Nancy Atherton (7 page)

“How did he manage to save enough money to bankroll the fair? A

leopard doesn’t change its spots by spending a few years overseas.”

“He has his inheritance,” I said.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

39

“Yes, but he must have burned through a good bit of it while he

was living in America,” said Mr. Malvern. “Now he’s paying for permits and work crews and building materials and performers and God

alone knows what else. Since he came home, he’s been throwing

money around like he owns a bank.” Mr. Malvern drummed his fingers on the table. “I’d like to know more about his financial situation.

I don’t understand it, and what I don’t understand worries me.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” I counseled. “I’m sure the fair

will be a huge success and Calvin will earn back every penny he’s

put into it. I can’t wait for the gates to open.”

“Nor can I,” Bill chimed in. “And Will and Rob are desperate to

see the knights on horse back. I have a feeling that the fair will attract a lot of families.”

“It’ll have to.” Mr. Malvern got to his feet, and Bill and I rose

with him. “I’d best be on my way. I’m sure you have things to do.”

“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Malvern,” said Bill.

“Come again whenever you like,” I added.

“Thank you, and thanks for the tea.” Mr. Malvern donned his

cap, shook hands with Bill, and tipped his cap to me. “I’ll be off ,

then. No need to see me out. I know the way.”

“What a nice man,” I mused aloud after Mr. Malvern had departed. “Do you think he’s right to worry about Calvin’s business

dealings?”

“I have no idea,” said Bill. “But I’m not going to let it spoil my

enjoyment of the fair.”

“Me, neither. Eat, drink, and be merry, that’s my motto for the

summer.” I glanced at my watch and began stacking dishes. “But for

now, I’d better clear the table. It’s nearly time to pick up Will and

Rob.”

“Relax,” said Bill. “I have to go in to the office to take care of a

few things. I’ll pick up the boys on my way home.”

“You’re a prince,” I said.

“I’m a dad,” Bill corrected. He gave me a quick kiss and walked

swiftly into the cottage. A moment later, I heard the Range Rover

40 Nancy Atherton

back down our graveled drive. Since the Rover was equipped with

booster seats, we always used it to transport the twins.

I was no longer in a hurry to clear the table, so I sat down and

poured myself another cup of tea, to help lubricate my brain while I

mulled over everything Mr. Malvern had told us. I’d just taken a

large sip when a voice spoke to me from the stile in the tall hedgerow that grew along the garden’s southern edge.

“Hullo, neighbor! Mind if I drop in?”

Before I could swallow, a lithe young man clad in torn blue

jeans, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and black Wellington boots sailed headfirst over the stile and landed on his knees in the twins’ sandbox.

“Jinks the jester,” he announced. “At your service.”

Five

I promptly sprayed a mouthful of tepid tea across the teak

table. The young man was at my side instantly, patting my

back while I coughed and spluttered.

“Sorry,” he said. “Truly sorry.
Im mensely
sorry.”

“Don’t you . . . know how . . . to use a . . . d-doorbell?” I

managed, clapping a half-soaked napkin to my dripping chin.

“I’m very, very sorry,” he said. “I should have gone to the front

door, I know, but the stile was so handy that I—”

“Handy?”
I cut him off without mercy, dropped the soggy napkin

on the table, and glared at him. “Handy to what? The only thing on

the far side of the stile is a cow pasture.”

“The cows have been moved to make room for me,” he explained.

“And who are you?” I demanded.

“Jinks the jester,” he repeated with a bow. “Jinks as in hijinks,

by the way, not Jinx as in hex, which, I’m sure you’ll agree, would

be an inappropriate name for a merrymaking jester. I was at the

village meeting last month. I thought you might remember me.”

I glanced toward the stile, retraced the arc the young man had

followed as he’d soared through the air, and stared at him as realization dawned. “You were with Calvin Malvern. You did handsprings

down the aisle.”

“Correct,” he said.

“I didn’t recognize you without your costume,” I said ruefully.

“But I suppose your grand entrance should have given me a clue.”

