Lori.
I glanced down at the journal and saw my name, but I was on a roll, so I continued, “I’ll ask Mr. Barlow about invisible defects. Our peerless handyman has been in and out of every cottage in Finch more times than I can count. If anything’s wrong with Rose Cottage, Mr. Barlow will know what it is and how to fix it. I’ll pay him with my own money to make sure that the cottage isn’t hiding any unpleasant surprises.”
Lori?
Again, I glanced down at the journal and again, I went on without stopping. It was as if my brain had awakened from a long nap and was raring to go. I couldn’t slow it down.
“I’ll also speak with the headmistress, the teachers, and the other parents at Morningside School,” I said. “I’ll speak with Emma’s riding school parents, too. Someone is bound to know of someone who’s looking for a home in the country.” I looked at the clock on the mantel shelf. “It’s a bit late in the day to get started and I’d rather not pester people on a Saturday, but—”
I broke off as Aunt Dimity finally managed to command my attention.
AT EASE, LORI! Stand down! I don’t expect you to find three qualified home buyers overnight, my dear, though I’m glad to hear that you intend to find them. You’ve had four months of private bliss with little Bess. It’s time for you to take an interest in the world beyond the cottage. Finch needs you, Lori.
“Not as much as I need Finch,” I stated firmly. “I’m on it, Dimity. Bess and I will find out everything we can and report back to you.”
A knock sounded on the study door. I looked over my shoulder and smiled as Bill entered the room, carrying Bess.
“Nearly time to pick up the boys,” he said apologetically. “I’ve changed Bess’s diaper, but she insists on having the one thing I can’t give her.”
“Gotta go, Dimity,” I said. “Bess is hungry.”
Kiss her for me, my dear.
“You know I will,” I said, and as the graceful lines of royal-blue ink began to fade from the page, I closed the journal.
Bill and I exchanged book and baby and while Bill returned the journal to its shelf, I readied myself for mealtime.
“I meant to tell you,” he said, “Father has invited us to a welcome-to-Fairworth dinner for my aunts next Saturday—a week from today.” He sat on the arm of my chair and smoothed Bess’s wispy curls back from her forehead. “He’d like us to be there by eight. Formal attire, naturally.”
I admired my father-in-law’s tactics. Willis, Sr., was aware of Bill’s antipathy toward Honoria and Charlotte. I suspected he’d delayed the official family gathering for a week in order to give his son a few extra days to gird himself for it. He’d also limited the amount of time Bill would have to spend with the Harpies: A dinner that started at eight o’clock could be politely concluded by ten.
The meal’s formality was another clever touch. A casual brunch or a luncheon could be held in the conservatory, on the terrace, or in the rose garden at Fairworth House, but a formal dinner had to take place in the dining room. The dreaded reunion would, I thought, proceed more peacefully if Bill were separated from his aunts by the broad width of Willis, Sr.’s dining room table.
“I hope your aunts won’t expect us to bring the boys,” I said. “Will and Rob have a hard time remembering to be formal at formal dinners.”
“I couldn’t care less about my aunts’ expectations,” said Bill. “I’ve already made arrangements for the boys. They’ll spend the weekend with Emma at Anscombe Manor.”
“You’ve thought of everything,” I said, impressed. “We’ll bring Bess with us, of course. If she needs forty winks or a feed, she and I will repair decorously to William’s nursery.”
“I call dibs on diaper changes,” Bill said instantly.
“Now, there’s a sentence I never thought you’d utter,” I said, giggling.
“Needs must,” Bill grumbled.
“Will you be at Fairworth House on Monday to welcome your aunts?” I asked, though I thought I knew the answer.
“No can do,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll be tied up at the office all week, working on Didier Pinot’s revised will.”
“Has he revised it again?” I said, surprised. Bill’s fractious client had, to my knowledge, revised his will seven times since January.
“I may have suggested that Monsieur Pinot review the section concerning his collection of medieval artifacts,” Bill admitted, studying his fingernails. “He was going to leave the skulls to his third niece, but I think they’ll be better off with his second nephew.”
“What a convenient suggestion,” I said, arching an eyebrow.