Aunt Dimity's Good Deed (30 page)

“Yes, you great thundering idiot,” I said, beaming up at him. “I’m
pregnant!
You’re nearly as slow on the uptake as I—Quick, Gerald! Catch him!”

 

We stayed at the Georgian that night, after a local physician had stitched up the cut on Bill’s head, and returned to Finch the following day. Emma and Derek were waiting for us at the cottage, with an overjoyed Ham at their heels. Bill insisted on carrying me not only over the threshold, but everywhere else he could think of, until I told him I’d give him a clout on the head that’d make him forget about the comer of Gerald’s coffee table if he didn’t put me down.

Emma had prepared a welcome-home feast of vegetarian dishes, which promptly became, in Derek’s words, “A Salute to Fertility,” and although I passed on the wine, I ate more than enough for two. Replete with food and happiness, I left Nell to describe our adventures and slipped into the study with my briefcase and Reginald.

The study was just as I’d left it, still and silent and dappled with green shadows from the sunlight pouring through the ivy. I sat in Willis, Sr.’s tall leather chair and pulled the briefcase toward me, unsnapped the locks, and took out the blue journal. I placed the briefcase on the floor and Reginald in my lap and opened the blue journal, calling, “Dimity? We’re home.”

I hadn’t cried till then, but a tear splashed on the top of Reginald’s head as I answered, “If she’s a girl, may I call her Dimity?”

“Rob, I think. For Bobby, your fiancé.”

“About not naming our boy William?” I shook my head. “Not yet. But he’ll get used to it.”

“Dimity,” I said, “you already
have
a big family. I think the only reason you sent me on this wild-goose chase was to get me out there to meet some of them. I’m glad you did. I love being a part of your family. And it’s going to grow by one, pretty soon.” I brushed away another tear that had trickled down my cheek. “Would you tell my mom?”

“I wish...” I looked at the window. The ivy leaves fluttered in a vagrant breeze, like a hundred banners welcoming me home. I laughed suddenly, as a wave of deep contentment flooded through me. “I wish I could learn to stop wishing.”

Bill’s stitches should be out well before the baby’s born, but I’ve already told him to forget about coming into the delivery room. There’ll be too many sharp metal objects in there, and I want all three of us to leave the hospital in good health.

Swann has promised that Bill’s arm will be completely mended in time for Lucy and Gerald’s wedding, a great consolation to Willis, Sr., who winced visibly at the thought of having to ask his tailor to design a morning coat around a protruding thumb and an arm encased in plaster. I’ve bought a formal tent for the occasion, since I should be about the size of the
Hindenburg
by then. The baby is showing signs of achieving Arthurian dimensions.

Nell has been as good as gold since we returned from our journey. She worked her fingers to the bone helping Emma bring in the rest of the harvest, sang Derek’s praises to the bishop after the dedication ceremony in Chipping Campden, and slipped the word “horse” into every conversation so artlessly that when Emma and Derek finally bought Anthea’s chestnut foal they honestly thought it would be a surprise present.

Uncle Tom is doing amazingly well, now that he’s not expending half of his energy fretting about Gerald. He accepted his son’s grave news with equanimity, commenting dryly that, having survived the Blitz, he thought he could survive a minor jolt to his self-esteem. Anthea’s retitled her biography
Dragon’s Fire,
and is busily revising the whole thing. When I called to offer my sympathy, she admitted, “It was a shock, at first. Then Swann reminded me of how well horror sells....”

Gerald sent Sybella’s remains to Boston, where they were quietly interred in the Willis family plot. He also sent a copy of Sir Williston’s diary to Cloverly House, where it’s made a world of difference in Uncle Williston’s therapy. As Sir Poppet observed, after a first read-through: “It helps no end to have all of the facts.”

Nell tells everyone that she hopes Uncle Williston will be able to attend the wedding, but I know her well enough by now to know that she’s secretly hoping he’ll turn up in knee breeches. I also know her well enough to keep my mouth shut whenever Emma asks me about a certain brown suede jacket that mysteriously appeared in Nell’s closet shortly after we came back from Haslemere. I figure it won’t hurt Willis, Sr., and Derek to share the pedestal with another idol, and Nell couldn’t have chosen a better one. Hell, if I were in her shoes, I’d keep his damned jacket under my pillow.

