Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree by Nancy Atherton Page A

had never before heard my father-in-law whistle.
    “It’s the fresh paint,” I muttered. “The fumes have addled his brain.”
    I shook my head and returned to the Rover, feeling every bit as bemused as Sally Pyne.

Eight
    “It’s the fresh paint,” I repeated firmly, gazing down at the blue journal. “The fumes have addled William’s brain.”
    The ormolu clock in the study had just finished chiming half past ten. My sons, my husband, and my husband’s cat were in bed and asleep. Only Reginald was awake to keep me company while I spoke with Aunt Dimity. His black button eyes glittered attentively in the firelight as I went on.
    “I’m telling you, Dimity, William is not himself,” I insisted. “He jumped into hiring the Donovans, he jumped into playing Lady Sarah’s American cousin, he keeps going on about sheep, and now he’s whistling ! What’s next? Tap-dancing? ” I shook my head worriedly. “It must be the paint. It’s a proven fact that inhaling paint fumes can do funny things to a person’s brain.”
    As I paused to chew on a thumbnail, Aunt Dimity’s familiar copperplate flowed confidently across the page.
    There is nothing wrong with William’s brain, Lori. First of all, it’s grossly inaccurate to say that he “jumped” into hiring the Donovans. You told me yourself that he reviewed their applications thoroughly before engaging them.
    “He did,” I acknowledged grudgingly. “But what about the rest of it?”
    I would blame William’s atypical behavior on retirement rather than paint fumes. Active men tend to fear retirement, Lori. They’re ill-equipped to deal with leisure time and they detest the notion of pursuing meaningless hobbies. They prefer diversions that stimulate the imagination and challenge the mind. Having finished one major project—the renovation of Fairworth House—
    “Fairworth isn’t finished,” I interjected. “There’s lots of landscaping left to do and he still has to rebuild those ruined outbuildings.”
    Landscaping and construction projects are absorbing in their own ways, but they can’t compete with the thrill of the human drama. William is and always will be an attorney, Lori. He enjoys pitting his wits against another’s.
    “He drew up wills and did estate planning for rich people,” I said. “How much wit-pitting does that take?”
    A great deal, I promise you, especially when one is dealing with clients as fractious and exacting as William’s. As I was saying ... having finished one major project, William looked for another. Sally appeared as if by magic and served him a compelling human predicament on a plate. Is it any wonder that he “jumped” into the role of Lady Sarah’s American cousin? What could possibly be more exhilarating than an attempt to pull the wool over the eyes of an entire village, not to mention those of the unsuspecting Señor Cocinero?
    “William’s having fun,” I said, as comprehension dawned. “ That’s why he’s whistling.”
    You have seen the light at last, Lori. William is having the time of his life refining and implementing my original plan for safeguarding Sally’s reputation. I suspect that it appeals to him because of its novelty as well as its complexity. It’s unlike anything he’s ever done before.
    “How do you explain his sheep fixation?” I asked.
    I refute the word fixation. William is simply planning ahead. Remember, Lori, Señor Cocinero will be gone by Wednesday. When the grand charade comes to an end, William will move on to his sheep project.
    “Sheep aren’t part of the thrilling human drama,” I objected. “If what you’re saying is true, Dimity, the sheep project won’t be enough to satisfy William.” I groaned softly. “Will I have to engineer a never-ending series of human dramas to keep my father-in-law happy?”
    I doubt it. The villagers—and the Handmaidens in particular—are more than capable of providing William with all of the human drama he requires.
    I