Bess squawked insistently. Arthur lifted her into his arms and let her tug at his beard while he swayed gently from side to side. There was no doubting his experience with babies.
“Hillfont does have a certain air about it,” I said. I looked at the piles of twisted metal beneath the arcade. “It seems neat and tidy from a distance, but up close it’s a bit”—I cudgeled my brains for an adjective that would be both accurate and polite—“rustic.”
“I believe ‘rusty’ is the word you’re searching for,” Arthur said good-naturedly, following my gaze. “The unsightly stockpiles belong to my wife. She uses found objects in her art.”
“I didn’t know that your wife was an artist,” I said.
“Elaine is a structural engineer,” he said, “but in her spare time, she creates metal sculptures. Welding clears her mind. I’d introduce you to her, but she’s on an oil rig in the North Sea at present.”
“Too bad she’s not a stonemason,” I said without thinking, “because some of your courtyards are”—I teetered on the verge of bluntness, but hauled myself back with the same lifeline—“rustic, too.”
I winced and wished I’d kept my big mouth shut, but Arthur took my implied criticism in stride.
“Hillfont was designed to fray at the edges,” he informed me. “Quentin may not have invented planned obsolescence, but he built the concept into his plans for practical as well as aesthetic reasons. Tumbledown walls make Hillfont look authentically antique, but they also make it cheaper to maintain. He didn’t want his extravagant masterpiece to become a burden on his descendants.”
“Quentin was a very clever man,” I said. “Cleverness seems to run in your family.” I peered at the long wooden table beneath the arcade. “What are the boys up to?”
“Stephen is constructing a remote-control Meccano digger, to help Emily with her excavations,” said Arthur. “He shares his grandmother’s interest in engineering. Colin is dismantling my wife’s carriage clock in an attempt to make it run backwards. We’re not sure whether he’s interested in mechanics or in practical jokes.”
I looked at him doubtfully. “Is the carriage clock valuable?”
“Not as valuable as the knowledge Colin will gain by pulling it apart,” said Arthur. “Let me show you a ruin Quentin didn’t create.”
The busy children took no notice of us as we crossed to the stumpy, curved wall in the center of the courtyard. Bess surveyed the scene alertly over Arthur’s shoulder while I pushed the pram behind him and made faces at her.
We were still a few steps away from the wall when I heard the sound of gurgling water. When I leaned over the weathered stones, a rush of cool air brushed my face. The soft, upwelling breeze rose from the openings in an iron grate bolted over the mouth of a well shaft.
“If you drop down about ten feet or so, you’ll find a natural spring bubbling up from the earth,” said Arthur. “The spring inspired a Roman family to build a modest villa here in the fourth century. The well wall is all that remains of the villa. Quentin preserved the wall and named his home after the spring.”
“Font,” I said, smiling. “Font as in fountain, as in fountain court, as in Hillfont. What happened to the rest of the villa?”
“After the Romans departed,” said Arthur, “the locals used its dressed stones in their own building projects. Contrary to popular belief, recycling is not a new concept.”
I continued to smile. I’d been in a red-hot rage when I left Fairworth House, but I’d cooled off considerably since then. Arthur’s world, with its ultralights, chicken bones, and Roman villas, was the perfect antidote to Bill’s toxic aunts.
“What happened to your crown?” I asked. “There hasn’t been a coup, has there?”
“No, indeed,” he said. “Another granddaughter, Alanna, is replacing the wilted buttercups with fresh ones.”
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “She has a keen interest in millinery.”
Arthur laughed. “How did you—”
“Grandad!”
A pair of French doors in the abbey’s west wing had opened and a girl had stepped into the sunlight. She wore a striped red-and-white T-shirt, blue-jean shorts, and sandals, and it looked as though someone—an impetuous someone—had chopped a chunk out of her dark hair with a pocketknife. She was older than Colin, Stephen, and Emily—about ten, I thought—and after one hesitating step, she stood motionless, staring at us like a startled rabbit.
“Is that a baby, Grandad?” she asked wonderingly. “Where did you get a baby?” She ran across the courtyard to peer eagerly at Bess. “We haven’t had a baby in the house since Emily.” She looked from Arthur to me. “Is it a boy or a girl?”
“Bess is my daughter,” I said. “I’m Lori Shepherd and you”—I surveyed her roughly chopped hair—“must be Harriet.”
“I am Harriet,” she confirmed. “May I hold Bess? You can trust me. I’m good with babies.”