“And did she?” I sat up, my heart racing. “Did she talk about it?”
“Yes, after Dimity did everything but send a brass band through the mail.” Bill pushed a stray curl from my forehead. “Yes, your mother finally came out with it, all of it, all of the pain and the loneliness she’d gone through, along with the joy she’d found in you. She told Dimity all about it, eventually. But she would have saved herself a lot of heartache if she’d spoken of it sooner.”
“I wish she’d told me about it,” I whispered.
“She should have. She should have explained what a nightmare it is to lose someone you love. She should have told you that it took her a long time and a lot of work to wake up from it.”
“Maybe she was trying to protect me,” I said loyally.
“I’m sure she was. But she ended up hurting you. Dimity warned her about it—I’ll show you the letter when we get back. She said you’d grow up thinking that your mother was the Woman of Steel, that you’d want to be just like her. Dimity said there’d be trouble when you found out you weren’t as tough as you thought you should be.”
“When my mother died…”
“You found out that you weren’t made of steel. You had no way of knowing that no one is made of steel. How could you? You had no one to tell you otherwise.”
“You had Dimity.”
“And your mother had Dimity.” Bill raised his eyes to the distant hills. “But who did Dimity have?”
I followed his gaze. Bill’s words had fallen like balm on my wounded spirit, but the thought of Dimity’s unnamed sorrow reawakened the sense of anguished longing I had felt upon seeing the heart. The clearing itself seemed to change when he spoke her name, as though something were missing, or out of place. The sunlight had become harsh and a cool breeze chilled me. The ground felt rough against my legs and when I searched the sky for the soaring hawks, I could not find them.
Bill reached for the bag and stood up, then stretched out a hand to pull me to my feet. “It’s time to go back to the cottage.”
* * *
I spent the rest of that day in the study, catching up on the correspondence. Bill spent it in the Jacuzzi.
19
I would have made a fortune if I’d had the foresight to sell tickets to Tea with the Pym Sisters. It was better than anything playing in the West End.
It helped a lot to have Mother Nature as set designer. It was another sunny day and when Emma showed up it seemed only natural to suggest tea in the solarium. With the aid of Dimity’s cookbook and my ever-growing self-confidence in the kitchen, I baked an array of seedcakes and meringues and strawberry tarts. While Bill set out Dimity’s best china and linen, Emma decked every nook with freshly picked flowers, even seeing to it that Reginald’s ears were adorned with a diminutive daisy chain. By the time she announced the arrival of my guests, the solarium looked like something out of an Edwardian novel.
As did the Pym sisters. They were identical, from the veils on their hats to the tips of their lavender gloves. They looked so tiny and frail that I wondered how on earth they had managed the walk from Finch to the cottage, until I noticed a car parked behind the one we had leased. Like them, it was both ancient and pristine.
As remarkable as the Pym sisters were, I was pleased to note that Bill found me even more distracting. His jaw dropped when I descended the staircase, dressed in my teatime finery, and Emma had to introduce him to the Pyms twice before he remembered to say “How do you do.” Even then, he said it without taking his eyes from me. I, of course, gave my undivided attention to my guests.
“Thank you so much for your kind invitation,” the one on the right said.
“Yes, indeed. Such a lovely day for a drive,” the other added. Even the voices were identical—not just the tone, but the rhythm as well.
Emma had cautioned me not to tackle the subject of Dimity head-on. The sisters’ sense of propriety would not permit them to gossip. They were, on the other hand, perfectly willing to reminisce for hours if given half a chance, so I invited them to take a look around the cottage. I hoped that a tour would spark memories of their longtime neighbor.
“How kind.”
“How lovely. Emma tells us…”
“…it has changed quite a bit…”
“…since our last visit.”
It was like watching a tennis match. As I led the way through the ground-floor rooms, the Pyms kept up a steady flow of point-counterpoint commentary in my wake. After a while, I was able to distinguish one voice from the other: Louise’s was softer, and she seemed more timid. The minute they closed their mouths, however, I couldn’t tell one from the other.
After we had seated ourselves around the wrought-iron table in the solarium, Emma excused herself to make tea. The Pyms chatted on about the weather and the garden and the vicar’s new roof, and just as I’d begun to think my memory-sparking tour had fizzled, both sets of eyes came to rest on the heart-shaped locket which still hung on its chain around my neck.
“Oh, my…” said Ruth softly.
“How very curious. Might we ask…”
“…how you came by this piece of jewelry?”
“I found it upstairs,” I replied. I held the locket at the length of its chain for the sisters to examine more closely. “It was in a little blue box. I think it belonged to Dimity.”
“Indeed it did,” said Louise. “She acquired it in London, during the war, and she wore it…”
“…always. We never saw her without it. We had been given the impression, in fact…”
“…that a young man had given it to her.”
My heart leapt and Bill leaned forward eagerly, but the Pyms seemed unaware of the impact of their words.
“Dimity was always a very kind…”
“…very generous…”
“…very good-hearted girl. And a great…”
“…judge of character.”
“Yes, indeed. She was quite a…”
“…matchmaker and not one of her matches…”
“…ever failed.”
“Yes,” I said. “I know about that. She introduced my mother to my father, didn’t she, Bill?”
“What?” He looked up from what appeared to be a minute inspection of his teaspoon. “Oh, yes.” He cleared his throat. “She did.”
“And were they happy together?” asked Ruth.
“Extremely happy,” I said.
“Well, there you are,” said Ruth, and beamed with pleasure. “Dimity grew up in this cottage, you know.”
“And she never left…”
“…until the war.”
“A most tragic affair. Here, dear, let me help you with that.” When Louise turned her attention to helping Emma pour, Ruth took up the narrative thread on her own—more or less.
“She was engaged to a young officer very early in the war.” I held my breath. “Young Bobby MacLaren.” I looked at Bill with exaltation and he gave me a covert thumbs-up.
“Did you ever meet Bobby?” he asked.
“Indeed, we did.” Ruth accepted her cup of tea with a distracted air, her face reflecting a long-forgotten sadness. “Such a fine boy, and so courageous. We lost so many….” Her voice trailed off.
I took my cup of tea from Emma and placed it on the table, wondering how many young boys Ruth’s old eyes had seen march off, first to one war and then to another. She sat motionless, and I could almost see their faces as she saw them, the faces of boys who would never grow old, who would always be young and fine and courageous. A memory flickered at the back of my mind, but a jay’s angry chatter from the back garden extinguished it.
Ruth drew herself up and went on. “Dimity brought him to visit us once when they came to Finch on leave. He was such a lively boy, so energetic, and he had such lovely manners.” She sipped her tea. “When he died, Dimity was…”