“. . . Charlotte could break free from her parents,” said Louise.
“But Leo never came. He left her waiting—so humiliating for the poor girl—and disappeared without a word of warning . . .”
“. . . and Charlotte never saw him again,” said Ruth. “Then the accident happened and she had to stay at home because her mother was . . .”
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“. . . a thoroughly incompetent nurse,” said Louise, “and her father was such a demanding invalid that the nurses they hired wouldn’t stay . . .”
“. . . for more than a week,” said Ruth. “But Charlotte wouldn’t have left Aldercot . . .”
“. . . even if she’d hadn’t had to care for her father,” said Louise. “Leo broke her heart, you see. She never recovered from the blow.”
I ran my hand through my hair dazedly. Leo was undoubtedly the black sheep who’d earned Charlotte’s ire, but he wasn’t in the right fl ock.
“To tell you the truth,” I said, “I thought Leo was Charlotte’s brother.”
“Her brother?” said Ruth, blinking in surprise. “Oh, my, no, Leo wasn’t her brother. Her brother was a trial to her, of course, but in an entirely different way.”
“The shame, the guilt, the effort it took to conceal the truth . . .”
Louise sighed regretfully. “One can’t blame him for his de sires, but . . .”
“. . . it would have been better for all concerned if he had controlled them,” Ruth concluded. “Have another muffi n, dear.”
“And another cup of tea.” Louise refilled my cup, and both sisters began to chat about Miranda Morrow’s kittens.
I went with the flow, because I knew that no matter how hard I tried, I wouldn’t be able to steer the conversation back to Maurice, Madeline, Charlotte, Leo, or the nameless brother with the shameful desires. When the sisters closed the door on a subject, it was impossible to get them to open it again, and they’d clearly closed the door on the DuCarals.
I couldn’t complain, though. Ruth and Louise might not have answered all my questions about the DuCaral family, but they’d answered at least as many as they’d raised. After indulging in one
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last buttery muffi n, I left their house feeling as though the hour I’d spent with them had not been wasted.
As I climbed into the Mini, it occurred to me that Leo might have returned to his motor home while I’d been visiting the Pyms, but I quickly dismissed the notion of looking for him there. The Mini would never make it down the track to Gypsy Hollow, and I had no intention of walking down it. Leo, I decided, could wait until the morning. I was sick of traipsing through mud. I wanted to go home.
By the time Annelise, Will, and Rob returned to the cottage, I’d showered, changed, checked the freezer for ice cream, and thrown together a homemade pizza. Pizza, ice cream, and a movie were our Saturday-night treats, so after the boys were bathed and we were all fed, we gathered in the living room with bowls of ice cream to watch The Black Stallion for what had to be the seven-thousandth time. This time, however, I found myself thinking of old Toby and wondering idly what it would be like to bond with him the way the boy bonded with the stallion. I was almost sorry when the film ended and bedtime arrived.
Annelise worked on her wedding dress for a while after I’d put Will and Rob to bed, but she retired relatively early because she wanted to look her best for her fi ancé the next morning.
Bill called right after she’d gone upstairs—he knew better than to interrupt our Saturday-night movie by calling earlier—but he was too tired to talk for very long. Mrs. Shuttleworth’s daughters had just discovered that their shares of their mother’s estate were smaller than Mr. Muddy-Buddy’s, and Bill had spent the day fielding telephone calls from them and their irate lawyers.
I cheered him with the news from Finch. He was so amused by the thought of Jasper Taxman painting the greengrocer’s shop mauve that he forgot to ask me about the historic home Kit and I had spent the day visiting, and I didn’t feel the need to mention it to him.
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“I’m going to sleep in tomorrow,” he said finally. “What about you?”
“Church and the Cotswold Farm Park,” I said. “No rest for the weary mother.”
“Say hello to the polka-dotted pigs for me,” he said.
“I’ll give them your best,” I promised, and rang off.
I turned off the lights in the kitchen and went to the study, where I smiled at Reginald, lit a fire in the hearth, and curled up in the tall leather armchair with the blue journal in my lap. I paused for a moment to marshal my thoughts, then opened the journal and gazed down at the blank page.
“Dimity?” I said. “I hope you’re comfortable, because I have an awful lot to tell you.”
I smiled as Aunt Dimity’s response began to scroll across the page in her familiar, old-fashioned copperplate.