“Bought it up, did you?” she sneered. “Going to improve it? Going to make it better?”
Her questions took me by surprise. My arrival at the cottage had been the hot topic of conversation in Finch for at least two years, and I still attracted a goodly amount of attention from the villagers.
I was so used to people knowing all sorts of things about me that it came as something of a shock to find someone who knew absolutely nothing. If I’d needed proof that Lizzie Black lived in isolation, I’d just found it.
“As a matter of fact, I inherited the cottage,” I answered. “Dimity left it to me in her will. And I haven’t done anything to it. As far as I’m concerned, it’s perfect.”
Lizzie cocked her head to one side and regarded me suspiciously.
“Why would Dimity Westwood leave her cottage to you, Lori Shepherd?”
“My mother was her best friend,” I replied simply.
Lizzie’s whole demeanor changed. Her blue eyes widened, her balled fi sts relaxed, and her harsh voice softened as she said, “Your mother would be Beth, would she?”
I blinked, startled to hear my mother’s name spoken in a place she’d never seen, by someone she’d never met.
“Yes, my mother was Beth Shepherd,” I said. “She died shortly before Dimity Westwood passed away.”
Lizzie pursed her lips, then nodded once. “You’d best come in, then, Lori Shepherd.”
She withdrew into the farmhouse, leaving the door open behind her. I took a bracing gulp of cold, damp air and followed her into a large, rectangular room with white-plastered walls, a raftered
88 Nancy Atherton
ceiling, and a well-worn flagstone floor. A blanket of warmth enfolded me as soon as I stepped into the cottage, redolent with the tantalizing aromas of fresh-baked bread, roasted meat, and fragrant herbs. The delicious scents made my stomach grumble longingly, but I was too absorbed in my surroundings to regret missing my dinner.
The room was lit not by candles but by three old-fashioned kerosene lamps with bulbous reservoirs, etched bases, and fluted chimneys. Faded rag rugs covered the uneven limestone flags, and hams, bunches of herbs, strings of dried red berries, and skeins of yarn hung from the blackened rafters.
The huge hearth that pierced the north wall had been fitted with a type of black-leaded range I’d seen only once before, in a museum of country life. It had an oven on one side, a boiler on the other, and an open fire burning in a grate in between. A teakettle hung on a pivoting pothook above the fire, and woven pot holders dangled from iron hooks set into the mantelshelf.
A wooden rocking chair sat close to the hearth, opposite a threelegged stool and a full-size spinning wheel, and a towering pine dresser beside the hearth was crammed with books and piled with mismatched but beautiful old china.
The south wall held a deep stone sink with a hand pump at one end and a wooden draining board at the other. The rest of the walls were hung with shelves that held too many objects to catalogue at a glance. The remains of a meal littered the oak table that occupied the center of the room—a brown teapot and a blue-and-white striped mug, a crust of bread, an apple core, a plate bearing telltale swirls of gravy.
“I’m so sorry,” I said as I closed the door behind me. “I’ve interrupted your dinner.”
“No matter,” said Lizzie. “I’d finished.” She cleared the table and took the plate to the sink. “Warm yourself by the fire. I’ll freshen the pot.”
Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter
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I took off my jacket and sat on the stool with it in my lap while Lizzie prepared tea in the traditional manner, rinsing the teapot with hot water from the kettle, adding three teaspoons of tea leaves from a caddy on the dresser, filling the pot with boiling water, stirring the mixture, then setting it aside to infuse for several minutes. When the tea was ready, she added milk and sugar to my cup without asking whether I wanted them or not and handed it to me. I accepted it gratefully, hoping to appease my growling stomach.
Lizzie didn’t refill her own cup. Instead, she sat in the rocking chair, took a pair of knitting needles from a wicker basket filled with balls of yarn, and began to knit so rapidly that I forgot about my tea and watched her, mesmerized.
“Wow,” I said, after she’d whizzed through the first five rows.
“You’re fast.”
“I have to be,” she said. “I earn my living with my knitting, among other things.”
“Doesn’t it hurt your eyes to work at night?” I asked, glancing at the kerosene lamps.
“I don’t need to look,” she said. “My hands know what to do.”
“They certainly do,” I said respectfully, and because she’d shown no sign of resenting my first question, I asked another. “Where do you sell your knitting?”
“In an exclusive little shop in Upper Deeping,” she replied. “The owner comes by once a month to fetch what I’ve finished.” A hint of amusement lit Lizzie’s eyes as she added, “She walks in. Doesn’t like to risk her motorcar.”