But I’ve got my own hero to worship, and even though I’ve refused categorically to refer to the new life inside of me as “our little red pudding,” my hero seems to worship me back. We expected to spend the past few months getting to know each other again, but we’ve barely scratched the surface. A true marriage, it seems, is a voyage of discovery without end.

I still haven’t learned to stop wishing, though the things that I wish for have changed. The moment you feel a tiny foot tap-dance on your spinal cord—from the inside—everything changes. I’ve told Emma about some of my wishes, and Bill about others, of course, but only one person is privy to them all.

Dimity isn’t always at the cottage, but she always seems to be there when I need her. On those nights, I wait until Bill’s sound asleep, then slip downstairs to brew a pot of Sir Poppet’s herbal tea. I make a fire in the study, sit with Reginald near at hand, open the blue journal, and discuss important issues with Aunt Dimity. What to do about stretch marks, whether to get a sonogram—the vital, pressing issues of the bright new world I’ve found myself inhabiting.

And when I close the journal, I also close my eyes, and wish with all my might that my child’s life will be as blessed as mine.

 

 

Lori Shepherd loves living in the small English village of Finch, but she finds herself wishing for something exciting to spice up her all-too-familiar routine. When King Wilfred’s Faire opens nearby, Lori gets her wish and more. Wizards, wenches, magicians, and minstrels cajole the fairgoers while lords quaff, jesters joke, and knights battle in the joust arena. But Lori soon discovers that it’s not all pageantry and play.

 

A sinister figure is stalking the angel-voiced madrigal singer; a jealous rival has sabotaged the Dragon Knight’s weapons; and an evil assassin is trying to murder Good King Wilfred. With Aunt Dimity’s otherworldly guidance, Lori races to save her dear village and risks her neck to keep the medieval revelry from ending in tragedy.

 

 

Lori Shepherd’s life in England couldn’t be more tranquil—except for one thing. Her five-year-old twins have started school, and Lori fears they’ll catch everything from the flu to fleas. What they do come home with, however, is worse: a report of a pale, cloaked figure with bloodstained lips lurking in the woods.

 

Lori is skeptical at first but soon grows concerned enough to consult with her late (but not entirely departed) Aunt Dimity and her dear friend Kit Smith. With Kit and Aunt Dimity’s help, Lori uncovers the secret that will shock everyone—including herself—about the true identity of the twins’ vampire.

 

 

 

 

Lori Shepherd, still recovering from her most recent adventure, is taking a vacation with her family in the beautiful mountain town of Bluebird, Colorado. But there’s something amiss at their seemingly perfect vacation home. Is the place cursed or is a sinister human hand shaping its eerie reputation? With Aunt Dimity’s help, Lori sets out to solve a hundred-year-old mystery and discovers that sometimes the strangest places can seem the most like home.

 

 

A series of death threats sends Lori Shepherd to a remote island off the Scottish coast and to a fabulous castle restored by an eccentric friend of her husband’s. But she finds herself drawn into an elaborate whodunit that may involve smuggling—or worse. Why has a human skull washed up on the beach? Is a desolate island really the best place to hide from a murderer? As Lori draws once more on Aunt Dimity’s supernatural aid, Atherton whips equal measures of whimsy and suspense into an irresistible confection.

 

 

Feeling a touch world-weary, Lori Shepherd decides to volunteer at the Radcliffe Infirmary, where she can spread a little good cheer. There she meets Elizabeth Beacham, a kind, retired legal secretary with no family, except a brother who has mysteriously disappeared. But after only a few visits, Miss Beacham suddenly passes away, leaving Lori to tie up the loose ends of her late friend’s life. Lori discovers that hidden among Miss Beacham’s belongings are clues that Lori believes her friend left for her to discover. Armed with the help of a handsome neighbor and Aunt Dimity’s supernatural skills, Lori begins to unearth Miss Beacham’s secrets and the surprising truth about her next of kin.

 

 

A pleasant woodland stroll turns treacherous when the blizzard of the century crosses Lori Shepherd’s path, forcing her to seek shelter in Ladythorne Abbey. Once the home of the late, mysterious, madwoman Lucasta DeClerke, the abbey’s cloisters and corridors are haunted by her lingering presence. “Old sins cast long shadows,” Aunt Dimity tells Lori, who will need all of Aunt Dimity’s wisdom and compassion to banish the shadows of hatred and guilt that shroud Ladythorne Abbey.