My father-in-law wasn’t physically imposing, but he had impeccable manners, patrician good looks, and a flawless sense of style. His gleaming black leather shoes and his black three-piece suit fit him as though they’d been made for him, which they had, and his white shirt wasn’t blindingly white, but a more subtle shade that complimented his snowy hair perfectly.
His gray silk tie and pocket square were familiar accent pieces, but the forget-me-not in his buttonhole was a relatively new touch. He’d worn a fresh flower in his lapel ever since Amelia had tucked an anemone into his breast pocket during one of their long country rambles. It was his way of wearing his heart on his sleeve.
Bess went bananas as soon as Willis, Sr., entered the room. She kicked like a mule, waved her fists in the air, squeaked, gurgled, giggled, and favored him with a broad, gummy smile. His handsome face lit up when he saw her and when he spoke, he spoke as much to her as to me.
“Please forgive me for neglecting you so shamefully,” he said. “I had no idea that you were here. I have just this moment returned from paying my respects to Augusta Fairworthy.”
Augusta Fairworthy, who was distantly related to Deirdre Donovan, had grown up in Fairworth House. When she’d died, Willis, Sr., had honored her request to be buried on the estate, within view of the house, beneath an oak tree she’d climbed many times as a child.
“I hope you, too, will forgive my absence,” he continued, approaching Amelia.
“You were wise to absent yourself,” she said ruefully. “You’re safe now, though. The hurricane warning has been lifted.”
Willis, Sr., caught my eye and smiled, then raised his fiancée’s hand to his lips.
“Your desire to be helpful is wholly admirable, my dear,” he said, straightening, “if occasionally misplaced.” He held his arms out to Bess and looked questioningly at me. “May I?”
“You don’t have to ask, William,” I said, exasperated. “I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned it to you a few thousand times already, but for the thousand and oneth time: You don’t need my permission to hold your granddaughter.”
To spare Willis, Sr.’s back, I lifted Bess from the bouncy chair. To spare his exquisite suit, I draped a clean diaper over his shoulder before handing her to him.
“My granddaughter has gained weight,” he commented.
I headed him off before he could rile me by asking if I was feeding Bess properly.
“I know,” I said brightly. “It’s great, isn’t it? According to Dr. Finisterre, Bess is exactly the right weight for her age.”
“Dr. Finisterre is a fine physician,” Willis, Sr., said, nodding his approval.
He carried his granddaughter to the windows to show her the view, but she was more interested in grabbing his nose, poking him in the eye, and putting her fingers into his mouth. There was no such thing as dignity where Bess was concerned.
“We’ve been discussing Marigold Edwards,” said Amelia.
Willis, Sr., turned to face me.
“We’re not moving,” I said doggedly, in answer to his unspoken question. “We’re not even thinking about moving. Bill and I are as happy as clams in the cottage.”
“Why, then, were you and Amelia discussing Mrs. Edwards?” he inquired.
“I’ve taken an interest in her,” I replied. “Did you deal with her when you bought Fairworth House?”
“I did not,” he said. “I dealt directly with the previous owner. He was eighty-four years old at the time, and living in Singapore. He wished to rid himself of an inherited estate that had become an encumbrance. I had no difficulty conducting the transaction without the aid of a local estate agent.”
With Bess gripping his chin and patting his lips, Willis, Sr., was unable to enunciate his words with his usual precision, but he managed to make himself understood.
“Although I have not yet met Mrs. Edwards,” he went on, “I will, of course, be eternally grateful to her for facilitating Amelia’s purchase of Pussywillows.” He bestowed a tender glance on his beloved.
I was about to move on to the third item on my agenda when Deirdre Donovan returned, bringing with her a second pitcher of ice water and a single Waterford tumbler, presumably for Willis, Sr.’s use. She placed the pitcher and the tumbler on the salver, then sniffed the air.
“Unless I’m mistaken,” she said, “someone needs a fresh nappy.”
Willis, Sr., sniffed his granddaughter delicately, then nodded.
“My olfactory receptors are not as acute as yours,” he said, “but I believe you are correct.”
“Sorry, William,” I said, standing. “I must be getting used to it.”
“Please, allow me,” said Deirdre, taking Bess from Willis, Sr. “You don’t mind if I do the honors, do you, Lori?”
“Have I ever kept you from changing Bess’s diapers?” I said, sinking back into my chair. “Knock yourself out!”