vicar look like intelligent men and intelligence will be needed if my search is to succeed.”
“Your search?” Willis, Sr., inquired politely, taking the chair beside the vicar’s.
“Let’s wait for Mrs. Bunting, shall we?” Amelia proposed. “Otherwise, I’ll have to repeat myself and repetition is tiresome for the speaker as well as the audience. In the meantime, please allow me to say, Mr. Bunting, that you are fortunate indeed to tend such a warmhearted and generous flock….”
Willis, Sr.’s years of legal training enabled him to maintain a neutral expression while Amelia sang the Handmaidens’ praises, and the vicar hid his emotions admirably, but the two men couldn’t help exchanging a single, fleeting glance that hovered somewherebetween incredulity and pity. They, too, realized that Amelia’s impression of the Handmaidens would become considerably less rosy once the four women unsheathed their claws, and they were as reluctant as I was to disillusion her.
“They’re much better housekeepers than I am,” Amelia concluded. “I doubt that Pussywillows will ever again be as tidy as it is now.”
Mr. Bunting and Willis, Sr., responded with innocuous comments, then retreated to safer ground with remarks about the weather, a conversation that lasted until Lilian returned, bearing the black lacquer tea tray she’d inherited from her paternal grandmother. She was accompanied by Angel, the fluffy white vicarage cat, who peered at each of us in turn before leaping onto the vicar’s lap and draping herself languidly over his knees.
While Lilian served the tea and handed around a plate filled with her irresistible lemon bars, Mr. Bunting brought her up to speed.
“Mrs. Thistle is engaged in a search,” he informed her. “We don’t yet know the nature of her search because she wanted you to be present when she enlightened us.”
“How intriguing,” said Lilian, sitting cautiously on the wobbly settee that faced the hearth. “Please, carry on, Mrs. Thistle. You have my undivided attention.”
“I suppose you could say I’m on a quest,” Amelia began, “though it’s my late brother’s quest, really….”
I sipped my Earl Grey and savored a lemon bar while Amelia repeated the remarkable story she’d related to me at Pussywillows. She’d evidently decided not to advertise the name Bowen and the complications that went with it because she spoke of her brother only as Alfred or Alfie, with no last name. She finished her account by delving into the colorful carpet bag for Alfred’s spiral-bound notebook and the first page of Gamaliel’s memoir, both of which were examined closely by Lilian, the vicar, and my father-in-law.
The Buntings didn’t go bananas, as I’d predicted, but they wereclearly thrilled by the discovery. Willis, Sr., as if conscious that their interest in the subject matter carried more weight than his own, allowed them to take the lead in the discussion that followed.
Lilian spent a considerable amount of time comparing the original Latin text to Alfred’s translation before passing them to Willis, Sr.
“Does the translation pass muster?” the vicar inquired.
“Oh, yes,” said Lilian. “It’s colloquial, but accurate.”
“I approve of Alfred’s use of common speech,” said the vicar. “It brings the Reverend Gowland to life. I can almost see him, lit by the light of a single candle, alert to the sound of approaching footsteps, moving his quill hurriedly from ink pot to parchment as he writes late into the night.”
“He seems real to me, too,” Amelia agreed. “It’s as if I were hearing one of my ancestors speak directly to me from the past.”
“And what a turbulent period of the past it was,” said Lilian. “England wasn’t a peaceful kingdom in those days. To the contrary, the country was racked with strife throughout much of the seventeenth century—civil war, sectarian violence, outbreaks of the plague, Cromwell’s thugs plundering
“Your search?” Willis, Sr., inquired politely, taking the chair beside the vicar’s.
“Let’s wait for Mrs. Bunting, shall we?” Amelia proposed. “Otherwise, I’ll have to repeat myself and repetition is tiresome for the speaker as well as the audience. In the meantime, please allow me to say, Mr. Bunting, that you are fortunate indeed to tend such a warmhearted and generous flock….”
Willis, Sr.’s years of legal training enabled him to maintain a neutral expression while Amelia sang the Handmaidens’ praises, and the vicar hid his emotions admirably, but the two men couldn’t help exchanging a single, fleeting glance that hovered somewherebetween incredulity and pity. They, too, realized that Amelia’s impression of the Handmaidens would become considerably less rosy once the four women unsheathed their claws, and they were as reluctant as I was to disillusion her.
“They’re much better housekeepers than I am,” Amelia concluded. “I doubt that Pussywillows will ever again be as tidy as it is now.”
Mr. Bunting and Willis, Sr., responded with innocuous comments, then retreated to safer ground with remarks about the weather, a conversation that lasted until Lilian returned, bearing the black lacquer tea tray she’d inherited from her paternal grandmother. She was accompanied by Angel, the fluffy white vicarage cat, who peered at each of us in turn before leaping onto the vicar’s lap and draping herself languidly over his knees.
While Lilian served the tea and handed around a plate filled with her irresistible lemon bars, Mr. Bunting brought her up to speed.
“Mrs. Thistle is engaged in a search,” he informed her. “We don’t yet know the nature of her search because she wanted you to be present when she enlightened us.”
“How intriguing,” said Lilian, sitting cautiously on the wobbly settee that faced the hearth. “Please, carry on, Mrs. Thistle. You have my undivided attention.”
“I suppose you could say I’m on a quest,” Amelia began, “though it’s my late brother’s quest, really….”
I sipped my Earl Grey and savored a lemon bar while Amelia repeated the remarkable story she’d related to me at Pussywillows. She’d evidently decided not to advertise the name Bowen and the complications that went with it because she spoke of her brother only as Alfred or Alfie, with no last name. She finished her account by delving into the colorful carpet bag for Alfred’s spiral-bound notebook and the first page of Gamaliel’s memoir, both of which were examined closely by Lilian, the vicar, and my father-in-law.
The Buntings didn’t go bananas, as I’d predicted, but they wereclearly thrilled by the discovery. Willis, Sr., as if conscious that their interest in the subject matter carried more weight than his own, allowed them to take the lead in the discussion that followed.
Lilian spent a considerable amount of time comparing the original Latin text to Alfred’s translation before passing them to Willis, Sr.
“Does the translation pass muster?” the vicar inquired.
“Oh, yes,” said Lilian. “It’s colloquial, but accurate.”
“I approve of Alfred’s use of common speech,” said the vicar. “It brings the Reverend Gowland to life. I can almost see him, lit by the light of a single candle, alert to the sound of approaching footsteps, moving his quill hurriedly from ink pot to parchment as he writes late into the night.”
“He seems real to me, too,” Amelia agreed. “It’s as if I were hearing one of my ancestors speak directly to me from the past.”
“And what a turbulent period of the past it was,” said Lilian. “England wasn’t a peaceful kingdom in those days. To the contrary, the country was racked with strife throughout much of the seventeenth century—civil war, sectarian violence, outbreaks of the plague, Cromwell’s thugs plundering
Similar Books
