“I’ll go,” Bill offered drowsily.
“Stay put,” I murmured. “She’s hungry.”
Bill smiled sweetly. “It looks as though Bess isn’t the only one who speaks baby fluently.”
“I wish I spoke Finch half as well,” I said and sleepwalked my way to the nursery.
Ten
Bess had a natural aptitude for sleeping. She’d slept through the night ever since Bill and I had brought her home from the hospital. It had worried us at first, but after a few sleepless nights of our own we’d realized—with profound joy and gratitude—that we could stop tiptoeing into the nursery every five seconds to make sure that she hadn’t stopped breathing.
Bess was still our Sleeping Beauty. If she requested a nighttime feed, it was almost always because she’d had a particularly stimulating day. Since our day at the Cotswold Farm Park had been nothing if not stimulating, I wasn’t taken aback to find myself in the big rocking chair in the nursery, soothing Bess’s jangled nerves, while the rest of my family slept.
It didn’t take long for Sleeping Beauty to live up to her name, but by the time I resettled her in her crib, I’d regained something approximating full consciousness. I would have lain awake staring at the ceiling if I’d gone back to bed, so I went downstairs to the study instead.
The study was as dark as a tomb, brightened only by the baby monitor’s dim glow. I lit the mantel lamps, said hello to Reginald, took the blue journal from its place on the bookshelves, and sat with it in one of the tall leather armchairs that faced the hearth. I didn’t bother to light a fire. I didn’t think I’d be up long enough to need a fire’s warmth or its companionship.
“Dimity?” I said, opening the journal. “I’m pretty pooped, but I think I can stay upright long enough to fill you in on a few things.”
The familiar handwriting appeared at once, scrolling across the blank page in graceful loops and curves of royal-blue ink.
In that case, we’ll do our very best to stick to the highlights, my dear. Did you ask Mr. Barlow about Rose Cottage?
“I did,” I said. “He says that Rose Cottage is as sound as a bell. Ditto for Ivy Cottage, but we already knew how much work Jack put into rehabbing his late uncle’s place.”
And we know why Jack MacBride was so exacting in his refurbishment of Ivy Cottage.
“We do indeed,” I agreed. “He used the rehab as an excuse to stay in Finch while he was courting Bree.” I smiled reminiscently. “I caught him using a cotton swab to polish the bathroom tiles one day.”
He was—and is—very much in love. Happily, his persistence was rewarded. I believe Bree is as much in love with him as he is with her.
Although I enjoyed discussing young love as much as the next woman, I was also aware that my second wind wouldn’t last all night. Experience had taught me that fatigue was hovering in the wings, ready to pounce.
“Can we get back to Mr. Barlow for a minute?” I requested.
I’m sorry, Lori. I thought we’d finished with him.
“Not yet,” I said. “Mr. Barlow is afraid that Peggy Taxman will buy the empty cottages and turn them into vacation rentals.”
Heaven forfend! Has Peggy expressed an interest in expanding her empire?
“I don’t think so,” I said, “but I don’t know for sure.” I sighed heavily. “You were right, Dimity. I am out of touch with the villagers.”
I have no doubt that you’ll get back in touch with them the next time you’re in Finch. You can’t help being inquisitive, Lori. You’ll soon find out whether Mr. Barlow’s fears are baseless or well-founded.
“I’ll give it my best shot,” I said. “I do know one thing for sure, though. The cottages aren’t vacant because they’re in bad shape. Deathwatch beetles aren’t scaring away buyers, but Marigold Edwards might be.”
Who is Marigold Edwards?
“An estate agent,” I said. “She’s handling the sales of Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage. She also sold Pussywillows to Amelia Thistle and it looks as though she’ll sell it to the next owner, if she ever finds one.”
Marigold Edwards doesn’t, by any chance, work for the Edwards Estate Agency, does she?
“She married into the family firm,” I replied. “Why? Are you familiar with the Edwards agency?”
I was. It was an old and respectable firm in my day, but I had no idea that it was still in existence.
“It’s alive and well and doing business in Upper Deeping,” I said. “Finch is on Marigold’s turf, so to speak. She seems to be responsible for most of the property transactions that take place here. Mr. Barlow and Lilian Bunting didn’t have a bad word to say about her.” I frowned. “If you ask me, they’ve gotten so used to Marigold’s way of doing business that they’ve missed the obvious.”
What is “the obvious”?