“I really am
incredibly
sorry.” He rocked back on his heels as he

surveyed his surroundings. “Lovely place you have here.”

“Never mind my lovely place,” I scolded. “What are you doing

42 Nancy Atherton

in the cow pasture? Horace Malvern told us that the performers’

camp would be east of Bishop’s Wood.”

“I need room to practice my tumbling passes,” he explained.

“Since the main camp will be jammed with tents and caravans when

the rest of the players arrive, Mr. Malvern very kindly allowed me

to park my caravan away from the others.”

“I hope you have a good shower in your caravan,” I grumbled.

“If you’re doing handsprings in a cow pasture, you’ll need one.”

“Mr. Malvern also provided me with a shovel and a rake,” said the

young man. “I’ve spent the past two days putting them to good use.”

He pointed his toe, to display a pristine boot, and fluttered his eyelashes at me. “I come in peace, to build a bridge between our warring

nations.”

An undignifi ed snort of laughter escaped me, but I was still annoyed with him. I nodded meaningfully at the breakfast dishes and

said, “You may as well make yourself useful, as long as you’re here.

Help me clear the table.”

He leaped into action, carrying dishes into the kitchen for me to

load into the dishwasher and scrubbing the teak table until he’d

erased all evidence of the accident his arrival had caused. Stanley

made a brief appearance in the kitchen, drawn, no doubt, by the

sound of a male voice, but when he realized that it didn’t belong to

Bill, he gave a soft hiss and vanished.

I studied Jinks in silence while we worked, and concluded that

he wasn’t quite as young as his clothing—and his behavior—suggested. To judge by the lines around his eyes and a few telltale strands

of gray in his auburn hair, he was closer to Bill’s age than Calvin

Malvern’s—in his late thirties.

He wore his hair in a curly ponytail and he had the lean, muscular build of an athlete, but he wasn’t remotely handsome. His eyes

were an odd shade of olive-green, his long nose curved slightly to

the left, his mouth was crooked, and he had a narrow, pointed chin.

He would never be a leading man, I decided as I left the kitchen

and returned to the back garden, but he possessed his own brand

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

43

of attractiveness. His green eyes were large and expressive, and his

smile held a hint of mischief that I found endearing.

He waited for me to offer him a chair before taking a seat at the

table. I sat across from him and regarded him curiously.

“What’s your real name?” I asked. “I can’t keep calling you Jinks.”

“I’d rather you did,” he said. “My parents were going through a

very silly phase when they christened me.”

“Rainbow?” I guessed, eyeing his tie-dyed T-shirt and his ripped

jeans. “Sunfl ower? Whalesong?”

“It’s not as bad as that,” he said, laughing. “My given name is Rowan.”

“What’s wrong with Rowan?” I asked.

“My surname name is Grove,” he replied.

“Rowan Grove.” I nodded. “I see. Well, it could have been worse.

They could have called you—”

“Oak, pine, beech,” he broke in. “Yes, I’ve heard it all before, especially during my formative years. Little boys can be brutal, given a

target. I have the scars to prove it. Which is why I prefer Jinks. If I must

have a silly name, I’d rather choose it myself.”

“Jinks it is, then,” I said.

“And you are . . . ?” he asked.

“Lori Shepherd,” I said. “And you can’t come up with a sheep

joke I haven’t heard, so don’t even try.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Jinks, shrinking away from me in

mock terror. “May I call you Lori?”

“Yes, of course,” I said. “It’s what everyone calls me. Why don’t

you use your real name? It’s organic, unusual, poetic—just right for

a Renais sance fair, I would have thought.”

“It may be all of those things,” he said doubtfully, “but we’re not

allowed to use our real names. We’re required to assume names that

suit our personas. It adds to the fair’s ambience and, frankly, it makes

our jobs easier. John Smith may be a shy, retiring computer programmer in his everyday life, but when he dons his garb and changes

his name to Cyrano”—Jinks raised his arms and struck a fencer’s

pose—“he becomes a dashing romantic hero.”

