A muffled knock sounded at the parlor door and when I opened it I found the object of my wrath standing there with frayed cuffs and bagged-out trousers, compounding his sins by looking extremely pleased with himself.
“How dare you,” I snapped.
The smug look vanished.
“Come in,” I said, “and sit down. There are a few things we need to get straight.”
Bill sat on the edge of the couch and watched as I paced the room. In a small voice, he ventured, “You don’t like the clothes?”
“Oh, they’re beautiful,” I said. “Just beautiful. I’m all set for the Governor’s Ball.” I closed in on him. “Bill. I don’t go to the Governor’s Ball. Where am I supposed to wear that stuff? To the grocery?”
“Well, I—” but he never had a chance. My wounded pride was on a rampage.
“But you wouldn’t know about places like that,” I said. “You have servants. Well, let me fill you in. The grocery is the place where you go when you have enough money to buy maybe three cans of tomato soup, right? It’s the place where the express register is always just closing when you get there, so you and your tomato soup wind up in the regular checkout line, where you’re invariably stuck behind the illiterate lady with the coupons for things that are almost the same as the things she has in her cart. And you have to stand there juggling soup cans while she argues every ounce, pound, liter, and gram, and you don’t want to be rude, because she has blue hair and she’s probably living on dog food, but you also want to scream, because you’d think that just once she could manage to bring a coupon for the right brand of dog food. Heaven knows it’s important to wear the proper dress for moments like that. That blue silk number in the back should be just right.” When I paused to catch my breath, Bill made a brave attempt to rally.
“Now, Lori, I just thought that, when you went out, you might—”
“Go out? Like on dates? What makes you think I have time to go out on dates?” I took another deep breath and added, very evenly, “Thank you very much for your thoughtful gifts, but I’m afraid they don’t suit my life-style.” I strode to the door, then turned. “I’m going down to speak with your father. When I’ve gone, I’d be most grateful if you’d return everything to the shops. If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Willis, I’d prefer to select my own wardrobe.”
* * *
Willis, Sr., smiled at me from behind his desk as I entered the office, but his smile faded when he saw the look on my face.
“My dear Miss Shepherd,” he said in alarm, “whatever is the matter?”
I closed the doors and strode restlessly over to the billowing fern in the corner. I plucked a small brown frond and crumbled it absently between my fingers. Keeping my back to the desk, I asked, “Do I look awful, Mr. Willis?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do I look like… like a wreck?”
“Miss Shepherd, I would never presume to—”
“I know,” I said, holding perfectly still. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
When he failed to respond, I snuck a peek over my shoulder, then looked quickly back at the fern. His pained expression made me want to sink through the floor, but his voice was gentle when he began to speak.
“I would not put it quite that way, Miss Shepherd,” he said. “I would say rather that you appear to have lived under a great deal of stress, and to have known too little joy as of late.”
“That bad, huh?” Tears stung my eyes and I blinked them away.
“You misunderstand me, Miss Shepherd,” said Willis, Sr. “Please allow me to make myself clear. My dear, to my eyes, you are lovely. Fatigued, yes, and under some strain, certainly, but quite charming nonetheless.” He rose from his chair. “Please, Miss Shepherd, come and sit down.” He gestured for me to join him on the couch, where he leaned back, tented his fingers, and stared silently at me for a few moments before going on. I kept my gaze fixed on his immaculate gray waistcoat.
“Miss Shepherd, I realize how unusual this experience must be for you. You have had quite a lot thrown at you in a very short period of time. You are no doubt feeling slightly overwhelmed by it all.”
“Slightly,” I agreed.
“It is only natural that you should. I confess, I can do little to remedy this. I can, however, assure you that I will fulfill my role as your legal advisor to the best of my ability. And, if you will permit me, I can do one more thing. I can offer the hope that you will someday look upon me as your friend.”
He lowered his eyes and added, “A somewhat antiquated friend, to be sure, but a friend with your interests at heart nonetheless.”
I bit my lip to keep my chin from trembling. It had been a long time since I had let anyone say that to me, and a much longer time since I had let myself believe it. It was weak, it was childish, and it went against my better judgment, but I thought I might risk believing it now. I needed a friend. I needed someone I could talk to, someone I could trust in this… unusual situation.
If Willis, Sr., noticed my distress, he had the decency to move smoothly on to other things. He gathered some papers from his desk and returned with them to the couch. “Here we are,” he said. “I trust you are prepared to proceed to the next step?”
“I’m ready when you are,” I said, grateful to him for the change of subject.
“Excellent. Please feel free to stop me at any point, Miss Shepherd. I greatly dislike haste in these matters. It so often leads to misunderstandings.” He straightened his waistcoat, then folded his hands atop the papers. “Shortly before her death, Miss Westwood collected the Aunt Dimity stories into a single volume, which she intended to publish posthumously.”
“She’s going to publish the Aunt Dimity stories?”
“That was her intent, Miss Shepherd. Arrangements have been made with a reputable publisher, and the illustrations are nearing completion.”
“You mean, other people have read them already?”
“A small number of people, yes. My dear, does this trouble you?”
The sound of my mother’s voice drifted through my mind. “I guess it does. Until yesterday evening I thought I was the only one who knew those stories. I guess I’ve always thought of them as mine.”
“That,” said Willis, Sr., “is undoubtedly why Miss Westwood wanted you and no one else to write an introductory essay for the volume.”
“She did?” I looked at him in surprise. “Is that the favor she mentions in her letter?”
“It is. She wished for you to write an introduction focusing on the origins of the stories, which, according to Miss West-wood, are to be found in the collection of private correspondence now housed in her residence in England, near the village of Finch. I believe she refers to the correspondence in her letter to you?”
I nodded.
“You are to read the letters written by your mother and Dimity Westwood, locate within them the situations or characters or events that inspired the Aunt Dimity stories, and write about what you find.” Willis, Sr., paused, then added softly, “I think I can understand your reluctance to have these stories published, Miss Shepherd. They must have been a treasured part of your childhood. But, my dear, you shall not lose the stories by sharing them.”
Willis, Sr., would have made a brilliant teacher. He had a way of showing you things you should have seen for yourself, without making you feel like a fool. I would lose nothing by the stories’ publication, and many children would gain a great deal. Aunt Dimity would come to life for them, too, and that was as it should be.