“We’ve got sandwiches,” I said hastily, not wanting to take anything from someone who seemed to have so little.
“What good are sandwiches on a rotten old day like today?” Leo demanded. “You need something hot to take the chill off.” He leaned closer to me, cupped a hand around his mouth, and added in a stage whisper, “And between you and me, little lady, your drawers could do with a bit of drying.”
The comment was nothing short of outrageous, but the rascally twinkle in Leo’s eyes was so endearing—and my bottom was so wet—that I couldn’t resist the invitation.
“Thanks,” I said. “We’ll be happy to join you.”
“Good on ya,” Leo said cheerfully, clapping me on the shoulder.
“I’ll put plates on the table for you.”
“Please, don’t trouble yourself,” said Kit. “I have everything we need.”
“In that case,” said Leo, “you take my chair, Lori, and I’ll fetch something for me and Kit to sit on—unless you’ve got a sofa in that big pack of yours, Kit.” He winked good-naturedly, turned, and headed for the motor home, calling over his shoulder, “Back in two shakes!”
“What a nice man,” I murmured after he’d climbed into the motor home. “I’m glad you’re okay with him camping here.”
“To be honest, I’d rather he stay at the manor house,” Kit said softly, “but he strikes me as a man who likes his independence.”
When we reached the shelter of the awning, I slung my pack on the relatively dry ground, moved Leo’s chair from the place he’d set for himself to the other side of the table, and stood with my back to the fire, drying my “drawers.” Kit paused to peer into the stockpot, then set two new places with camping ware he unearthed from his pack.
He was warming his hands at the fire when Leo emerged from the motor home, carrying two camp stools. He handed one to Kit and planted his own in the spot previously occupied by the camp
68 Nancy Atherton
chair. In a little over two shakes, we were all seated at the table, drinking cups of sweet tea and digging into the rich, savory stew Leo had ladled from the pot onto our plates.
“Kit, eh?” Leo said, as we began to eat. “Kit as in Christopher?”
Kit’s mouth was so full that he could do nothing but nod in response.
“I knew a bloke named Christopher once,” said Leo. “Never left the town he was born in. His patron saint was wasted on him. St.
Christopher’s for travelers, not stay-at-homes.”
Leo’s accent intrigued me. There seemed to be several layers to it, though one was more prominent than the others.
“I hope you don’t mind my asking,” I said, “but are you Australian?”
“No such luck,” said Leo, “but I lived there for some forty-odd years—long enough to pick up the lingo. I’m reverting to my old ways, though.” He lifted his mug, crooked his pinkie finger genteelly, and feigned an effete English drawl. “By the end of the month, I’ll be wholly unintelligible to my chums in the Antipodes.”
“Your old ways?” I said when I’d finished laughing. “Were you originally from England?”
“I’m a Pommy born and bred,” Leo answered. “As a matter of fact, I spent a fair amount of time around here, in my younger days.
That’s when I discovered the old track into the hollow. Many’s the time I pitched a tent here. Gypsies used to camp here, too, on their way to the Deeping Fair. It’s a good spot—a spring for fresh water; berries, herbs, and mushrooms, if you know where to find them; and plenty of rabbits for the pot.” He put a spoonful of stew into his mouth and cocked an inquiring eyebrow at Kit.
“You’re welcome to the rabbits,” Kit assured him. “We’re overrun with them.”
I thought instantly of Reginald and felt a slight twinge of guilt as I looked down at my plate, but the stew was delicious and I was too cold and hungry to pass up a hot meal. Apart from that, Kit Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter
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was right—the Anscombe estate was bursting at the seams with rabbits. No one would begrudge Leo the few that found their way into his pot.
“Has the area changed much since you were last here?” I asked him.
“The weather hasn’t,” he said, squinting at the cloud-covered sky. “I’ll be heading south for the winter, but I wanted to stop here first. You might say I’m on a sentimental journey, revisiting the haunts of my youth. You’re a Yank, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, “but I’ve lived here for so long that my sons think cricket is their national pastime.”