed in Mr. Windle reminded me that some wounds were invisible. Though he’d stated unequivocally that he had no desire to do away with himself, the rushing waters of the Little Deeping were much too close to his new home for my liking.
I’d hoped that Bill would say something sensible to restore my peace of mind, but my conversation with him, like Bess’s, would have to wait. Thankfully, I knew where to find a friend who was never too busy to say sensible things to me.
I could always share my worries with Aunt Dimity.
Aunt Dimity wasn’t, technically speaking, my aunt. Nor was she, in the strictest sense of the word, alive. The former was a lot easier to explain than the latter.
Dimity Westwood, an Englishwoman, had been my late mother’s closest friend. The pair had met in London while serving their respective countries during the Second World War, and the bond of affection they forged during those dark and dangerous years was never broken.
After the Allied forces declared victory in Europe and my mother sailed back to the States, she and Dimity strengthened their friendship by sending hundreds of letters back and forth across the Atlantic. When my father died shortly after my birth, those letters became my mother’s refuge, a tranquil retreat from the everyday pressures of teaching full time while raising a rambunctious daughter on her own.
My mother was extremely protective of her refuge. She told no one about it, not even me. As a child, I knew Dimity Westwood only as Aunt Dimity, the redoubtable heroine of a series of bedtime stories invented by my mother. I was unaware of her true identity until both she and my mother were dead.
It was then that the fictional heroine of my favorite stories became very real to me. At the lowest point in my life, when I was broke, alone, and still grieving for my mother, Dimity Westwood bequeathed to me a considerable fortune, the honey-colored cottage in which she’d grown up, the precious correspondence she’d exchanged with my mother, and an apparently unused journal bound in blue leather.
It was through the blue journal that I finally came to know my benefactress. Whenever I gazed at its blank pages, Aunt Dimity’s handwriting would appear, an old-fashioned copperplate taught in the village school at a time when the whisper of scythes heralded the harvest. I nearly fell off my chair the first time it happened, but I soon came to realize that Aunt Dimity was a wise and kindly soul who had nothing but my best interests at heart.
I couldn’t explain how Aunt Dimity managed to bridge the gap between the living and the not-quite-living, and she wasn’t too clear about it herself, but the how didn’t matter to me. The one thing I knew for certain, the only thing I needed to know, was that Dimity Westwood was as good a friend to me as she’d been to my mother.
If anyone could restore my peace of mind, it was Aunt Dimity.
Bess alternated between quacking and singing as we drove home, though she also bellowed “Grandpa!” when we passed the entrance to Willis, Sr.’s tree-lined drive; “Bree!” when we passed Bree Pym’s mellow redbrick house; and “Toby! Toby! Toby!” when we passed the curving drive that led to the Anscombe Manor stables. Since Toby was Bess’s favorite pony, he received a longer and much louder salutation than either her grandfather or Bree.
By the time we reached our honey-colored cottage, I was yearning for earplugs and we were both ready for lunch. I parked the Rover in the graveled driveway, liberated Bess from her car seat, and walked with her up the flagstone path, through the front door, and into the front hall. After saying hello to Stanley, who was curled into a sleek and somnolent black ball on the living room’s cushioned window seat, we toddled up the hallway to the kitchen, where I threw together a quick meal of cheese sandwiches, steamed vegetables, and sliced bananas.
Bess was so tuckered out from chasing and being chased by Tommy Prescott that she allowed me to carry her up to the nursery after lunch. Once I’d settled my sleepy girl in her cot, I grabbed the baby monitor and hurried downstairs to sequester myself in the study.
The study was still and silent and, I suspected, decidedly more tranquil than Mr. Barlow’s house would be for the next little while. Sunlight streamed through the strands of ivy that crisscrossed the diamond-paned windows above the old oak desk, making the supple leaves glow like stained glass. I lit a fire in the hearth for comfort rather than warmth, then paused to speak with my oldest friend in the world.
“Hi, Reginald,” I said. “I hope you’ve had a less exciting morning than I have. There’s a lot to be said for monotony.”
Reginald was a small rabbit made of powder-pink flannel. He had black button eyes, hand-sewn whiskers, and a faded purple stain on his handsome snout, a souvenir of the day I’d shared my grape juice with him. Reginald had entered my life shortly after I’d entered it, and he’d been my companion in adventure ever since. He’d absorbed more tears than any pillow I’d ever owned and he’d kept every secret I’d ever shared with him. A sophisticated woman would have put him away when she put away childish things, but I wasn’t a sophisticated woman. I kept Reginald close at hand because I never knew when I’d shed more tears or have more secrets to share.
