“The feud should seem strange to Peggy and Sally and Christine and the Handmaidens,” I said. “None of them grew up here. Most of them were approaching middle age when they moved to Finch.”
If you’ll recall, some of them were billeted in Finch when they were children. Young children are very impressionable. They may have absorbed their host families’ prejudices. As for the others . . . Those new to a community often adopt its foibles. It’s not uncommon to find incomers resurrecting traditions the native-born have allowed to lapse, as a way of declaring their allegiance to their new home.
“And the, er, Tillcote folk haven’t exactly declared a truce,” I said.
They have been rather combative.
“It still seems odd to me,” I said. “I mean, it’s ancient history, isn’t it? Why would a Victorian spat continue to affect people today?”
I believe the strong feelings provoked by the American Civil War continue to affect people today. I’m not, of course, comparing the petty bickering of two small villages to a great and terrible civil war. I’m simply pointing out that the past has a way of intruding on the present, whether we’re conscious of it or not.
“Derek Harris thinks it’s a case of village rivalry run amok,” I said. “He thinks it’s ridiculous, but he goes along with it anyway.”
He goes along to get along, as my mother used to say.
“I wonder if Arthur is aware of the feud?” I said. “He didn’t make any wisecracks about Finch while I was with him. He didn’t treat me or Bess badly because we live in Finch. If the track between Finch and Hillfont were paved, I suspect he’d show his face more often in Finch.”
I’m not convinced that Quentin Hargreaves was aware of the resentment he’d stirred up among the villagers. He may have sided with Tillcote once, but he never did so again. Neither he nor his descendants participated in village life, either in Finch or in Tillcote. They kept themselves very much to themselves.
“They avoided the poisonous gas that permeated the atmosphere in Finch,” I said reflectively. “It’s a disturbing image, Dimity. Marigold Edwards could use it or something like it to drive off prospective buyers.”
Why would she do such a thing, Lori? How would it benefit her?
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” I said, “but I intend to find out. I’d confront her tomorrow if I hadn’t already promised myself to Amelia.”
Why did you promise yourself to Amelia?
“Bill’s aunts,” I said bleakly.
Oh, dear. I’d forgotten about Honoria and Charlotte. They’ll be here tomorrow, won’t they?
“Amelia expects them to arrive at Fairworth House around noon,” I said. “I promised to get her through the ordeal.”
Who will get you through the ordeal, my dear?
“Bess,” I replied.
I should have guessed. Good gracious, Lori, what are you doing down here at this late hour? You should be upstairs and asleep. You’ll need all of your strength if you’re to face your aunts-in-law tomorrow.
“I’m on my way, Dimity,” I said. “Thanks for the history lesson.”
You’re quite welcome, my dear. Now, scoot!
I waited until the elegant lines of fine copperplate script had faded from the page, then closed the blue journal and returned it to its shelf.
“I don’t care about village rivalries or multigenerational hissy fits,” I said to Reginald. “I won’t turn my back on Arthur Hargreaves.”
My pink bunny’s black button eyes gleamed softly in the lamplight, as if he’d given me his blessing to pursue my budding friendship with the Summer King.
Eleven
I felt surprisingly chipper when Bess roused me from slumber at the crack of dawn on Monday. Even so, I didn’t hesitate to accept Bill’s offer to drive the boys to school in his Mercedes and to pick them up at the end of the day. While his agenda contained nothing more pressing than the busywork he’d invented to avoid spending time with his aunts, mine was chock-full of vital tasks, the first of which I accomplished before leaving the cottage.
After downing a few hurried mouthfuls of breakfast, I waved Bill, Will, and Rob on their way, put a load of presoaked diapers into the washer, ate a proper breakfast, straightened the kitchen, and brought Bess and her workout mat into the study with me, so I could keep an eye on her while I called the number written on the page from Mr. Barlow’s notebook.
As normal business hours had not yet commenced, I thought I would have to leave a recorded message for Marigold Edwards. I was pleasantly surprised, therefore, when my call was answered by a courteous human voice telling me that I’d reached the offices of the Edwards Estate Agency. Marigold might not be a go-getter, but Mrs. Dinsdale—the firm’s office manager—evidently was.