Nancy Atherton (5 page)

Like a tall, well-built Friar Tuck. He wouldn’t have to wear hose if he

dressed as a friar, because the long robe would conceal his legs. If Bill dressed

as a friar, you could dress as a nun.

“A nun?” I said blankly.

Nuns were all the rage in medieval England, Lori. They were often

well-bred and highly intelligent women who exercised a great deal of power.

“But they wore . . . habits . . . didn’t they?” I said, with a moue

of distaste. “Dull, plain, boring habits. I was thinking of wearing

something more colorful. Like a wimple. Do you happen to know

what a wimple is?”

Nuns wear wimples, Lori, but they’re rarely colorful. The kind of wimple

you have in mind is probably a tall, thin, cone-shaped hat with a length of

fluttery fabric attached at the point.

“That’s what I had in mind,” I confirmed. “Calvin said that noblewomen wore wimples. I can see myself as a noblewoman, can’t

you?”

Lady Lori? It has a certain ring to it.

“A pirate maiden would be pretty cool, too,” I said. “I’ve always

wanted to be a swashbuckler.”

Pirate Lori has a definite ring to it.

“Pirate Lori,” I murmured happily. “It’d be fun to brandish a

saber and shout, ‘Avast, me hearties!’ ”

I’d urge you to keep your saber safely in its sheath, unless you want to

add the sport of ear-lopping to the fair’s roster of medieval activities.

“Killjoy,” I retorted, putting my feet on the ottoman. “I’m not

sure what I want to be, Dimity, but making up my mind will be half

the fun. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be a noblewoman
and
a pirate
and

a gypsy.” I shivered with excitement. “I can’t wait for opening day!”

It sounds as though you’re anticipating King Wilfred’s Faire with a

great deal of plea sure, my dear.

“Well,” I said reasonably, “it makes for a change, doesn’t it?”

Is a change what you need right now?

“I could do with one,” I replied, adding quickly, “but it’s not just

me, Dimity. The villagers were
electrifi ed
by Calvin’s announcement.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

27

The roof nearly came off of the schoolhouse after he left. If you ask

me,
everyone’s
a little bored with the usual summer routine.”

I sense, however, that you’re more than a little bored.

I took my lower lip between my teeth and looked up at Reginald. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the many blessings in my

life, but honesty was almost always the best policy with Aunt Dimity, so I told her the truth.

“I’m glad that something new is going to happen in Finch this

summer,” I said. “Something unfamiliar. Something that
wasn’t

planned by Peggy Taxman. I haven’t had anything new and exciting

to look forward to since Annelise got married.”

Annelise got married nine days ago, Lori. You haven’t had enough time

to become bored.

“I’ve had eight years to become bored,” I countered. “Eight summers, anyway.”

You’ve had seven summers, to be precise. You spent last summer in Colo-

rado.

“So I did,” I conceded. “And I had a grand time. I didn’t miss polishing the tea urns or changing the trash bin liners one bit.”

I thought you cherished tradition.

“I do, but you can have too much of a good thing.” I groaned impatiently. “Nothing ever changes in Finch. I’ve heard the same people talk about the same things for nearly a decade. It’s like being on

a conversational treadmill.”

May I remind you that another wedding will take place in September?

You once described it as the fairy-tale wedding of the century. You can’t tell

me that you’re not looking forward to Kit and Nell’s wedding.

Kit Smith and Nell Harris were the most beautiful couple I’d

ever known. Kit was the stable master at nearby Anscombe Manor

and Nell was the stepdaughter of my friend Emma Harris, who

owned Anscombe Manor. Although I’d been instrumental in bringing Kit to the point of proposing to Nell, my matchmaking career

had gone into a serious decline after he’d popped the question.

“There’s nothing I want more than to see Kit and Nell get

28 Nancy Atherton

married,” I retorted, “but September’s a long way off, and I won’t

be involved in their wedding the way I was in Annelise’s.” I leaned

my chin on my hand and went on disconsolately. “Let’s face it,

Dimity, Kit and Nell don’t need my help. They’re so flawlessly flawless that they could get married in a telephone booth, wearing burlap sacks and fl ip-flops, and it would
still
be the fairy-tale wedding

of the century. Besides, I think Nell’s had the whole thing mapped

out since she was twelve years old, and there’s nothing I can do to

improve on her plans. They’ll get along flawlessly without me.”

The fair, on the other hand, requires your active participation.

“Exactly,” I said. “And the best thing about it is: It’ll be a healthy

outlet for my imagination! If I see a vampire at the fair—”

Were there vampires during the Renais sance?

“Vampires are timeless,” I replied. “And Calvin isn’t picky about

niggling historical details anyway.”

I see. Sorry to interrupt. You were saying?

“I was saying that the fair will be good for me,” I said. “If I see a

vampire, I won’t go off half-cocked and accuse him of stalking my

sons. I’ll admire his costume and have a good laugh along with everyone else and that’ll be it. In other words, I’ll behave like a normal human being.”

Is that what you want, Lori? To behave like a normal human being?

“I just want to stop making a fool of myself,” I said hopelessly. “I

want to stop seeing things that aren’t there. I want to stop concocting schemes and sneaking around and behaving like a demented

twelve-year-old. I want to be grounded and clear-headed and sensible.”

Like Emma Harris?

“Emma is my role model,” I declared. “When I grow up, I want

to be just like her.”

An odd thing for a woman in her mid-thirties to say, but I take your

meaning.

“I know I shouldn’t complain,” I said earnestly, peering down at

the journal. “I love my life, I really do, but if I don’t find a way to

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

29

shake it up a little, I’ll lose my mind. I refuse to be sucked into any

more silly mysteries or ridiculous adventures, so I’m going to make

the most of King Wilfred’s Faire while it lasts, and afterwards—”

Try not to think too far ahead, my dear. You’ll only make yourself dizzy.

