“She does,” said Mr. Barlow. “Some people think she’s flighty, but she isn’t. She has a good head on her shoulders, does Marigold. If Peggy Taxman is up to her old tricks again, Marigold will put a spoke in her wheel. I hope she will, anyway.” His brow furrowed and a shadow seemed to cross his face. “Finch is a small place, Lori. Folk who choose to live here have to do their bit or nothing will get done. Holiday-makers like to watch the sheep dog trials, but they don’t want to get their hands dirty, setting up the hurdles. They take, but they don’t give back.”
“They give money,” I reminded him. “They buy groceries at the Emporium. They have meals at the pub and the tearoom. A few of them even buy the pamphlets Lilian Bunting wrote about St. George’s.”
“It’s not enough,” Mr. Barlow insisted. “I want those cottages to go to people who are willing to do the real work of the village, not to tourists who think it all happens by magic.” He ducked his head suddenly and grinned sheepishly at me. “Sorry about the sermon, Lori.”
“What better place to give it?” I said, raising a hand to indicate our surroundings. “But you’re preaching to the choir, Mr. Barlow. I’m already on your side. Residents have a stake in the community, visitors don’t, and I know which ones I’d prefer to have as neighbors.”
Mr. Barlow stood.
“I’ve enjoyed our little chat,” he said, “but I’d best be on my way. I promised the vicar that I’d have the vestry lamp working by Evensong.”
“I should be going, too,” I said. “Bill will think I’ve fallen asleep in here. He and the boys must be eating their way through Sally Cook’s entire stock of pastries.”
“They could do worse.” Mr. Barlow smiled down at Bess. “Good-bye for now, young lady.”
He caught her flailing foot in his hand and gave it a gentle shake, then retrieved his ladder and his toolbox and carried them into the vestry.
“Interesting,” I murmured when he was out of earshot. “I wonder if everyone thinks Marigold Edwards is the bee’s knees? I don’t think Mr. Barlow would allow a paycheck to influence his opinion of her, but you never know. I believe we’ll have to meet Marigold for ourselves, Bess, and make our own judgment.”
Bess flexed her toes and cooed, which I took to be a clear sign of agreement. I pulled the blanket over her foot again, then checked my immediate surroundings for stray socks, toys, tubes of ointment, and other baby-related detritus. I put those I found into the diaper bag, slung the bag over my shoulder, picked up the carry cot, and left the church through the south porch.
My eyes were still adjusting to the sunlight when I noticed that I was not alone in the churchyard. Lilian Bunting was standing at the foot of the newest grave, unaccompanied by her husband, the Reverend Mr. Theodore Bunting. I could scarcely believe my luck.
Lilian Bunting was a scholar and a local historian, but above all, she was an exemplary vicar’s wife. While Mr. Bunting viewed his parishioners through a benign haze, Lilian saw them clearly and managed them cleverly, for the good of St. George’s. She could bring order to a tempestuous parish meeting without offending anyone in attendance; she knew better than to pair Peggy Taxman with Sally Cook in the church’s flower-arranging rota; and she was aware of the chaos that would ensue if she asked bashful, soft-spoken George Wetherhead to make public announcements during the church fête.
The vicar might live with his head in the clouds, but Lilian had her sensibly shod feet planted firmly on the ground. If I asked her what she thought of Marigold Edwards, she’d tell me the unvarnished truth, though she would phrase it diplomatically.
“It looks as though we’ll make one more stop,” I murmured to Bess, “before we round up our missing menfolk.”
I’d just finished speaking when Lilian looked toward me and smiled.
“Lori,” she called. “Do you have a moment?”
“I do,” I responded, and wove my way between tilted headstones and lichen-speckled tombs to join her.
Eight
The vicar’s slender, gray-haired wife was dressed in the crisp, cream-colored linen blazer and skirt she wore on warm summer Sundays. The look suited her, but it wouldn’t have worked for me. After five minutes in close proximity to Bess, crisp, cream-colored linen would no longer have been crisp or cream-colored.
Lilian nodded pleasantly to me as I drew near.
“I promised Jack MacBride that I’d put fresh flowers on his uncle’s grave while he and Bree were traveling,” she explained, gesturing to the headstone. “A needless promise, as it happens, because there are always fresh flowers on Mr. Huggins’s grave. The dear man may be gone, but he’s certainly not forgotten, not by the villagers, at any rate.”
“Before I forget,” I said, “William and Amelia send their apologies for missing church today. They’re getting Fairworth House ready for a family visit.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Lilian. “Millicent Scroggins imparted the news to me before church this morning. She also described the food, the drink, and the table setting William and Amelia have chosen for next Saturday’s grand dinner.”