Bess was familiar with Deirdre and went with her willingly. A moment later, the sound of the elevator Willis, Sr., had installed in the entrance hall told us that they were on their way to the top-floor nursery. Willis, Sr., divested himself of his suit protector and Amelia tucked it into the diaper bag, looking thoughtful.
“Perhaps she’s practicing,” Amelia proposed, as Willis, Sr., seated himself beside her on the settee, “for when she has to change her own baby’s nappies.” She turned to him. “Has Deirdre said anything to you about starting a family, William? Has Declan?”
“They have not,” said Willis, Sr. “I would not expect the Donovans to discuss such a personal matter with me and I would urge you to refrain from discussing it. They may not wish to have children, they may wish to postpone having them, or they may be unable to have them. It is entirely their own affair. Speculation by a third party would be disrespectful, intrusive, and potentially hurtful.”
“You’re right, of course,” said Amelia, but her fiancé’s comprehensive critique of idle gossip didn’t prevent her from adding, “What a tragedy it would be if they were infertile.”
“Shall we change the subject?” Willis, Sr., requested with a swift glance in my direction.
Willis, Sr., knew that I’d once harbored doubts about my own ability to start a family. He seemed to think that Amelia’s musings might revive memories I did not wish to recall. I could have told him that those memories no longer troubled me. I could have said that each of my children had been well worth the wait. Instead, I shamelessly exploited his concern for me by pouncing on the chance to change the subject.
“Arthur Hargreaves,” I said abruptly, putting a triumphant mental check mark next to the third item on my agenda. “What can you tell me about him, William?”
“Why do you wish to know about Arthur Hargreaves?” Willis, Sr., asked, looking bemused. “Have you taken an interest in him as well?”
“Bess and I met him on Saturday,” I said. “I was a little surprised when he told me he’d never met you.”
“Who is Arthur Hargreaves?” Amelia asked.
“He’s William’s next-door neighbor,” I replied. “He lives in a place called Hillfont Abbey.”
“The Hargreaves estate is adjacent to mine,” Willis, Sr., clarified. “Technically, Mr. Hargreaves is my neighbor, but he and I do not interact in what most people would describe as a neighborly fashion.”
“Why not?” Amelia and I asked simultaneously. She sounded astonished, but I simply wanted to hear Willis, Sr.’s side of the story.
“I cannot speak for Mr. Hargreaves,” he said, “but it is an old habit of mine to respect a person’s privacy until he or she invites me to do otherwise. I have received no such invitation from Mr. Hargreaves.”
Amelia tossed her head impatiently.
“William,” she said, “for an intelligent man, you can be remarkably obtuse at times. What if poor Mr. Hargreaves is waiting for you to invite him to invade your precious privacy?”
“If such is the case,” said Willis, Sr., “I fear that we shall remain strangers.”
“You haven’t avoided him intentionally, have you?” I asked. “Because of the Finch-Tillcote feud?”
Willis, Sr., appeared to be faintly puzzled.
“Are the two villages engaged in a feud?” he asked.
“Of course they are,” Amelia expostulated. “You must know about the feud, William. It’s been going on for ages. Marigold Edwards told me all about it when I first came to Finch.”
“I am not acquainted with Mrs. Edwards,” Willis, Sr., reminded her.
“Nor am I,” I said. “William and I are in the same boat, Amelia. Neither of us used an estate agent when we moved to Finch. No one told me about the feud until yesterday, but you’re right—it’s been going on for a long time.”
“How long?” Willis, Sr., inquired.
“Victoria was still on the throne when it started,” I said, recalling Aunt Dimity’s history lesson. “Local lore has it that Arthur’s great-great-grandfather, Quentin Hargreaves, sided with Tillcote in a quarrel about three stolen pigs.”
“Did Quentin Hargreaves blame the theft on a person or persons residing in Finch?” Willis, Sr., asked.
“Quentin didn’t point a finger at anyone,” I said, “but he chose Tillcote over Finch, so he must have believed that the guilty party lived in Finch.”
“Implications can sometimes do more damage than outright accusations,” Willis, Sr., observed. “One can defend oneself against an accusation. An implication is more difficult to refute.”
“Quentin’s implication outraged Finch’s law-abiding residents,” I said. “They shunned the Hargreaves family because of it and they’ve been shunning them ever since. That’s why I thought you might . . .” My voice faded as Willis, Sr., gave me a withering look.
“I think he’s outraged by your implication,” Amelia said in a deliberately comical stage whisper.