44 Nancy Atherton

“Like an actor in a play,” I said, intrigued.

“Like an actor in a play without a script,” Jinks clarified. “Most

of us improvise our parts. It’s great fun.”

“I imagine it would be,” I said. “Why did you choose to be a

jester?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he asked. “I have a face only a jester’s mother

could love.” He crossed his eyes and puckered his crooked mouth,

then smiled and went on. “I was also a star gymnast when I was at

school. And I have a ready wit. A weedy child with a silly name

learns early on to fight with words rather than with fists.”

“I think words are
always
better than fists,” I said.

“You’re not a ten-year-old boy.” Jinks allowed his gaze to wander freely over me for a moment, then said brightly, “Nor are you

English, if your accent’s anything to go by. Where are you from?”

“I’m from the States,” I replied. “I was born and raised in Chicago.”

“I know it well,” he said. “I met Calvin at a Renais sance festival

less than an hour’s drive from the Windy City.”

My eyebrows rose. “Did you work at the Ren fest in Wisconsin?”

He nodded. “I waited tables at a restaurant in Milwaukee during the week and worked the fair on weekends, but I drove down

to Chicago whenever I could.”

“But you’re English,” I said. “How did you end up in Wisconsin?

Did you discover the Ren fest on the Internet, like Calvin?”

Jinks wrinkled his forehead and squinted at the sky. “It happened

so long ago that I can hardly remember. I believe I was studying for

an advanced degree at the University of Wisconsin at the time. One

fine summer day some friends and I attended a fair we’d read about

in a local newspaper. They went home afterwards, like sensible boys

and girls, but I stayed on . . . and on . . . and on . . .” He threw

back his head and laughed.

I gazed at him uncertainly. “You dropped out of university to

become a . . . a jester?”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

45

“I ran away with the circus,” he acknowledged cheerfully. “And

I’ve never regretted it. Fantasy feeds my soul. A university degree

would have been wasted on me.”

“Don’t let my sons hear you say that,” I said urgently. “I want them

to stay in school.”

“My lips are sealed,” said Jinks, drawing a finger across his lips.

“How, may I ask, did a Chicago girl end up living in England?”

Since I had no desire to discuss Aunt Dimity with him or any

other stranger, I said only, “A friend left the cottage to me in her will,

and my husband and I thought it would be a good place to raise our

children.”

“How many children do you have?” he inquired politely.

“I have two six-year-old boys,” I replied. “They’re twins.”

Jinks placed his folded hands on the table and said gravely, “If

I promise not to ruin their university careers, will you promise to

bring them to the fair?”

“I couldn’t keep them away if I tried,” I said, laughing at his somber

expression. “They’ve spent the past month on horse back, spearing

little plastic rings with wooden poles. They wanted to spear other

riders, too—purely for the sake of research, you understand—but

their riding instructor wouldn’t allow it.”

“Spoilsport,” Jinks scoffed. “Every boy should be allowed to

behave like a barbarian once in a while.”

“And you have the scars to prove it,” I said dryly.

He fell back in his chair, gasping, and clasped his hands to his

breast, as if I’d stabbed him.

“Touché,” he croaked.

I chuckled appreciatively, then asked, “What brought you back

to England?”

“Cal,” he replied, straightening. “When he revealed his grand

plan to create a Ren fest on the other side of the pond, I asked if I

could tag along. Ten years of listening to Americans speak in dreadful, faux-English accents made me long to hear the real thing again.

No offense.”

46 Nancy Atherton

“None taken,” I said. “Faux-English accents set my teeth on

edge, too. Are all of the fair’s performers from America?”

“No, indeed,” he said. “Our new cast is exclusively from the

UK. Cal spent the last six months in England, Scotland, and Wales,

recruiting street performers, reenactors, artisans, artists, and food

vendors. He’s quite a good pitchman, you know.”

“I do know,” I said, nodding. “My neighbors are a tough audience,

but he won them over without working up a sweat.”

“Kings do not sweat, Lori,” Jinks intoned pompously. “Kings