Both activities required concentration and supple neck muscles.
The sisters would have taken me straight into their front parlor, but I insisted on leaving my hiking boots with my jacket in the foyer and stopping in their powder room to freshen up. Since I couldn’t bear the thought of besmirching their lovely needlepoint chairs with my unfortunate trousers, I brought a towel with me when I joined them in the parlor and spread it on my chair before sitting down.
While I’d been washing up, the sisters had set the walnut tea table with an assortment of cakes, muffins, and sandwiches that Henrietta Harcourt would have looked upon with approval. As I took my seat near the fire, the teakettle’s whistle called Louise to the kitchen. She returned a short time later, carrying a tray with cups, saucers, and the hand-painted tea set the sisters always used when they had company.
“Don’t stir, Lori,” said Ruth. “I’ll toast a muffin for you and . . .”
“. . . I’ll fi ll your cup,” said Louise.
Although I found it deeply embarrassing to be waited on by a pair of centenarian spinsters, I made no effort to stop them. The sisters might look as frail as frost, but they were, in fact, as tough as old tree roots. They kept their house spotless; gardened in all weather; canned, preserved, bottled, pickled, and dried the fruits of their labors; and participated in village life with a vigor that put women half their age to shame. They were perfectly capable of toasting muffins and pouring tea without any help from me.
Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter
165
After a few minutes of industrious fluttering, they came to rest in chairs facing mine across the tea table, which was now amply supplied with hot, buttered muffins, and asked about Bill, the twins, Stanley, Annelise, and me. While I answered their questions, their bright bird’s eyes flitted interestedly over my less-than-formal attire.
“I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” I apologized, dabbing melted butter from my lips with a lace-edged linen napkin. “Kit Smith and I hiked over to Aldercot Hall this morning, and the trails were pretty muddy.”
“Aldercot Hall?” said Ruth. “A splendid house. So sad that it fell into the hands of such dreadful people.”
“The DuCarals, you know,” said Louise. “Maurice and Madeline. Not one of our old families. They made their money . . .”
“. . . in washing-machine parts,” said Ruth, “and once they’d struck it rich, they left their old life behind and bought . . .”
“. . . Aldercot Hall, to impress their old friends,” said Louise.
“They hired people to decorate the house and to tend the gardens, and they hired their help through a London agency. They bought a herd . . .”
“. . . of fallow deer,” said Ruth, “because they’d seen one at another stately home and thought it was de rigueur. They hired a gamekeeper . . .”
“. . . to manage the deer, the grouse, and the pheasants,” said Louise, “and a stableman . . .”
“. . . to look after a pair of hunters they never learned to ride,”
said Ruth.
“So silly of them,” said Louise. “Maurice DuCaral didn’t know the fi rst thing about shooting . . .”
“. . . or riding . . .”
“. . . or fishing,” said Louise, “but he bought the right outfits and the most expensive guns and rods and went about . . .”
“. . . pretending to be lord of the manor.” Ruth tilted her head to one side and peered vaguely at the ceiling. “He had no idea what
166 Nancy Atherton
it means to be lord of the manor. Maurice and Madeline thought local matters . . .”
“. . . were beneath their notice,” said Louise. “They never took an interest in their neighbors, and they never allowed their children to mix with . . .”
“. . . anyone who had less money than they did. They thought their money made them superior, you see.” Ruth clucked her tongue.
“Poor things. They were wholly unsuited to country life.”
Louise nodded sadly. “They simply didn’t have a clue.”
“It must have been hard on the children,” I said.
“Ah, yes,” said Ruth. “Poor Charlotte. She had one chance to escape her parents’ clutches, but the young man . . .”
“. . . failed her,” said Louise. “She shouldn’t have put her faith in Leo. He never was very reliable.”
“Leo?” I said, startled. “Leo in the motor home?”
The sisters bobbed their heads in identical nods.
“He drove past our house yesterday morning,” said Ruth. “But of course . . .”
“. . . we ignored him,” said Louise. “We haven’t quite forgiven him . . .”
“. . . for his ill-treatment of poor Charlotte,” said Ruth.
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “The Leo you saw in the motor home used to be Charlotte DuCaral’s boyfriend?”
“He was more than a boyfriend, I’m afraid,” said Ruth. “Leo and Charlotte were going to elope. They planned to run off in the dead of night. It was the only way . . .”