“Our Bess,” Bill concluded, “is as perfectly perfect as perfect can be.”
We looked at each other and laughed. We wouldn’t allow ourselves to become baby-bores in public, but we were free to sing Bess’s praises in private, secure in the knowledge that every word we said was true.
“She’s also considerate,” I pointed out. “If we hadn’t turned our guest room into her nursery, we would have had to offer it to one of your cousins.”
“Thank God for small blessings,” Bill murmured, beaming at Bess. “I don’t know where Father will put everyone,” he added, shaking his head. “Fairworth House is big, but it isn’t big enough to accomodate his out-of-town guests as well as Amelia’s.”
“He could put someone in the old nursery,” I suggested facetiously. Willis, Sr., had refurbished the nursery in Fairworth House with his granddaughter’s comfort in mind. It came in handy when our visits coincided with Bess’s nap times, but it wasn’t a bedroom for grown-ups.
“Are you serious?” Bill asked, eyeing me doubtfully.
“I was attempting to be humorous,” I said, sighing. “An attempt which has clearly failed. The serious answer is: Amelia has booked hotel rooms in Oxford and Upper Deeping for those who accepted their invitations promptly. Late responders will have to fend for themselves.”
“I suppose they could rent the empty cottages,” said Bill.
A sense of unease rippled through me. The empty cottages worried me far more than Bill’s aunts. Honoria and Charlotte would be gone shortly after the wedding, but the cottages were part of a troubling trend.
Two cottages stood empty in Finch and they had done so for five months. Their former owners had either passed away or moved away, and though the little dwellings were attractive and in good repair, no new owners had come to claim them.
I couldn’t understand it. Finch might be small, but it was not without resources. Taxman’s Emporium stocked everything from baked beans to freckle cream, Peacock’s pub was renowned for its pub grub and ales, and Sally Cook’s tearoom was a pastry lover’s delight. Finch had its own church, post office, and greengrocer’s shop and it boasted the finest handyman in the county. Mr. Barlow, the retired mechanic who served as our church sexton, could turn his hand to just about any job.
Finch even had an international contingent. Bree Pym was from New Zealand, Jack MacBride was from Australia, and my family represented the United States, as did my best friend, Emma Harris, who lived up the lane from us in Anscombe Manor, where she’d established the riding academy Will and Rob attended. Our village was, in its own way, quite cosmopolitan.
Granted, there was no school, but the old schoolhouse was still very much in use as our village hall. The flower show, the Nativity play, and numerous bake sales were held there, and committees met beneath its roof to plan the year’s village activities.
Finch was surrounded by farmland, but Oxford wasn’t far away and Upper Deeping was even closer. It seemed to me that a relatively short drive to work was a small price to pay for a home in such a beautiful setting.
Fishermen could cast their lures into the Little Deeping River, cyclists could pedal in peace along uncrowded lanes, hikers could ramble to their hearts’ content on a network of lovely trails, and children could play in safety on the village green while the elderly swapped stories on the bench near the war memorial. All in all, Finch had a lot to offer.
Yet the two cottages remained empty.
“There shouldn’t be any empty cottages in Finch,” I said. “They should’ve been snapped up ages ago. What’s wrong with people, Bill? Why doesn’t anyone want to live here?”
“No idea,” said Bill. “And it’s too nice a day to waste fretting over a problem we can’t solve.”
I fell silent, but I didn’t stop fretting. It distressed me to see Ivy Cottage and Rose Cottage uninhabited. Their blank windows seemed to peer reproachfully at passersby, as if the village had somehow let them down. Amelia’s home, Pussywillows, would soon be on the market as well and I couldn’t help wondering if it would find a buyer. The thought of three perfectly good cottages standing vacant for months on end was as depressing as it was perplexing.
Bill spoke of everything but the empty cottages as we strolled past Emma Harris’s long, curving drive, Bree Pym’s redbrick house, and the wrought-iron gates guarding the entrance to Willis, Sr.’s estate. We were within a few yards of the humpbacked bridge that crossed the Little Deeping when I came to a halt.
“Here’s where we part ways,” I said to Bill, nodding toward the trees on our right. “If you squint, you’ll see an old cart track hidden away in there. Bess and I are heading for parts unknown.”
Bill pushed aside the branches of the bushy bay tree that concealed the track’s narrow entrance.