Pussywillows had not changed Mr. Windle beyond all recognition. He exchanged more words with old Mrs. Craven than he had with any of his previous callers, but after accepting the colorful lap quilt, he closed his door as firmly on her as he had on everyone else.
Mrs. Craven didn’t appear to be offended or abashed by Mr. Windle’s behavior. She seemed quite cheerful as she turned away from Pussywillows, and she nodded amiably to us when we motioned for her to join us. She refused, however, to take the fourth seat at our table.
“I won’t sit with my back to the window,” she declared as Henry escorted her to the table next to ours. “I’d rather not have to spin around to see what’s going on.”
She ordered a small pot of tea and two slices of lightly buttered toast. It would have struck me as a pathetically meager meal had I not known that Sally’s toast was thickly sliced and packed with hearty grains.
“We noticed that Mr. Windle didn’t invite you in for a cup of tea,” said Lilian.
“I noticed you noticing,” said Mrs. Craven, her eyes twinkling. “To tell you the truth, I’d have felt like a traitor if he had invited me in. As it is, I feel a wonderful sense of solidarity with my fellow rejects.”
“I wouldn’t let Opal, Millicent, or Selena hear you describe them as rejects,” said Amelia.
“How, I wonder, would they describe themselves?” said Mrs. Craven. “Choosy? Selective? Discriminating?” She chuckled. “Yesterday they were in here claiming that they’d never wanted to set foot in Pussywillows in the first place.”
Amelia smiled and shook her head. “The things we do to protect our fragile egos . . .”
“I didn’t hear them firsthand,” Mrs. Craven admitted. “Grant Tavistock filled me in on the delicious details when he came by for a chat last night. Elspeth,” she added significantly, “didn’t have a bad word to say about Mr. Windle.”
“He didn’t close his door on her,” I said. “He didn’t open it, either, but still . . .”
“I think there’s more to it than that,” said Lilian. “I believe she feels a profound sympathy for Mr. Windle.”
“You could be right,” I said. “Why else would she describe him as a little lost waif?”
“Why else indeed?” said Lilian. “The others may have been engaged in their usual manhunt on Saturday, but Elspeth saw something in Mr. Windle that touched her heart.”
“Wouldn’t it be lovely if the waif saw something in her?” I said.
“He will,” said Amelia. “Pussywillows will make sure he does.”
Henry returned with the pot of tea and the toast, which Sally had cut into manageable triangles. Mrs. Craven thanked him, then filled her cup without waiting for the tea to steep. She had a well-known preference for weak tea.
“I must say that Mr. Windle looks a little healthier than he did on Saturday,” she went on. “More color in his cheeks. The enchanted cottage must be giving him a new lease on life.”
“I rather think it’s a touch of sunburn,” said Lilian. “He went for a stroll beside the river yesterday.”
“Better beside the river than in it,” said Mrs. Craven. She took a dainty bite of toast and chewed it thoughtfully. “He was more talkative than I expected him to be.”
“As you may have noticed,” I said, “we noticed. What did he say to you?”
“He thanked me for the quilt,” Mrs. Craven replied, “and he asked if I could direct him to any local landmarks.” She chuckled again. “I told him that the only landmarks in Finch were the church, the bridge, and the war memorial, and that he could see two of them from his front door!”
“He must have felt a bit foolish for asking,” said Amelia.
“Not foolish,” countered Mrs. Craven. “He seemed . . . disappointed. I’ve no idea why. If he wished to live in a place teeming with landmarks, he should have moved to a more exalted village than Finch.”
I turned to Lilian, who prided herself on her knowledge of the area. “Are there any other local landmarks?”
“It depends on what you mean by a local landmark,” she said. “The hill behind your house could be considered a landmark, but if Mr. Windle was referring to man-made landmarks, I’d add Fairworth House and Hillfont Abbey to the list. As they lie outside the village, however, they may not be local enough for him.”
“You can tell Mr. Windle about Fairworth and Hillfont when you call on him tomorrow morning, Lori,” said Amelia. “Be sure to let him know that William and I would be happy to show him round Fairworth House.”
“I will,” I said. “Anything else to report, Annabelle?”
“My toast is scrumptious,” she said, licking the tip of a buttery finger, “but other than that, nothing.”
“Who’s next on the rota?” Lilian asked. “Who’s taking the afternoon shift today?”
“Tilly Barlow,” Mrs. Craven replied. “She’s going to bring him a book, remember? I hope she’ll bring us news from the home front as well. I’m dying to know if Tommy and Bree have kissed and made up.”
“They haven’t,” I said. “I’ve spoken with Tommy. Bree won’t even answer his calls.”
“What a pity,” said Amelia. “I was convinced that he’d win her back with his beautiful, handwritten love letter.”
“She taped his love letter to her front door, unopened,” I said.
Three jaws dropped in astonishment. My friends were speechless with shock for a moment, but Lilian soon recovered her voice.
“Poor Bree,” she said. “She must be in a terrible state.”
“Tommy must be absolutely furious with Mr. Barlow,” said Amelia. “I’d be furious with him, if I were Tommy.”
“It’s Tilly I pity,” said Mrs. Craven. “She must feel as if she’s living in a war zone.”
“If only Mr. Barlow would apologize to Bree,” said Amelia. “I don’t know why he’s being so stiff-necked about her unfortunate indiscretion.”
