“The ultralight?” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “No, I didn’t make it. I merely tweaked a few engine parts for its owner. He’ll be along later to pick it up. I think he’ll be happy with my improvements.” He cocked his head toward me. “Would you like to come in? Or were you merely passing by?”
“No one could pass your gate accidentally, Arthur,” I said, grinning. “Of course I want to come in. Unless”—I looked down, feeling suddenly shy—“unless Bess and I are intruding.”
“How could you intrude?” he asked. “I invited you.”
He tugged on the gate and it swung aside soundlessly.
“It’s not locked,” I said. “I thought it might be.”
“Why would I lock it?” Arthur asked. “Your father-in-law is a decent chap. Or so I’ve heard.”
“William is decent,” I said, as I wheeled Bess past him, “but he mystifies me. Come to think of it, so do you. The pair of you live next door to each other, with an unlocked gate between you, yet you haven’t exchanged so much as a how-do-you-do.” I looked up at Arthur, perplexed. “Is it a guy thing?”
“Yes, Lori,” he said, closing the gate behind me. “It’s a guy thing. Hello, princess.” He bent to stroke Bess’s cheek with his knuckles, then squatted to study the pram. “My repairs seem to be holding up.”
“So far, so good,” I said. “Thank you for calling the company’s CEO.”
“It was no trouble,” said Arthur. “He said himself that he’d rather hear the bad news about the axle from me than from a mother whose child had been injured because of it.”
“I wouldn’t have known how to get ahold of him,” I said, recalling Grant Tavistock’s comments about Arthur’s mysterious corporate connections. “Is he a friend of yours?”
“A former student,” Arthur replied.
His answer seemed to demolish Charles Bellingham’s repeated assertions that the infamous Mr. Hargreaves was profoundly antisocial. I doubted that a recluse would feel comfortable in a classroom.
“Are you a teacher?” I asked.
“Everyone’s a teacher,” he said, standing. “I could do with a cup of tea after my test flight. What about you?”
“I’d love one,” I replied.
“Please, allow me,” he said, holding his hand out toward the pram. “You probably don’t get many chances to walk with your hands free.”
“Not lately,” I agreed, wondering if I’d ever met a more perfect gentleman. No one who knew Arthur Hargreaves, I thought, could regard him as mean-spirited or uppity.
He took control of the pram and we strode side by side across the broad meadow. Bess was entranced by her new companion. She smacked her lips, cooed, and gurgled, as if she were engaging him in conversation. When he responded with soft noises of his own, she kicked so enthusiastically that her blanket slithered to the ground. I picked it up, shook it out, and put it in the diaper bag. “How’s Marcus doing in Santiago?” I asked.
“He’s having a ball,” Arthur replied. “He’s climbed a couple of cerros, eaten pastel de choclo in a barrio, shouted himself hoarse at a football game, and made lots of new friends.”
“Didn’t he go there to attend a conference?” I asked uncertainly.
“Oh, yes,” said Arthur, as if the conference were an afterthought. “His paper was very well received.”
“Good for Marcus,” I said. “Are the rest of your grandchildren still here?”
“Just the little ones,” he replied, “and Harriet. Her summer hols started last week.”
“Harriet’s the one who got kite paste in her hair, isn’t she?” I asked and Arthur nodded. “Do your grandchildren stay with you often?”
“As often as they please,” he said. “They seem to like it here.”
“I can see why,” I said, gazing admiringly at the abbey. “Hillfont Abbey is—”
“Absurd,” Arthur put in. “It’s utterly ridiculous.” He eyed his home ruefully. “Silly houses were all the rage when my great-great-grandfather built Hillfont. His name was Quentin Hargreaves and he had a taste for medieval kitsch. I’m thankful that he never toured India. If he had, I might be living in a scaled-down version of the Brighton Pavilion.”
“I like Hillfont Abbey,” I said. “I guess I share your great-great-grandfather’s taste for medieval kitsch.”
“It’s better than the Brighton Pavilion,” Arthur conceded. “I can’t bear Indo-Gothic architecture. Much too busy. It would be like living inside a kaleidoscope.”
I did my best to conceal it, but I was shocked to hear Arthur speak so disparagingly about his family home. If he’d been around when Hillfont Abbey had been built, he would have sided with the Victorian villagers who’d dismissed it as an overdone eyesore. Did he realize that his opinion echoed theirs? I asked myself. Was he aware of the hostility his great-great-grandfather had roused in them?
“I suppose Hillfont Abbey wasn’t to everyone’s taste when it was built,” I said cautiously. “What did your great-great—”
“Please, call him Quentin,” Arthur interrupted. “It’ll save time.”