“Noticed, did you?” he asked.
“I’m not blind,” I retorted. “You’ve been courting her from day one, though I can’t imagine why. I haven’t forgotten the first time Bree and I came to lunch at Ivy Cottage. You laughed off her snotty comments and put up with her rudeness and turned the other cheek every time she gave you a verbal smack in the chops, despite the fact that you didn’t know her well enough to see through her tough-girl act. Why were you so nice to her when she was so mean to you?”
Jack studied his hands for a moment, then gazed at me steadily.
“You’re wrong when you say I didn’t know Bree,” he said quietly. “I’ve known her almost as long as you have. Uncle Hector told me about her in his letters. He told me about her drunken father and the misery he caused her. He told me how you found her in Queenstown and coaxed her into coming to England to meet her great-grandaunts before they died. He told me what it meant to her to lose them. He told me how fond she is of Mr. Barlow and how she teases Peggy Taxman and how she helped some little kids from Upper Deeping until they moved up north with their mum. Uncle Hector told me how much Bree depends on your friendship and how lonely, how very lonely she is in that big redbrick house.”
I closed my eyes and smiled as the full impact of his words came home to me. “You loved Bree before you ever met her.”
“It sounds crazy, I know,” he began, “but—”
“It doesn’t sound crazy to me,” I interrupted, leaning toward him and returning his steady gaze. “I know from personal experience that it can happen. Ask Bill about it sometime. Ask him to tell you how he fell in love with me.”
“I will,” said Jack, looking puzzled but willing to play along.
“Did Uncle Hector tell you what wish Bree would make?” I asked. “Because if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say she’d wish to fall deeply in love with a man who loved her deeply. Simple as that. Complicated as that. Just that.”
“She’s bloody annoyed with me at the moment,” Jack reminded me.
“It’ll pass,” I said. “You know as well as I do that Bree can’t stay mad at you, and you know why. Take a lesson from your uncle, Jack. Reel her in slowly.”
“Come to think of it,” said Jack, “I’m not as far along with the memoir as I thought I was and it looks as though the roof may need some major repairs.” He smiled. “I may be here for quite some time.”
“Good man.” I gave him an approving nod and stood. “It’s time we were on our way, my friend.”
“Where are we going?” he asked, getting to his feet.
“To the party at Anscombe Manor,” I answered. “You’re going to tell everyone there what you’ve told me here. Except the part about Bree. That’s between you and me.”
“Do you think the villagers will be brassed off?” Jack asked.
“Some of them might be, at first,” I said, “but in the long run they’ll be proud and pleased and grateful to you and your uncle.” I nodded toward the familiar faces gracing the cork-lined walls. “It’s not every village that has its own biographer.”
Epilogue
My Village by Hector Huggins was published in September, to general acclaim. The acclaim could be general because instead of publishing one copy, Market Town Books published a copy for every villager mentioned in it. Jack paid for the extra volumes out of the money his uncle left him, which turned out to be quite a tidy sum.
Jemma Renshawe’s photographs had improved markedly when she’d stopped ambushing her subjects and started asking them how they wished to be portrayed. Sally and Henry had posed in front of the tearoom; Mr. Barlow, in front of his garage; Peggy and Jasper, halfway between the freshly painted Emporium and the greengrocer’s shop; the vicar and Lilian Bunting, on the steps of St. George’s Church.
Charles and Grant had posed in front of their garden shed, with the Asazuki painting held between them, and the antique brass locomotive featured prominently in George Wetherhead’s portrait. Bree had chosen to be photographed standing behind her great-grandaunts’ headstone, smiling broadly, as if Ruth and Louise were standing beside her.
No one looked demented.
Much to Elspeth Binney’s relief, Jemma returned to Yorkshire as soon as she completed her assignment. Elspeth spent three days restoring order to her cottage, then resumed hosting the Handmaidens’ biweekly bridge nights. Though she still takes painting classes from Mr. Shuttleworth in Upper Deeping, she no longer yearns for the dubious privilege of living with an artist.