She’d scarcely taken two steps away from the settee when the door to the dining room opened and Deirdre Donovan entered the morning room, carrying a silver tray that held a Waterford pitcher filled with ice water, two Waterford tumblers, and a plateful of madeleines.
Deirdre was almost a full head taller than her husband and her refined English accent bore no trace of the years they’d spent together in his homeland. She was an exotic beauty, shapely and graceful, with a swanlike neck and a creamy complexion. During working hours, her “uniform” consisted of a full-skirted white shirt dress, a crisp black apron, black pumps, and a demure black snood—she was the only woman I knew who owned a snood—into which she bundled her luxuriant chestnut hair.
“Thank you, Deirdre,” said Amelia, resuming her seat. “I may have forgotten my manners, but you haven’t forgotten yours.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Amelia,” said Deirdre. “You’re under more pressure than I am.” She placed the silver tray on the occasional table at my elbow. “Shall I pour?”
“I think I can manage,” I said. “But thanks.”
“Will there be anything else?” Deirdre asked.
“Not at the moment,” said Amelia.
Deirdre motioned to the buzzer concealed beneath the mantel shelf.
“Ring if you need me,” she said. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Hello, Bess,” she added, smiling down at my bouncy daughter. “Your grandfather will be with you shortly.”
She bent low to caress Bess’s wispy curls, then left the morning room. Amelia waved away the glass of water I offered to her, so I drank it down greedily, refilled the glass, and drank half of it before setting it aside.
“I thought Deirdre would have a child of her own by now,” said Amelia, lowering her voice.
“So did I,” I said.
Amelia peered worriedly at the dining room door. “I hope she and Declan realize that William has no objection to—”
“Hold on,” I interrupted. “Would you mind skipping over the Donovans for now? I’d like to pick your brain about someone else.”
“Who?” Amelia asked.
“Marigold Edwards,” I replied. “What’s your take on her?”
“What’s my take on Marigold Edwards?” Amelia gave me a piercing look, then said cautiously, “I think she’s an excellent estate agent. My experience with her was completely satisfactory. I’d recommend her to anyone, apart from you and Bill, because you’d break William’s heart if you—”
“We’re not moving,” I stated firmly. “I’m just curious about Marigold. What is it, exactly, that makes her an excellent estate agent?”
My reassuring words seemed to enable Amelia to speak more freely and with more enthusiasm about the woman I would meet on Friday morning.
“Having Marigold as my agent was like having a friend in Finch,” she said. “She was thoroughly professional, of course, but she was also . . .” Amelia’s voice trailed off and she began again. “The first time I came to Finch to see Pussywillows, Marigold didn’t merely show me the cottage. She took me to the tearoom, the Emporium, the pub, the old schoolhouse, and the church.”
“Did she show you the wall paintings?” I asked.
“Naturally,” said Amelia. “They’re among Finch’s finest treasures and I would have missed them if Marigold hadn’t pointed them out to me. She drew my attention to all sorts of little details and she introduced me to everyone we met.” Amelia looked down at her hands. “As you know, Lori, I had my own reasons for purchasing Pussywillows, but Marigold gave me new reasons, fresh reasons, reasons that would never have occurred to me.”
“Such as?” I asked.
“Colorful characters,” Amelia said promptly. “Candid conversations. Concern for one’s neighbors. Pride in one’s village. And more else besides.”
I leaned toward her. “Did she tell you about the Finch-Tillcote feud?”
“Oh, yes,” said Amelia. “Marigold made it quite clear that the two villages did not get on. It put me off, rather.” Amelia frowned. “I felt as if I’d glimpsed the dark side of village life and I didn’t like it one bit. If I hadn’t had a very special reason to move to Finch, I might have chosen to live elsewhere.” A slow smile curved her lips as she stroked her engagement ring with her thumb. “Which would have been a grave mistake on my part.”
“I’m sure William would agree with you,” I said. “You weren’t looking for love when you came to Finch, but you found it anyway.”
“Life,” she said, her smile widening, “is full of surprises.”
The most wonderful surprise in Amelia’s life chose that moment to walk into the morning room.
Twelve