Unsettled, I cleared up the wrapping paper, then carried my canvas bag into the bedroom to unpack. “Why couldn’t you just thank him?” I muttered fretfully, then paused in surprise as I opened the bag. A sheet of sketching paper was lying where my sweater had been. A single sentence from Meg was scrawled across it: Your clothes are in the mail. I flashed back to her lugging the bag to the car before I left. Sneaky, sneaky, I thought, then caught my breath when I saw what lay beneath the sketching paper.
There, folded with uncharacteristic care, was one of Meg’s blankets. It was one I’d never seen before, done in rich, muted shades of gold and green and lilac and deep purple, like the hills of Scotland in full heathery bloom. I pulled it out and held it to my face and it was as soft as a baby’s kiss, scented with salt air and the whisper of rain. How she had achieved that last effect, I had no idea, but it sent me spinning back to that stormy evening on her porch.
Almost without thinking, I touched the back of my left hand. It seemed to be tingling.
9
I spent the next morning browsing through Willis, Sr.’s books and packing my few bags. There was no need to hurry. The only thing left on my agenda was our bon voyage luncheon. I reread the letters from Dimity and my mother, paused to examine the photograph once again, then put them all into my carryon bag along with Reginald.
I wasn’t sure what to do with Meg’s blanket. It was too bulky to fit in my carryon and too precious to pack with my clothes; I quailed at the thought of some overworked baggage handler sending it to London, Ontario. I didn’t want to leave it behind, either, but I didn’t know what else to do. I presented the problem to Willis, Sr., when we met in the small dining room that afternoon, and his solution was simplicity itself.
“Leave it upstairs for now,” he suggested. “I’ll have one of the staff fetch it later and we’ll send it to London by courier. It will be at the cottage when you arrive.
“I’m sorry to say that my son will be unable to join us,”
he continued. “He is rather busy, I’m afraid, putting his work in order before his departure. Please, sit here, Miss Shepherd, and I shall ring for the first course. Do you care for asparagus?”
It was a leisurely meal and Willis, Sr., was a charming host, as always. I brought up the subject of the Northwest Passage and he took it from there, regaling me with stories of the bravery—and foolishness—of the men who had risked their lives in search of it. Two hours later, as we lingered over the raspberry tarts, he returned to more familiar terrain.
“You may be interested to know, Miss Shepherd, that I have contacted the cottage’s caretakers, Emma and Derek Harris, to let them know you are coming. The Harrises are a most pleasant couple. They knew Miss Westwood, of course, and were quite helpful during the renovation of the cottage. A few minor improvements,” he added, “undertaken by Miss Westwood some time ago, to bring the cottage into the twentieth century.”
I pictured a white-haired couple keeping a watchful eye on the cottage and became suddenly alert. “Do they live nearby?” I asked.
“I believe so,” said Willis, Sr. “If I recall correctly, theirs is the next house up the road.”
That made them Dimity’s neighbors. Could the Harrises be the kindly old couple who had come to Dimity’s aid? It seemed unlikely. If they had been elderly forty years ago, they’d be tombworthy by now. I would have questioned Willis, Sr., further, but Bill chose that moment to burst into the room, looking harassed.
“Change of plans, Lori,” he said. “We’re going to have to leave sooner than I’d expected.” He glanced at his watch. “Immediately, in fact. Our flight isn’t until seven, but Tom Fletcher tells me that the new security procedures for overseas flights can eat up a lot of time. Father, I’m bringing Tom out to the airport with me so I can finish some memos on the Taylor case. Aside from that, my desk is clear.”
“You’d best be off, then,” said Willis, Sr. “I shall meet you at the front entrance in, let us say, ten minutes?”
“Fine,” said Bill. “What a day….” He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair as he left the room.
Willis, Sr., folded his napkin and placed it beside his plate, then withdrew a flat, rectangular package from the inside pocket of his suitcoat. It was wrapped in gold foil.
“It seems that I must give you this now, Miss Shepherd. I do hope you will find it useful.”
“Oh, but you shouldn’t have….” Taking the package from him, I peeled away the gold foil. “Honestly, you’ve already gone out of your way to…” I faltered when I saw what he had given me. “A map,” I said, a bit unsteadily.
“A topographic map,” corrected Willis, Sr. “My son happened to mention your purchase of walking shoes, and I thought you might be considering a foray into the local countryside during your stay. If so, you will find this map most helpful. Have you ever used a topographic map?”
“No,” I said, “I’ve always hiked along posted trails.”
“You’ll pick it up in no time. You see, it shows the natural features and the elevations of the land surrounding the cottage. Here, I’ll show you where the cottage is….” Willis, Sr., opened the map and gave me a crash course in how to read it. When he finished, I reached out and squeezed his hand.