“One intelligible account, coming up,” I said. I distilled Jack’s long, sad story into a more compact version, but by the time I finished, Aunt Dimity knew as much about Jack MacBride as I did.
What a touching tale. Hector Huggins looked into the eyes of a six-year-old boy and saw someone quite different from himself, but instead of denigrating the difference—as Jack’s father did—he accepted, admired, and nurtured it. By doing so, he helped Jack to become the fine young man you’ve described.
“He certainly did,” I said. “Jack seems to be aware of the debt he owes his uncle.”
It’s a debt of love and gratitude, which he has already begun to repay. You and I might be bored to tears by Mr. Huggins’s memoir, but I doubt Jack will be. I believe Jack will treasure every word. Yes, indeed, a very touching tale, and at the same time, as you put it, a waterfall of gossip! Jack painted a remarkably detailed picture of his past and present circumstances for you and Bree. I wonder why he was willing to explain himself to you?
“He wasn’t just explaining himself to us,” I said. “He was explaining himself to the whole village and it’s not hard to understand why. He doesn’t want people to see him as a vulture swooping in to pick his uncle’s bones.”
I don’t believe anyone who met him on Saturday regarded him as a vulture.
“Maybe not,” I said, “but they’ve had time to reconsider. Who knows what nasty notions have occurred to them since then?”
Very true. He was wise to enlist you and Bree as his ambassadors. You’ll both be fearless in his defense, should the need arise.
“I wouldn’t count on Bree just yet,” I said. “She thinks Jack’s up to something.”
What sort of something?
“Who knows?” I said. “She doesn’t. If you ask me, she’s miffed with Jack for confounding her expectations. She wanted him to be a foul-mouthed, beer-guzzling Aussie lout, but his charm offensive disarmed her.”
It can be unsettling to have one’s prejudices undermined.
“Prejudices should be undermined,” I stated firmly. I hesitated, then added, “I have to agree with her about one thing, though. Jack was preternaturally nice to her. He shrugged off every poisoned dart she threw at him and kept on smiling.”
Yes, well, she’s the only young person he’s laid eyes on since he arrived in Finch, and she happens to be an immensely attractive young person. Jack, too, is young, he’s a long way from home, and he and Bree do come from the same hemisphere. It’s entirely understandable that he should be drawn to her. Wouldn’t it be splendid if they fell in love?
“Matchmaking from beyond the grave,” I said, clucking my tongue. “You simply can’t help yourself, can you, Dimity?”
Old habits die hard. So to speak.
I laughed out loud.
“I’ll let you know if I detect any softening on Bree’s part,” I said. “I won’t be able to observe her on the way to Ivy Cottage tomorrow, though, because she’ll be driving her car and I’ll be riding my new bike.”
Through the rain?
“It won’t rain tomorrow,” I said.
You sound very sure of yourself.
“I am very sure of myself, because—” I stopped short and started over again, feeling foolish. “Sorry, Dimity. I forgot to tell you about the wishing well.” I hunkered down in the tall armchair and repaired my omission. When I was done, Aunt Dimity’s handwriting resumed.
I seem to recall a well at Ivy Cottage—the Sandersons lived there in my time, and Mrs. Sanderson used to take tea with my mother in the back garden—but I don’t remember it as a wishing well. Mr. Sanderson had trained ivy to grow up the sides, though, so the inscription you mentioned must have been hidden from view.
“What a pity,” I said airily. “You missed your chance to make a wish. I, on the other hand, spoke, so my wish will be granted. The soggy season ends tomorrow.”
Naturally.
“Do I detect a note of sarcasm in your response, Dimity?” I inquired.
You detect an entire symphony of sarcasm in my response, my dear. Did Bree make a wish?
“Certainly not,” I said. “She’s much more grown up than I am.”
In some ways, perhaps. Jack MacBride may help us to see just how grown up she is.
“Stay tuned for further developments,” I said. I glanced at the mantel clock and scrambled to my feet.
“Gotta run, Dimity. Will and Rob will have to flag down a cab if I don’t leave right this minute.”
Drive carefully, my dear. I don’t want you to end up in a ditch again.
“You and Bill will never let me forget the ditch incident, will you?” I grumbled.
I sincerely doubt it.
I smiled wryly while Aunt Dimity’s handwriting faded from the page, then returned the journal to its shelf, gave Reginald’s ears a quick twiddle, and took off in the Rover for Upper Deeping.
It may have been wishful thinking, but as I dodged puddles and braved rushing rivulets, I could have sworn the rain was slacking off.
Eight
“You’re proud of yourself,” Bill said during breakfast on Tuesday morning. “You’re actually proud of yourself.”