“I called on our new neighbor this morning,” I said. “I’ll probably catch all sorts of flak from the villagers for breaking the three-day rule, but I was afraid Mr. Windle would do something drastic if I didn’t step in.”
Reginald’s black button eyes gleamed supportively as he gazed at me from his special niche in the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. I twiddled his pink ears fondly, took the blue journal down from its shelf, and sat with it in one of the pair of tall leather armchairs that faced the fire.
“Dimity?” I said, opening the journal. “I have so much to tell you that I may not get through it all before Bess wakes up from her nap.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as the familiar lines of royal-blue ink began to loop and curl across the page.
Good afternoon, Lori. Has our unmarried, retired professor from Derbyshire taken possession of Pussywillows?
“Crispin Windle has arrived,” I confirmed.
Then I’m not surprised that you have a lot to tell me. You always do, after a moving-van vigil.
“It wasn’t an ordinary vigil, Dimity,” I said. “I mean, I shared a table with Grant and Charles in the tearoom, as usual, and the green was swarming with villagers, as usual, but the vigil itself was less informative than usual, and the morning as a whole was . . . complicated.”
In that case, I suggest that you begin at the beginning and proceed from there until you reach the end. Telling the story back to front will only complicate matters further.
“The beginning?” I said, scratching my head. It felt as if half a lifetime had passed since I’d spread clotted cream on my fruit scone. “Well, I guess things took a turn for the strange when Sally Cook announced that Pussywillows is enchanted.”
I beg your pardon?
“You heard me correctly,” I said. “Sally’s convinced that the cottage has become a magical launchpad for lovebirds.”
A magical what?
“A magical launchpad for lovebirds,” I repeated. “My words, not Sally’s.”
I’m dazzled by your verbal dexterity. What do your words mean?
“According to Sally,” I said, “anyone who lives in Pussywillows is destined to find true love.”
Nonsense. I could list dozens of people who lived in Pussywillows without finding true love.
“Amelia and Tilly did,” I pointed out. “That’s two launched lovebirds in a row. Since three’s a charm, the enchantment is bound to work for Mr. Windle—according to Sally.”
I was under the impression that Tilly fell in love with Mr. Barlow before she moved into Pussywillows.
“So was I,” I said, “but Tilly told Tommy, who told Bree, who told us, that she didn’t fall in love with Mr. Barlow until after she came to live in Finch. Mr. Barlow proposed to Tilly twice at her home in Oxford, but it wasn’t until he proposed to her in Pussywillows that she accepted him.”
I’ve always wondered why Tilly moved into Pussywillows before she married Mr. Barlow. It seemed like a waste of time and energy, but if she wasn’t in love with him until then, her decision makes sense. Why on earth did Bree wait until this morning to reveal such a scintillating bit of gossip to you?
“She wasn’t supposed to reveal it to anyone,” I explained. “It was a family secret told to her in the strictest confidence, but when Sally started talking about the enchanted cottage, Bree felt compelled to set the record straight about Tilly, which meant that she had to tell us about Mr. Barlow’s romantic setbacks.”
Bree discussed a closely held family secret in the tearoom? Good grief. She might as well have shouted it from a rooftop.
“She didn’t realize what she’d done until after she’d done it,” I said, “but by then it was too late. Everyone in the tearoom had heard her.”
They could hardly avoid hearing her, and though it would be theoretically possible for them to keep the news to themselves, they won’t.
“Mr. Barlow’s private life will be the talk of the village by teatime,” I agreed. “When the vigil ended, Bree did the honorable thing. She ran off to tell Mr. Barlow about her blunder before he could hear about it from someone else.”
She may be impulsive, but she doesn’t lack courage. I suspect that Mr. Barlow did not receive the news with unalloyed gladness.
“I saw the two of them together before I left the village,” I said. “Bree looked like a condemned prisoner and Mr. Barlow was breathing fire. Unless I’m very much mistaken, which I’m not, he is at this moment giving her and Tommy and Tilly a stern lecture about keeping certain family stories within the family.” I leaned back in my chair and propped my feet on the plump ottoman. “Honestly, Dimity, I don’t know why he’s kicked up such a fuss. If I were him, I wouldn’t care if the woman I loved rejected me a dozen times, as long as she married me in the end.”
