Bess was too busy to vouchsafe an opinion, so I sang to her to pass the time. When she’d had her fill of cuddles and comfort food, I returned her to the pram, detached the hooded bassinet from the frame, and placed it gently on the ground.
“I’m preparing the work site,” I explained to her as I removed the all-important diaper bag from the frame and set it beside the bassinet. “We don’t want our mystery mechanic to think we’re entirely useless.”
I’d scarcely finished speaking when the white-haired man emerged from a distant opening in the wall, riding an old-fashioned, fat-tire bicycle hitched to a box trailer. He pedaled at a leisurely pace, his blue shirt rippling in the breeze, his buttercup-spangled wreath still firmly in place, seemingly untroubled by the track’s rough surface.
“I hope he’s better at avoiding potholes than I am,” I murmured to Bess.
She gurgled her agreement.
The man paused several times to retrieve the pram’s errant wheel as well as what appeared to be bits of axle, then rode on without incident, coming to a halt a few feet away from the pothole that had ambushed me. His wrinkled face and snowy hair had led me to believe that he was in Willis, Sr.’s age bracket, but a closer look suggested that he was younger—in his early sixties, perhaps. He seemed entirely unaware of his unusual headgear and I was reluctant to ask him about it. I didn’t want to offend a man who might be able to spare me the ignominy of bumping Bess home in a damaged pram.
“Hello again,” I said as he dismounted, wheel in hand. “I’m afraid you left before I could introduce myself. I’m Lori Shepherd, but everyone—”
“Everyone calls you Lori,” he interjected with a cheerful nod.
“That’s right,” I said. “How did you know?”
A tiny frown creased his forehead, as if I’d stumped him with a tough question, but it vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared.
“First impressions,” he replied. “You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who stands on ceremony, Lori. I don’t, either. Stand on ceremony, that is. Hargreaves,” he continued, pressing a hand to his chest. “Arthur Hargreaves, but I do hope you’ll call me Arthur. You’re from Finch, aren’t you?”
“I’m beginning to think you read minds, Arthur,” I said.
“No, no,” he said diffidently. “I merely made an educated guess based upon my knowledge of the local byways. Was I wrong?”
“No,” I said. “My family and I live near Finch.”
“As I thought.” He strolled across the lane to peer into the bassinet. “The newest member of your family, I presume?”
“Right again,” I said. “Her name is Bess and she’ll be four months old in a couple of weeks.”
“Enchanting.” He bent low and offered his little finger to Bess, who cooed amiably as she grasped it. “A pleasure to meet you, Bess.”
“Do you live . . . there?” I asked, nodding toward the stone wall.
Arthur followed my gaze, reclaimed his finger from Bess, and straightened.
“I do,” he replied. “There’s been a Hargreaves at Hillfont Abbey for more than a hundred years.”
“Is that where we are? Hillfont Abbey?” I asked interestedly. “I’ve never been down this way before, so I’m not familiar with the landmarks. I believe my father-in-law’s property runs alongside yours. His name is William Willis and he owns Fairworth House.”
“Ah, yes,” said Arthur. “The retired attorney with a passion for orchids. He’s getting married, isn’t he?”
“He is,” I said, smiling. “I didn’t realize you knew him.”
“I don’t,” said Arthur. “I’ve set out to introduce myself to him any number of times, but I’ve never actually managed to get away.”
I blinked at him in confusion.
“If you’ve never met William,” I said slowly, “how do you know that he’s a retired attorney who’s fond of orchids?”
“How does one come to know anything in the country?” Arthur asked lightly. “One listens.”
“I’m a pretty good listener,” I said, eyeing him doubtfully, “but I’ve never heard of you.”
“You might have, if you lived in Tillcote,” he said, naming a village fifteen miles north of Finch. “The lane from Hillfont to Tillcote is paved and in good repair. The lane from Hillfont to Finch is neither. I prefer the safer route.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said ruefully. “The unpaved section is downright dangerous.”
“Indeed.” Arthur held up the detached wheel. “Shall we proceed?”
“By all means,” I said.
Arthur rolled up his sleeves and got to work. He turned the pram frame upside down, ran his hand along the front fork, poked his fingertips into the oily holes that had once housed an axle, and slid the wheel in and out of the fork. He then wiped his oily fingers on his trousers and turned to face me.
“On the plus side,” he said, “you didn’t damage the fork or the wheel. On the minus side, you shattered the axle.”