“We have lots of other things,” I protested. “Like peace and quiet and . . . and . . . nature.”
“Of course we do,” said Lilian. “But not everyone values peace and quiet and nature as much as you and I do.”
Bess emitted a tiny squawk and began to drool spectacularly.
“Snack time,” I announced. “In the nick of time, too. I was about to treat you to a lengthy diatribe about numbskulls who prefer petrol stations to bluebell glades, but nursing Bess always calms me down.”
“Bless you, Bess,” said Lilian, pretending to mop her brow. “I feel as if I’ve had a lucky escape.”
Once Bess was nestled against me, my crankiness dissolved. Lilian seemed content to listen to the birds and to watch butterflies flutter among the headstones while I recovered my good humor.
“Why were you looking for me earlier?” I asked, after my temper had cooled. “Was it just to say hello or did you have something in particular to say to me?”
“The latter,” she said, as if she were grateful for the reminder. “I’m not as proficient at eavesdropping as Millicent Scroggins, but I couldn’t help overhearing the first part of your conversation with Grant and Charles. I believe I heard Charles mention the name Arthur Hargreaves.”
“Mention it?” I said, laughing. “He practically shouted it at me. Jack and Bree could have heard him, and they’re in Australia.”
“Why did Charles shout Arthur Hargreaves’s name at you?” Lilian asked.
“I surprised him,” I said, “when I told him that I’d met Arthur Hargreaves.”
Lilian leaned toward me, her face alive with interest.
“Were you pulling Charles’s leg?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I was telling him the truth. Bess and I met Arthur yesterday.”
Lilian took a deep breath and expelled it in one explosive puff. I had the distinct impression that she was restraining an impulse to shout.
“Remarkable,” she said. “And brave.”
“Brave?” I said.
“The villagers aren’t fond of Arthur Hargreaves,” said Lilian. “I don’t know why, but they seem to harbor a grudge against him.”
“Would I be right to assume you haven’t met him?” I asked.
“You would,” said Lilian. “I don’t know if he’s a churchgoer, but if he is, he’ll attend services at All Saints Church in Tillcote rather than St. George’s.” She shifted her position to face me directly. “What’s he like?”
Bess had fallen into a milky trance, so I moved her to my diaper-draped shoulder and made myself presentable while I turned Lilian’s question over in my mind. I’d told Grant and Charles that Arthur Hargreaves was a knight in shining armor, but Lilian deserved a less clichéd response.
“Arthur Hargreaves,” I said finally, “didn’t offer me one word of child-rearing advice. Not one. He said Bess was enchanting. Period.” I smiled broadly. “I can’t tell you how refreshing it was.”
“He must be a real gentleman,” Lilian said approvingly. “How did you come to meet him?”
“Are you familiar with the old, disused farm track that runs along the northern boundary of William’s estate?” I asked.
“I’m aware of it,” Lilian replied, “but it floods so easily that I’ve never had the courage to explore it.”
“It floods?” I said, aghast. The rivulets Bess and I had crossed came to mind, along with the appalling image of me clawing my way up the flower-strewn banks with Bess cradled in one arm and the rising waters lapping at my heels.
“It turns into a raging stream every time it rains,” Lilian confirmed.
“That would explain the ruts,” I said, making a vivid mental note to avoid the farm track in wet weather. “Be that as it may . . .”
As I recounted my tale of the old farm track, the gnarly pothole, and the defective pram axle, I felt a renewed sense of gratitude to the man who’d spared me the humiliation of being rescued—again—by Bill. Lilian, however, was clearly more impressed by Arthur’s eccentricity than by his gallantry.
“He called himself the Summer King?” she said. “And he wore a crown?”
“It’s a family thing,” I said, dismissing her amazed reaction with a flick of my hand. “A bit of fun. He didn’t wave a sword around or order me to curtsy. He’s not bonkers, Lilian. He’s just . . . nice. He invited me to drop in on him the next time I’m near Hillfont Abbey.”
“Oh, do take him up on it,” Lilian pleaded with unexpected fervor. “I’d give a great deal to hear an eyewitness description of Hillfont Abbey. It would be one of the most notable landmarks in the county if its gates weren’t shut to visitors.”
“What’s notable about it?” I asked.
“In the first place,” said Lilian, “it isn’t an abbey.”
She was about to expand on her intriguing prologue when a double-throated shout smote our ears.
“Mummy!” bellowed Will and Rob.