Tilly’s refusals must have bruised Mr. Barlow’s pride as well as his heart, poor lamb. He wouldn’t want such a sensitive subject bandied about by his neighbors.
“No one would,” I said, “but he’s lived in the village for decades, Dimity. You’d think he’d know by now that the only way to keep a secret in Finch is not to have one.”
True, but hope springs eternal. Once Mr. Barlow calms down, I’m sure it will occur to him that his situation, as embarrassing as it is, could be worse.
“How?” I asked.
His romantic setbacks could be the ONLY subject of gossip in Finch. As it is, the villagers have Crispin Windle to distract them. Indeed, if the Handmaidens believe that Pussywillows is a . . . a magical launchpad for lovebirds, to use your mellifluous phrase, they won’t waste any time on Mr. Barlow. Their sole concern will be to shower our new, unmarried neighbor with attention.
“I’m counting on them to do just that,” I said. “Mr. Windle is in dire need of some tender loving care.”
Are you jumping to a conclusion about Mr. Windle, my dear? If you’re not, the vigil must have been as revelatory as Bree’s comments about Mr. Barlow’s love life.
“The vigil nearly put us to sleep,” I said. “Mr. Windle didn’t label his boxes, so we couldn’t tell what was in them, and he has barely enough furniture to fill one room, let alone a whole cottage. He doesn’t even own a dining room table, Dimity, and the few pieces he does own are as plain as porridge. We were captivated for a few minutes by some bundles of finished wood, but no one could figure out what they were, so we lost interest in them as well.”
How old is Mr. Windle?
“Seventy-five, maybe?” I said. “Tall, pale, gaunt. Long face, gray eyes, thinning gray hair. Ratty old clothes that made him look like a scarecrow. He drives an old car, too, but it’s not a flashy collectible. It’s just old.”
And his manner?
“Distant,” I replied. “He didn’t look at or speak to anyone except the movers. He acted as though the rest of us were invisible, but everything about him was so dreary that the villagers cleared out before the moving van was empty.”
No one lingered to discuss the distant Mr. Windle? Most unusual. Did you and your friends in the tearoom leave early, too?
“We stayed put until the bitter end,” I replied, “but since we’d already said all we had to say about Mr. Windle, our party broke up when the moving van left. I intended to come straight back here afterwards, but Tommy had taken Bess to the bridge to quack at the ducks, so I chatted with him for a little while.” I sighed. “I almost wish I hadn’t.”
You didn’t tell Tommy about Bree’s indiscreet remarks, did you?
“Of course not,” I said indignantly. “I may not think things through as often as I should, Dimity, but even I know better than to tell a young man that his fiancée is a blabbermouth.”
I’m relieved to hear it. However familiar he is with his fiancée’s foibles, he would not wish to hear about them from you. But I digress. You and Bess and Tommy were on the bridge, chatting and quacking, and then . . . ?
“Then the strangest thing happened,” I said. “Mr. Windle stepped out of Pussywillows. At first, his face was perfectly blank, as if it had been wiped clean of all emotion. Then he looked toward the river and it was as if”—I struggled to find the right words—“as if some sort of bone-deep pain bubbled up to the surface, as if his suffering soul were on display for all the world to see, except that Tommy and I were the only ones there to see it. His expression changed for maybe two heartbeats before his face went blank again. Then he went back into the cottage and closed the door.” I frowned in frustration. “I wish I could describe the moment better, Dimity, but—” I broke off as the graceful handwriting sped across the page.
You’ve described it very well, Lori, very well indeed. You and Tommy caught a glimpse of Mr. Windle’s inner turmoil, which was quickly suppressed. It must have been very disturbing to witness such a sudden, public eruption of private pain.
“It scared the bejesus out of Tommy and me,” I said, “especially since the eruption happened when Mr. Windle looked at the river. We thought he was going to drown himself, Dimity, so we”—I braced myself for a reprimand—“we marched right up to Pussywillows and knocked on his door.”
I would expect nothing less of you, my dear.
“Really?” I said, at once gratified and taken aback. “You’re not going to scold me for breaking the three-day rule?”
Don’t be ridiculous, Lori. You could hardly wait until Wednesday to help a man who appeared to be in imminent danger of harming himself. Did you speak with him?
