“How thorough of her,” I said, rolling my eyes.
Though I spoke flippantly, it stung a bit to learn that Millicent Scroggins, who worked twice a week as a charwoman at Fairworth House, knew more about Saturday’s dinner than I did. Aunt Dimity had warned me that I might not be as up-to-date with village news as I had been before Bess’s arrival, but it hadn’t occurred to me that I might be behindhand with family news as well.
“Millicent spends more time listening at keyholes than cleaning them,” I went on. “She’s an expert eavesdropper.”
“Aren’t we all?” Lilian laughed. “Please tell William and Amelia that their apologies are accepted, but unnecessary. Teddy and I are well aware of how disruptive visitors can be. We spent a fortnight readying the vicarage for the bishop’s visit, and he spent only two days with us. I shudder to think of the preparation required for a three-week visit. The meal planning alone would shatter me.” She tilted her head slightly to peer over my shoulder. “Are Bill and the twins still in the church? Or were you on your way to meet them elsewhere?”
“Bill and the twins are stuffing their faces at the tearoom,” I replied. “I was on my way there, but I’d rather stay here with you than watch my sugared-up sons bounce off the tearoom’s walls. When they want me, they know where to find me.”
“Good.” Lilian gestured toward a stone bench beneath a cedar of Lebanon that shaded the churchyard. “Shall we sit?”
“We shall,” I said, “but I think Bess would prefer to sprawl.”
I spread a blanket on the soft bed of needle-like leaves the tree had shed over many years and freed Bess from the carry cot. It took her a few seconds to get used to the springiness of the leaf layer beneath the blanket, but she soon began her daily round of push-ups.
“Will she be safe, lying on her stomach?” Lilian asked as I took my place beside her on the bench.
“Et tu, Lilian?” I said, rounding on her. “I thought you’d turned down a membership in the we-know-better-than-you club.”
“Sorry,” she said meekly.
“I forgive you,” I said. “As a matter of fact, it’s good for Bess to spend time on her belly. She’s strengthening the muscles she’ll need to sit up, crawl, stand, walk, wind surf, boogie, and climb Mount Everest.” I patted Lilian’s knee reassuringly. “And she’ll do so safely, because you and I are here to keep an eye on her.”
“What a splendid child she is,” Lilian said, as if to make amends for her faux pas. “Teddy still talks about how cheerful she was at her christening. He’s more accustomed to infants who find the experience either terrifying or annoying.” Lilian folded her hands in her lap and turned to face me. “I’m glad I caught you, Lori. I meant to speak with you earlier, but I lost track of you after church.” She paused to survey me from head to toe. “You’re looking very trim, I must say, and Bess, of course, looks as though she could conquer the world.”
Lilian Bunting evidently expected me to chatter happily about my daughter and my fitness program, but I had other fish to fry.
“Bess and I are flourishing, thank you, which is more than I can say for Finch,” I said. “Mr. Barlow tells me that Marigold Edwards handles property sales in the village. How well do you know her?”
“How well do I know Marigold Edwards?” Lilian repeated, sounding surprised and faintly puzzled. “Not well at all, I’m afraid. Teddy and I don’t use estate agents because our housing is provided by the church. The vicarage and St. George’s are a package deal, you see. One comes with the other and both are owned by the diocese.”
“Have you met Marigold?” I asked.
“I’ve run into her occasionally,” said Lilian. “She likes to bring her clients to St. George’s to see our wall paintings.”
The church’s medieval wall paintings—the largest of which depicted a blotchy St. George battling a snaky-looking dragon—were Lilian’s pride and joy. One of her husband’s Victorian predecessors had “modernized” St. George’s by concealing the primitive images beneath layers of whitewash, but Lilian had been instrumental in rediscovering and uncovering them.
I didn’t care for the paintings. Had I been an estate agent, I wouldn’t have gone out of my way to show them to prospective home buyers, but I didn’t dare say so to Lilian. In her mind—and in the minds of quite a few medieval scholars—they were inestimable treasures.
“I didn’t realize that Marigold had shown the cottages to any clients,” I said.