As I finished reading the word “dizzy,” I realized that I was, indeed, on the verge of hyperventilating, so I rested my head against

the back of the chair and took a few measured breaths before looking down at the words Aunt Dimity had written in the journal.

I believe you’ve found a splendid solution to your dual dilemmas, Lori. A

summerlong medieval costume party will allow you to enjoy the best aspects

of your imagination and at the same time give you a much-needed break

from the tedious routine of village life. It was im mensely clever of Calvin

Malvern to bring King Wilfred’s Faire to Finch. I do hope that Bill will be

open-minded enough to participate fully in the fair.

“I’ll do what I can to persuade him,” I said.

I know you will. The mantelshelf clock is chiming midnight, Lori. It’s

time you were in bed. I look forward to hearing more amazing news whenever

you wish to share it with me. Good night, my dear.

“Good night, Dimity.”

I waited until the curving lines of royal-blue ink had faded from

the page, then closed the journal and returned it to its shelf. After

banking the fire, I turned off the mantelshelf lights, bade Sir Reginald adieu, and left the study, envisioning my pink bunny in a miniature crown and a very small ermine-trimmed robe.

“Reginald will be easy,” I murmured. “Bill’s going to be a much

tougher nut to crack.”

But as I tiptoed into the bedroom, a game plan was already taking shape in my mind.

Four

T he next four weeks were among the most enjoyable I’d

ever experienced in Finch. Eye-catching posters appeared

in shop windows, touting the fair’s many attractions, and

unfamiliar vehicles rolled through Finch, causing curtains to twitch,

heads to turn, and tongues to wag. Rumors zipped along the village

grapevine at top speed, and they weren’t the stale old standbys concerning Sally Pyne’s neon-colored tracksuits or Christine Peacock’s

latest UFO sighting, but juicy new tidbits about the construction

project going on in Bishop’s Wood and the costumes Peggy Taxman had reputedly ordered for herself and Jasper from a theatricalsupply company in London.

No one would admit it openly, but everyone had been bitten by

the costume bug. The mobile library was besieged with requests

for books depicting Renais sance attire, and there was a run on velvet and brocade at the fabric store in Upper Deeping. Sally Pyne’s

Tuesday morning sewing class became so popular that she had to

add five more to her schedule to accommodate the overflow. Villagers flocked to the tearoom to learn how to stitch leather, hem

satin, embroider silk, and, naturally, to sneak peeks at their classmates’ handiwork. Scathing murmurs regarding color sense and

fabric choices rippled outward from the tearoom and kept the rumor mill spinning merrily.

My neighbors were so busy making doublets, muffi

n caps, and

lace-up bodices that they all but ignored the art show, which took

place on the first weekend in June. As a result, only three paintings

were entered, and they were so blindingly dreadful that they wouldn’t

have garnered honorable mentions in previous shows. Since they

had no competition, however, they managed to slide neatly—and

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

31

undeservedly—into first, second, and third place. The paltry submissions made the judging relatively easy, but there was a notable

absence of suspense when Peggy announced the judge’s final decisions.

The summer fete, too, suffered from a lack of interest. The usual

crowd of villagers showed up on Midsummer’s Day to sip locally

brewed ale, play traditional games, listen to the brass band, and

watch the Morris men dance on the village green, but they did so

halfheartedly, with the glazed eyes and fixed smiles of people whose

minds were elsewhere.

Although the village’s fi rst two summer events fell flat, Finch’s

businesses saw a modest but measur able upturn in sales throughout

the month of June. Sawdust-speckled workmen made their way

from Bishop’s Wood to Peacock’s Pub twice a day, with regular

side trips to the greengrocer’s shop. They paid Mr. Barlow to repair odd pieces of machinery, and kept the register ringing at Peggy’s

Emporium.

Rumors abounded about the nature of the structures the crews

were building in Bishop’s Wood. Some villagers confirmed conclusively that the fair would feature a three-tiered, moated castle, while

others claimed that the main attraction would be a gigantic

fire-breathing dragon. Since I lived next door to Fivefold Farm, I was

perfectly situated to spy on the construction site and find out if the

tittle-tattle was true, but I resisted the temptation. I wanted the fair

to surprise me.

Finch’s entrepreneurs didn’t care what the fair looked like as

long as it kept filling their coffers. They were well pleased with Calvin Malvern for selecting a site so near the village, and they expected profits to soar when King Wilfred’s Faire finally opened its

gates to the public.

Sally Pyne benefited the most from the fair’s proximity to Finch.

Her sewing skills were in such high demand that she had to trim the

tearoom’s hours drastically. I regretted the inconvenience even

though I was, in part, to blame for it. I wasn’t sure about anyone

32 Nancy Atherton

else, but in my rush to adorn myself with medieval finery I’d forgotten one small but important detail: I didn’t know how to sew. A

short session with a sharp needle made me painfully aware of my

ineptitude and I hurriedly signed up for one-on-one sewing tutorials

with Sally, only to discover that I had no talent whatsoever as a

seamstress.

I made such a mess of the twins’ page costumes that I quietly

disposed of them and hired Sally to make replacements. She agreed

to make a dress for me as well, but since she was pressed for time,

I had to scale down my vision quite a bit. Instead of a wimple-wearing

duchess or a saber-rattling pirate, I would attend the fair as a runof-the-mill peasant woman.

Sally finished our costumes in five whirlwind days, but she

never got started on Bill’s. Although she’d off ered to make a modest, leg-concealing friar’s robe for him, he wouldn’t even allow her

to take his measurements.

My husband had evidently inherited a gene that rendered him