“Yes,” I said. “When he answered the door, I told him what we’d seen. He didn’t seem to remember the eruption, and when I asked him if he was planning to kill himself, he said he wasn’t.”
I see. So you know better than to tell a young man that his fiancée is a blabbermouth, but you don’t know better than to ask a perfect stranger if he’s suicidal. I understand what you mean about not thinking things through as often as you should.
“I didn’t have time to tiptoe around the question,” I protested. “I was afraid Mr. Windle would top himself as soon as our backs were turned.”
Of course you were. Forgive my ungenerous jibe. Sometimes a direct approach is the best approach. Did Mr. Windle’s answer reassure you?
“No,” I said. “It didn’t reassure Tommy, either. Tommy told me he’d seen faces change like that before, and that it was never a good sign, but before he could elaborate, Mr. Barlow came along and brought our conversation to a screeching halt.”
You and Tommy will have a chance to continue it after church tomorrow.
“Will we?” I said. “Something tells me that the villagers will be less forbearing than you are about our breach of the three-day rule. A few of them—or a few more than a few—will probably take us aside after church to explain how things are done in Finch. As if we didn’t know . . .” I sank more deeply into the chair and gazed grumpily into the fire before asking, “Did Tommy and I overreact, Dimity? Did we read too much into a fleeting expression? Mr. Windle came close to smiling when he looked at Bess, and he listened politely to Tommy and me even when we were behaving like a pair of babbling buffoons. Could it be that, when he looked at the river, he was simply feeling the effects of a tiring day?”
A tiring day might generate a powerful desire for a long soak in a hot bath, but I doubt that it would provoke a brief flash of intense suffering. It seems to me that Mr. Windle isn’t at all well. Instead of wondering if you overreacted, you should be asking yourself what you can do to rescue our new neighbor from his inner demons.
“What can I do?” I asked. “Offer him free therapy sessions? He already thinks I’m a nutter. Imagine what he’ll think if I show up again, demanding that he tell me his deepest, darkest secrets.” I tossed my head. “He’ll lock his door and hide behind his sofa.”
As would I. A direct approach isn’t always the best approach, Lori. I suggest that you try something a little more subtle.
I eyed the journal doubtfully. “Are you telling me to spy on him?”
Certainly not. I’m suggesting that you do what you always do when someone new comes to the village. Be a good neighbor. Become a good friend. If you take an active, honest, openhearted interest in Crispin Windle, he’ll soon realize that he doesn’t have to fight his demons on his own because he isn’t alone anymore—he’s a valued member of our small community.
I stared at the journal in disbelief. “Is that what I do when someone new comes to Finch?”
Need I remind you of the pivotal role you played in welcoming Amelia, Tilly, and Bree to the village? If you hadn’t offered them your hand in friendship, who knows how long it would have taken them to recover from the blows that befell them before they came to Finch?
“Amelia, Tilly, and Bree were little rays of sunshine compared to Mr. Windle,” I said. “I don’t think I’m equipped to deal with a man who’s as damaged as he appears to be.”
I’ve never known you to back down from a challenge, Lori.
“I back away from Bess ten times a day,” I muttered.
Mr. Windle is not a toddler having a tantrum, Lori. He’s a grown man in dire need of some tender loving care. The Handmaidens are well intentioned, as are the rest of the villagers, but they didn’t see what you saw, did they?
“No,” I admitted reluctantly. “They were long gone by the time Mr. Windle’s emotions erupted. Everyone was.”
Not quite everyone. Tommy was on the bridge, too. He was as disturbed by the eruption as you were.
“Tommy knows a lot more about damaged men than I do,” I said. Bolstered by the thought, I slid my feet from the ottoman and sat upright. “Okay, Dimity. I’ll give it my best shot. I’ll team up with Tommy to do whatever needs to be done to keep Mr. Windle’s head above water.”
The baby monitor emitted a faint quacking noise.
It sounds as though Bess is awake.
“Either that or she smuggled one of her ducky chums into the nursery,” I said.
I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s very much like her mother.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said, smiling. “Thanks, Dimity. I’ll let you know what happens next.”
I’m counting on it! Give Bess an extra hug from me.
“I always do,” I said.
When the curving lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, I closed the blue journal and returned it to its shelf. I stood staring into the fire for a moment, then touched a fingertip to Reginald’s snout.
“I hope to heaven that Pussywillows is enchanted,” I said to my pink bunny. “If Tommy and I are going to wrestle demons, we’ll need all the help we can get.”