“Nor do I,” said Mrs. Craven. “When it comes to failed proposals, Mr. Barlow is in excellent company. King George VI had to propose to Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon three times before she accepted him, and look how well their marriage turned out.”
“Perhaps Mr. Barlow could do with a history lesson,” said Lilian.
I was certain that Mr. Barlow would apologize to Bree once I told him about her turbulent history, but I kept my thoughts to myself. I was too seasoned a gossip to make the rookie mistake she’d made by discussing a sensitive subject in the tearoom.
“What’s this?” said Amelia, peering intently through the window. “Is Elspeth about to try her luck again at Pussywillows?”
I followed her gaze and saw Elspeth Binney crossing the green, with Homer trotting at her heels. Elspeth was neatly but not showily dressed in a pair of pale-blue trousers and a pretty floral-print blouse.
“She deserves a second chance,” said Lilian. “Mr. Windle didn’t even come to the door when she called on him yesterday.”
“He was too busy weaving,” said Amelia.
“Is Mr. Windle a weaver?” Mrs. Craven asked interestedly.
“We don’t know for sure,” I said.
“But we think he is,” said Lilian. “Elspeth has changed tactics today. She’s carrying a tin instead of the book of photographs.”
“She must have taken heed of your warning about making Mr. Windle homesick for Derbyshire,” I said.
“I wonder what’s in the tin?” said Amelia. “It can’t be her boeuf bourguignon. The tin would leak.”
“I’ll bet the rest of the Handmaidens are watching her through their net curtains,” I said. “No matter what they might say to protect their fragile egos, they haven’t lost interest in Mr. Windle. They’re just upset with him for showing so little interest in them.”
“I agree,” said Mrs. Craven. “If Elspeth succeeds where they failed, they’ll make her feel as if she’s living in a war zone.”
As it turned out, Elspeth had nothing to fear from the disgruntled Handmaidens. Mr. Windle treated her much as he’d treated them, though he did appear to say something more to her than “thank you” after she handed the tin to him. She responded by pointing first at the bridge, then at the war memorial, and finally in the general direction of the church.
“He asked her about landmarks,” said Mrs. Craven.
“No doubt about it,” I said.
When Elspeth finished pointing, she gave Mr. Windle a friendly smile and left before he had time to close the door.
“Interesting strategy,” said Amelia. “Keep the visit short and sweet, and end it on your own terms. No one will be able to paste a reject label on Elspeth.”
We didn’t have to wave to catch Elspeth’s attention. She led Homer into the tearoom of her own accord, though she avoided the dreaded fourth chair by taking a seat at Mrs. Craven’s table. Homer disposed of a few flapjack crumbs that had dropped to the floor, then settled into his customary position beside Elspeth’s chair. She looked as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
“Mr. Windle heard me knock,” she informed us unnecessarily. “I didn’t have to compete with thumping noises today.”
“We think he’s a weaver,” Amelia informed her.
“How silly of me for not thinking of it myself,” said Elspeth. “It’s obvious, now that you mention it. The beater would make a thumping noise if he pulled it toward himself with enough force when he’s pushing the weft threads into place. He must have a fairly large loom, mind you.”
“And a heavy beater,” I put in, as if I knew what I was talking about.
“Naturally,” Elspeth agreed.
Henry appeared at her elbow with a bowl of water for Homer. While the terrier refreshed himself, Elspeth looked from the toast to the flapjacks, then ordered a green salad and a glass of sparkling water. Lunchtime was drawing nigh.
“Did you make something nice for Mr. Windle?” Amelia probed.
“I made Bakewell tarts,” Elspeth replied. “They’re named for Bakewell, the Derbyshire market town where they were invented. I wanted to remind Mr. Windle that he doesn’t have to live in Derbyshire to enjoy a taste of home.”
I had to suppress a smile as another aspect of Elspeth’s interesting strategy revealed itself.
“I’m sure he’ll enjoy them,” said Lilian.
“He asked me a question,” Elspeth continued, looking as if she’d won the lottery. “He asked if I was aware of any local landmarks. I told him I didn’t know of any, apart from the bridge, the war memorial, and St. George’s. I did mention the church’s medieval wall paintings to him,” she assured Lilian, “but he didn’t seem to be interested in them.”
“I wonder what does interest him,” said Lilian.
“Landmarks,” Amelia, Mrs. Craven, and I said in unison.
“Mr. Windle asked me about landmarks, too,” Mrs. Craven explained when Elspeth’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Did he seem disappointed by your reply?”
“I suppose he did,” Elspeth said reflectively.
“Perhaps you should have told him about Fairworth House and Hillfont Abbey,” said Lilian.
Elspeth looked chagrined. “You’re right, I should have, but it simply didn’t occur to me. They’re private houses, after all, and neither one has open days for the public.”
“For future reference,” said Amelia, “William and I will open our doors to Mr. Windle whenever he wishes to visit.”
“I’ll let him know,” said Elspeth, “the next time I speak with him.”
“Well, then,” said Lilian, eyeing Amelia and me. “Have we spoiled our appetites with the flapjacks, or shall we order lunch?”
We ordered lunch, of course, but even as we debated the relative merits of still and sparkling water, we watched for Tilly Barlow and her book.