I folded my legs beneath me on the window seat and told the story again, the correct version this time, with the bright memories as well as the trodden-on foot. As I told it, I seemed to travel back in time to the night I had arrived at the Willis mansion. I saw myself standing on the doorstep in the dark, cold and alone and angry at the world, and it was like looking at a stranger. That person could never have believed in ghosts or happy endings. That person could never have fallen in love with the Handsome Prince. I felt a great tenderness for her, and when the door opened and the warm light drove away the darkness, I wished her well.
“…and Aunt Dimity went home to warm herself before the fife and feast on buttered brown bread and a pot of tea, smiling quietly as she remembered the very large and very kind man she had met that day at Harrod’s.”
Willis, Sr., let the silence linger for a time, then nodded slowly. “Thank you, Miss Shepherd. Most beautifully told.” He opened the portfolio and cleared his throat. “I am now empowered to inform you that the cottage, the land surrounding it—in fact, the entirety of Miss Westwood’s considerable estate, are to come into your sole possession at the conclusion of the allotted month’s time. I am afraid there is no way to speed that along, my dear, but I am certain that such a delay will not—”
“Mine?” I whispered, afraid to say the word aloud. “The cottage is mine?” My astonishment was mirrored in Bill’s eyes. Apparently his father had not discussed with him this detail of the case.
“Yes, Miss Shepherd. Your answer to Miss Westwood’s final question was more than satisfactory. In fact—”
“Mine?” I repeated faintly, as the full beauty of the scheme unfolded before me. Dimity and Beth, those two remarkable women, guiding each other through rocky terrain, then reaching out to pull me from my isolation and show me another way. They had seen my downward spiral; they had brought me to the cottage to open my closed mind; and they had given me a month to read their words, to hear what they were trying to tell me, so that I would not use Dimity’s considerable estate as a shield, a fortress, a lonely mansion on a hill.
Dazed, I rose from the window seat and walked out of the room. Bill started to follow me, but Willis, Sr., must have restrained him, because I left the cottage alone. Without quite knowing how I got there, I found myself in the clearing at the top of Pouter’s Hill.
The words I exchanged with the gnarled old oak tree must remain between the tree and me. Suffice it to say that the tree proved to be as good a listener as Bill.
Epilogue
Emma planted flowers there later that summer, and according to Willis, Sr., they bloom all year round. He sits beneath the old oak tree for hours whenever he visits and he visits as often as he can. He nearly gave me a heart attack the first time he tackled the climb, but it seems to have done him good. His heart hasn’t bothered him since.
I have to depend on his reports about the clearing because I don’t get up there as often as I’d like. Between unearthing rare books for Stan, visiting Uncle Andrew in Scotland, and shuttling the little Willises between cottage and mansion several times a year—and they say that D day was a big deal!—I’m kept pretty busy.
Not one single person was surprised by the news of our engagement, least of all Willis, Sr., who had placed a special order with his tailor immediately after hearing of my first visit to Arthur’s dome. “It has been a long-standing dream,” he explained, “to see my son married in a morning coat, and I thought that perhaps you, Lori, might be able to persuade him….” I did.
Miss Kingsley chartered flights to bring our Yankee guests over for the wedding, I baked the three-tiered cake from page 265 of the dog-eared cookbook, and the reception was held under the vicar’s new roof amid hundreds of blue irises. Reginald took it upon himself to preside over the bouquet of fragrant white lilacs that had arrived without a card. And I only wanted to smack Bill once the whole day, when he announced in stentorian tones that he was marrying me for my cookies. Archy Gorman’s interpretations of his remark sent Paul into paroxysms of glee and confused the Pym sisters no end.
Meg and Doug commissioned a portrait as our wedding present, which Meg unveiled with a flourish and a sneaky grin. The oil painting of the bearded knight in shining armor hangs above the fireplace in our living room now, and hardly anyone notices that he’s wearing glasses. And on our first anniversary a new blanket arrived, made from the finest Scottish wool and big enough to cover two.
Oh, and I guess I forgot to mention it, but instead of giving me an engagement ring when he proposed, Bill gave me a heart-shaped locket. Two different faces smile up at me when I open it, and the feelings they engender are about what you’d expect from perfect happiness.
Beth’s Oatmeal Cookies
1 cup butter (or margarine)
1 cup granulated sugar
2 jumbo eggs
5 tablespoons raisin water
(see below)
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
2 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
1 cup raisins
2 cups water
1/2 cup chopped walnuts
(optional)
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
In small saucepan, combine raisins with water and bring to boil; lower heat and simmer uncovered for 5 minutes. Set aside to cool. When cool, reserve 5 tablespoons raisin water, then drain raisins in colander.
In large mixing bowl, cream shortening and sugar. Add eggs and raisin water and mix well. Blend dry ingredients into creamed mixture. Add nuts, if desired. Add raisins and combine well.
Drop by heaping teaspoonsful, 2 inches apart, onto greased baking sheets. Bake 10-15 minutes, or until golden brown and firm on top when touched with your finger. Cool on racks.
Makes approx. 6 dozen cookies.