“What’s wrong with the child?” Honoria demanded, cupping her hands over her ears.
“Can’t you do something?” Charlotte pleaded, following suit.
“I certainly can,” I said. I stood and addressed Amelia, raising my voice to be heard above the din. “I’ll take Bess for a walk. That usually does the trick.” I winced as Bess upped the volume. “We may be gone for a while.”
If Willis, Sr., had been present, Amelia probably would have come with me, but she evidently felt obliged to remain with his guests. I felt no such obligation. Although I was sorry to abandon Amelia for a second time, Bess and I left the sisters behind without a second glance.
Deirdre met me in the entrance hall.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked as Bess’s wails rebounded from the white marble walls.
“Bess needs a breath of untainted air,” I explained. “Her pram’s in the Rover.”
“Right,” said Deirdre. “I’ll fetch the diaper bag and meet you there. Look after Bess. Let me deal with the pram.”
In less than ten minutes, Bess and I were moving briskly across a verdant meadow on one of Willis, Sr.’s well-maintained gravel paths. Soothed by the change of scenery and by the all-terrain pram’s familiar vibrations, Bess quickly regained her composure.
I, on the other hand, was ready to spit tacks.
Fourteen
“
Trust fund babies,” I muttered furiously. “Pearls before swine. Simpleminded pleasures. Childbearing at an advanced age?”
If I’d been a dragon, I would have breathed fire.
“Your daddy knows his aunts much better than I do, Bess,” I went on. “He knew they’d try to undermine Amelia. Alcoholism, drug addiction, and mental illness, my foot!”
I walked so rapidly I scattered gravel in my wake. I didn’t bask in the sunshine or revel in the loveliness of the flower-sprinkled meadow. I charged ahead like a rampaging rhinoceros. I didn’t care where we were going, as long as it was away from the Harpies.
“Later on, Bess, when you’re old enough to learn about good and evil,” I continued, “I’ll show you a photograph of your grandfather and a photograph of the grandaunts you met today and explain to you which is which.” I kicked an inoffensive twig and sent it flying into the undergrowth. “Why can’t Grandpa William see it?”
Cool air, dappled shade, and the faint scent of moist earth suggested that we were no longer in the sunny meadow. I stopped to look around.
“The orchid wood,” I whispered. A shiver went down my spine as Willis, Sr.’s words came back to me. “A five-minute stroll through the orchid wood . . .” I tucked a blanket over Bess’s bare legs. “I wonder if the side entrance to the Summer King’s estate is locked? Let’s find out, shall we? He did invite us to drop in.”
I was pretty sure the side entrance Willis, Sr., had mentioned would be locked or rusted shut, but it didn’t matter. The mere thought of seeing Arthur Hargreaves again brought my anger with Bill’s aunts down to a manageable level.
“He should be at home,” I said to Bess. “Remember what Grant and Charles told us? The Hermit of Hillfont Abbey doesn’t leave home, if he can help it. Then again, Grant and Charles could be wrong.” I pursed my lips and said thoughtfully, “Everyone could be wrong about Arthur.”
I jiggled the pram to keep Bess amused while I reviewed the information I’d gathered about Arthur Hargreaves. According to the villagers, he was as mean-spirited and uppity as the rest of the Tillcote folk. According to Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham, he was a slightly mad, wholly secretive power broker. According to Willis, Sr., he was a fireworks aficionado, and according to Aunt Dimity, he was the innocent victim of an inherited feud.
“But none of them—not even Aunt Dimity—has met Arthur,” I said aloud. “Their impressions of him are based on rumor, hearsay, innuendo, and a story that’s been passed down from one generation to the next.” I stopped jiggling the pram and gazed steadily into Bess’s brown eyes. “This could be our chance to find out if the rumors are true, baby girl. Interested? I knew you would be. Let’s go!”
It took some time to locate the correct path among the many crisscrossing, branching trails in the orchid wood, but I eventually found myself standing before a formidable wrought-iron gate set into the boundary wall that had piqued my curiosity and drawn me farther along the old cart track than I’d intended to go. The wall itself was concealed by banks of massed rhododendrons and the gate was around the corner from the section Arthur had climbed.
“We couldn’t see the gate from the cart track,” I explained to Bess, “because it was hidden in a stand of trees. If your mummy had a better sense of direction, she would have known it was the orchid wood. Emma would have recognized it straightaway.” I rolled my eyes. “All that map reading . . .”
Bess sighed sympathetically.