Mrs. Dinsdale informed me that Mrs. Edwards would be happy to meet with me at ten o’clock on Friday morning. I would have preferred to come to grips with my quarry sooner, but I was in no position to argue with Mrs. Dinsdale’s apologetic but firm assertion that Mrs. Edwards would be fully engaged until then.
I confirmed the date and time of the appointment, thanked Mrs. Dinsdale for her assistance, and ended the call, muttering, “I’ll bet Marigold Edwards isn’t fully engaged in finding buyers for our cottages.”
By then, Bess needed a diaper change.
I sorted her out and left her in her playpen, shaking a rainbow-striped toucan rattle, while I put the clean diapers into the dryer and the one she’d recently dirtied into the presoak bin. The clean-dirty diaper cycle was never-ending.
I loaded the all-terrain pram into the Range Rover in case Willis, Sr., wished to take his granddaughter for a stroll, but I didn’t bother to dress Bess in a special meet-the-grandaunts outfit because the one she had on would almost certainly have to be changed before Charlotte and Honoria made their grand entrance.
Since Bess was a drooling, pooping, upchucking clotheshorse, however, I packed the usual assortment of extra outfits in the diaper bag and hoped that her great-grandaunts would approve of the one she was wearing when they met her. It was a wan hope, admittedly, but when it came to dealing with Bill’s aunts, a wan hope was the only kind of hope I could manage.
I had no hope whatsoever of escaping criticism aimed at my own attire, regardless of what I wore. I could have been depressed by the thought, but I chose to regard it as liberating. It freed me to wear sneakers instead of heels and a utilitarian nursing top instead of a fancy blouse. I even felt a small rush of pride when I pulled on a pair of blue jeans I couldn’t have squeezed myself into six weeks earlier.
By nine o’clock, Bess, the diaper bag, and I were in the Range Rover and on our way to Fairworth House. It was another splendid summer morning, warm but not too warm and still without being stuffy. The sun shone in a cloudless sky and a myriad of small birds fluttered in and out of the hedgerows that lined the lane. I told Bess about Anscombe Manor and Bree Pym’s redbrick house as we drove past them, and announced our arrival when we reached the entrance to her grandfather’s estate.
Most of my friends had garage-door openers hooked to their car visors. I had a wrought-iron-gate opener hooked to mine. I pressed it and the gates guarding Willis, Sr.’s tree-lined drive swung inward. As I passed between them, I glanced upward, half expecting to see Amelia perched on a tree branch, polishing leaves. The Donovans wouldn’t have left her much else to do.
Deirdre and Declan Donovan lived in the self-contained apartment Willis, Sr., had carved out of the attics in Fairworth House. They were in their early thirties and they were the only full-time staff members my father-in-law employed. Declan worked outdoors, tending to the estate’s gardens, meadows, and woods and occasionally serving as Willis, Sr.’s chauffeur, while Deirdre filled the dual indoor roles of cook and housekeeper. They were both very good at their jobs. What’s more, they were good people. Bill and I slept more soundly at night, knowing that Willis, Sr., had such a competent, compassionate couple looking after him.
The Donovans thought themselves lucky to live and work in such a beautiful place, and when Fairworth House came into view, I couldn’t help but agree with them. There was nothing outlandish or flamboyant about my father-in-law’s home. It was a solid, respectable Georgian mansion—classical, restrained, and relatively modest in size. Its limestone walls glowed like old gold in the morning light, its tall windows sparkled, and its white trim work gleamed. Fairworth was, like its owner, elegant, understated, and well groomed.
I spotted Declan Donovan in the rose garden as I pulled onto the graveled apron in front of the house. Declan, a short, stocky, redheaded Irishman, was dressed in his gardening gear—a loose-fitting short-sleeved shirt, scruffy Wellington boots, and black nylon trousers with padded knees and a variety of pockets. When he saw me, he shoved his secateurs into a leg pocket and came over to lend me a hand with the diaper bag while I released Bess’s carry cot/car seat from the Rover.
“How’s our Bess this fine morning?” he inquired.
“Blooming,” I replied. “How’s our Amelia?”
“You’ll see for yourself in a min—”
Declan broke off as Amelia flung the front door open and all but flew down the front steps.
“Oh, dear,” I said under my breath.
“Yep,” Declan murmured succinctly.