“Let’s hope they take things too far,” said Grant, raising his glass.
“You’re both taking them far too seriously,” Charles said breezily. “I love a good pantomime villain. I hope William brings them to church on Sunday. I can’t wait to hear what they have to say about the vicar’s sermon.”
“I can’t wait to hear what they have to say about you,” I said pointedly.
Charles opened his mouth to reply, closed it, and became absorbed in serving the terrine. Grant smothered a satisfied grin with his napkin and after chatting about Bree Pym’s latest postcard, the vicar’s car repairs, and the purple begonias in Opal Taylor’s window box, I brought the conversation around to the subject that was uppermost in my mind.
Their faces lit up when I mentioned Marigold Edwards.
“If it hadn’t been for Marigold, we would have bought a place in Upper Deeping,” said Grant, as if he were describing a fate worse than death. “Finch wasn’t even on our radar until Marigold put it there. She insisted that we see Crabtree Cottage.”
“She wouldn’t take no for an answer,” said Charles, chuckling, “and how right she was. Crabtree Cottage was perfect. The minute we saw it, we felt as if we’d come home.”
“No quirks?” I said swiftly.
“Oodles of quirks,” Charles said delightedly. “The floors aren’t level, the walls bulge, the timbers creak, the windows rattle—but those are the things that give a place character. We weren’t looking for a flawless, soulless box. We wanted a house that lived and breathed.”
“We had our doubts about Finch,” Grant allowed. “We thought it would be too quiet for us.”
“We thought we’d be bored to death,” Charles interjected.
“Then Marigold showed us around the village,” Grant went on, “and we fell in love with it.”
“The villagers treated us like movie stars,” Charles gushed. “They simply pelted us with questions. Better still, they were completely indiscreet about one other. Was Christine Peacock’s new track suit really two sizes too small for her? Would Elspeth Binney’s cat portrait win a ribbon at the art show? Would Opal Taylor ever manage to sell her hideous lamp?”
“We felt as if we’d stepped onstage in the middle of a play,” said Grant. “We couldn’t wait to find out what happened next.”
“I sometimes think we moved to Finch for no other reason than to see Opal’s lamp for ourselves,” said Charles.
“Sally Cook’s jam doughnuts were sublime,” Grant said reminiscently, “and Dick Peacock’s wines were so ridiculously dreadful that we couldn’t resist tasting them all.”
“And Peggy’s sign-up sheets!” Charles exclaimed, clasping his hands together in pure ecstasy. “Do you remember her volunteer sign-up sheets, Grant? She wouldn’t allow us to leave the Emporium without them.”
“Peggy was a bit daunting,” Grant admitted, “but we could tell that she was devoted to Finch. She made us feel as though we could each play a valuable role in village life.” He looked at Charles. “We liked the notion of being needed.”
Charles nodded, then turned to me.
“Once we’d settled into Crabtree Cottage,” he said, “we went back to the Emporium with two of Peggy’s sign-up sheets. I’d volunteered to run the cake stall at the church fête and Grant had volunteered to paint scenery for the Nativity play.”
“We’ve been volunteering ever since,” said Grant.
“And we owe it all to Marigold,” said Charles. “I shudder to think of how dull our lives would have been if she hadn’t brought us to Finch.”
“Did Marigold warn you about the Finch-Tillcote feud?” I asked.
“She dropped a few hints about it,” said Charles. “We were enchanted by the notion of an absurd, eons-old feud dividing the two villages. It added just the right touch of melodrama to Finch.”
“We adore melodrama,” said Grant.
“It sounds as though you adore Marigold,” I said.
“We do,” said Charles. “We keep our distance while she’s working, of course, but we’re always pleased to see her when she calls on us.” He began to collect our empty plates. “Dessert, anyone?”
“Relax,” Grant told him. “You prepared the meal. I’ll clear the table and serve dessert.”
After a short interlude, during which Grant took the dirty dishes into the kitchen, Charles took Bess for a stroll around the garden, and I took stock of the information I’d collected, we returned to the table to partake of Charles’s masterful chocolate mousse.
I’d heard about my hosts’ experiences with Marigold, but I still hadn’t heard about their encounters with her clients. I allowed myself to savor one spoonful of mousse in blissful silence, then resumed my inquiry.
“It sounds as though Marigold has shown Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage to quite a few people,” I said. “Have you met any of them?”