“Swaddling’s good for other things, too,” bellowed Peggy, who was always reluctant to let Sally—or anyone else—have the last word. “It keeps babies from scratching their faces with their sharp little fingernails.”
“I’d put mittens on Bess,” Christine opined. “Mittens are the best way to keep a baby from scratching her face.”
“Nonsense!” roared Peggy. “Mittens are a well-known choking hazard!”
“My brothers and I didn’t choke on our mittens,” Christine said heatedly.
“My sister and I didn’t need mittens because we were properly swaddled,” Sally said with a superior air.
Our little group doubled in size with the addition of Selena Buxton, Opal Taylor, Millicent Scroggins, and Elspeth Binney, a quartet of widows and spinsters whom Bill had dubbed “Father’s Handmaidens” because of their illfated attempts to woo Willis, Sr. They, too, had strong opinions on mittens and swaddling, among many other topics, and they didn’t hesitate to express them. I listened politely and hoped they’d run out of steam before Will and Rob ran out of games to play.
A happy gurgle from Bess silenced the debate and I leapt at the opportunity to change the subject.
“I met the most interesting man yesterday,” I said. “Do any of you know Arthur Hargreaves?”
“Hargreaves?” said Sally. Her lips tightened. “They’re Tillcote folk. We don’t have much to do with Tillcote folk.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“They’re an uppity bunch,” said Christine. “A Tillcote chap came into the pub a few years back and spat out a mouthful of Dick’s homemade wine. He said it wasn’t fit for pigs.”
“One of their women told me that, if I wasn’t careful, I’d eat up my profits,” Sally said huffily. “As if anyone would trust a skinny baker.”
Since Dick Peacock’s homemade wine could easily be mistaken for paint thinner and since Sally Cook was very far from skinny, I couldn’t argue with the Tillcote folks’ observations, but I could certainly find fault with their manners.
“They never come to our flower show,” said Selena.
“Or our art show,” said Elspeth.
“A pair of them came to the jumble sale once, but they didn’t buy anything,” Opal said indignantly. “They made snippy comments about my seashell lamp, then walked away with their noses in the air.”
There was a pause as those of us who’d made our own snippy comments about Opal’s lamp averted our eyes, but Millicent Scroggins soon got the ball rolling again.
“They reckon their church is prettier than St. George’s,” she said.
“They’re thieves!” Peggy boomed, clearly intent on trumping the others. “One of their youngsters pinched a packet of crisps from the Emporium a few years ago. I couldn’t prove it, but I know it was him.” She pursed her lips haughtily. “It’s the sort of behavior I’ve come to expect from Tillcote folk.”
“You steer clear of them, Lori,” Sally warned me. “Tillcote folk’d steal the pennies off a dead man’s eyes. Well,” she went on cheerfully, as if she hadn’t just denounced an entire village, “I’d best be off. My Henry should have preheated the ovens by now. Lemon poppy-seed cake in an hour for those who want it.”
“I’ll be off, too,” said Christine. “Dick’ll need a hand with the beer barrels.”
“We should be on our way as well,” said Elspeth, and the rest of the Handmaidens nodded their agreement. “We’re going to see Mr. Shuttleworth’s art exhibit in Upper Deeping this afternoon.”
“Well, Jasper and I can’t stand around jabbering all day,” Peggy thundered. “We have to open the Emporium and the greengrocer’s shop!”
The women bade a fond farewell to Bess and left the churchyard, taking Jasper Taxman with them. They were replaced almost instantly by Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham, who ran an art appraisal and restoration business from their home, Crabtree Cottage. Grant was short and slim, with neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair, while Charles was tall, portly, and balding. I enjoyed their company immensely.
“Thank heavens,” Charles murmured. “I thought they’d never leave.”
He took the carry cot from me and made soft kissing noises at Bess, who tried her best to imitate him.
“What did the ladies tell you to do this time?” Grant asked, gallantly relieving me of the diaper bag. “Stop nursing Bess immediately or keep nursing her until she’s old enough to vote?”
“A little of both,” I said, laughing.
“The dear ladies of Finch,” Charles said with an affectionate sigh. “Is any subject beyond their ken?”
“I may have found one,” I told him. “They didn’t have a lot to say about a man I met yesterday. His name is Arthur Hargreaves.”
Charles snapped to attention and Grant looked as though I’d announced a UFO sighting.
“Arthur Hargreaves!” Charles exclaimed. “The Hermit of Hillfont Abbey? You can’t possibly have met him!”
Six