“Amelia,” I replied and quickly summarized the conversation.
Bill’s grip on the steering wheel tightened when I mentioned Charlotte and Honoria. He knew better than to speak unreservedly in front of the attentive little pitchers in the backseat, but his white knuckles seemed to indicate that he was once again entertaining the notion of strangling his aunts. I rubbed his shoulder soothingly and his fingers gradually relaxed, but I doubted they would stay that way while the Harpies were in town.
We made it to St. George’s in ten minutes flat, but we were still the last family to slide into a pew. We were almost always the last family to be seated in church, but instead of receiving a volley of sharp glances and disapproving sniffs from those who invariably arrived on time, we were greeted with nothing but friendly nods and sympathetic smiles. A family with a new baby in tow could get away with just about anything in Finch.
Bess slept through the vicar’s sermon, as did her father and several other members of the congregation. The vicar was held in high esteem by everyone who knew him, but his sermons could not be called stimulating. If it hadn’t been for Will and Rob, I would have dozed off, too, but they kept me awake with whispered suggestions about what we could do after church, now that brunch at Grandpa’s house was off the table.
The first thing they did after church was to play a rousing game of tag in the churchyard. Bill rounded them up and took them to the village green to play tag in a more appropriate setting, but I stayed behind with Bess and the diaper bag to pursue my goal of learning what I could about Arthur Hargreaves. I had no trouble attracting villagers. Bess was the most popular girl in town.
Before I could commence my inquiry, however, I would have to withstand a barrage of child-rearing advice from my well-meaning neighbors. After the twins were born, Bill and I had discovered that everyone in Finch knew how to raise our children better than we did. The situation was much the same after Bess’s birth and we reacted to it in much the same way. We listened politely, then did what we thought was right.
Peggy Taxman was the first villager to approach me. Peggy sailed across the churchyard like a battleship, scattering all before her, while Jasper Taxman, her mild-mannered husband, plodded meekly in her wake. I readied myself for combat. I sometimes found it difficult to listen politely to Peggy Taxman.
When Peggy reached me, she looked into the carry cot, regarded me dolefully, and observed in a voice that could be heard ten miles away, “I don’t know how you got pregnant before Nell and Cassie.”
My friends and neighbors, Nell Anscombe-Smith and Cassie Harris, were half my age, give or take a few years. They’d been the leading contenders in Finch’s pregnancy sweepstakes until I’d pipped them at the post by producing Bess. I doubted that Peggy would ever stop moaning about it.
“Don’t you?” I said brightly. “It’s quite simple, really. When a man and a woman love each other very much—”
“Still giving Bess the breast?” Peggy broke in, glaring at me.
“Both breasts, actually,” I replied. “Whenever she wants them. I learned how to do it when I had the twins, but I’m much better at it now. Would you like me to demonstrate?”
Jasper Taxman blushed crimson, spun on his heel, and hastened to join George Wetherhead and Mr. Barlow, who were standing together near the lych-gate. Jasper, like many men of his generation, felt that maternal matters should not be discussed, much less demonstrated, in mixed company.
While Jasper made his escape, Peggy’s eyes narrowed dangerously behind her pointy, rhinestone-studded glasses.
“The bottle was good enough for me!” she thundered. “It’s common knowledge that breast feeding makes children weak and submissive.”
I caught a glimpse of Will and Rob tackling their father on the village green and smiled serenely.
“Common it may be, but it’s not knowledge,” Sally Cook declared, marching up to stand at Peggy’s elbow. Silver-haired, energetic, and grandmother-shaped, Sally looked like a bobbing buoy beside her tall, broad-shouldered rival. “My mother breast-fed my sister and me and we’re not weak or submissive.”
“Same goes for me and my brothers,” said Christine Peacock as she joined our growing circle.
I didn’t have to say a word. Sally had already proved her point by sending her husband off to open the tearoom, as had Christine, who’d sent her husband off to open the pub.
“Nothing wrong with breast feeding,” Christine continued. “Mother’s milk boosts a baby’s immune system.”
“I’d swaddle her more tightly, though,” Sally said, peering down at Bess. “Nothing makes a baby feel more secure than a nice, tight swaddle.”