Pussywillows first thing tomorrow morning, right after I take the boys to school.”
Reginald’s black button eyes glimmered a warning and I understood why. I would be breaking a village tradition by calling on a newcomer so soon after her arrival—a transgression that would earn me a month’s worth of dirty looks from the Handmaidens, among others—but I didn’t care. The quest I was about to undertake was of vital importance to the entire community. Neither slaps nor shrieks nor dirty looks would keep me from seeking the truth.
Six
I awoke the following morning to a leaden sky and the drumming of autumn rain on the slate roof. Having stayed up until the wee hours baking three separate batches of cookies as well as a quiche lorraine, I felt almost as leaden as the sky when I rolled out of bed, but a hearty breakfast and the bracing company of my menfolk perked me up. By the time I reached Pussywillows, with the fruits of my night’s labor tucked safely in a canvas carryall, I was ready for battle.
Mrs. Thistle answered my knock almost instantly, as if she’d been sitting near the door, hoping someone would come to call. Her blue eyes seemed enormous in a face that had grown pale, the gray hair bundled on the back of her head was on the verge of falling down around her ears, and she appeared to be wearing the same clothing she’d worn the day before—knee-length cardigan, tweed trousers, and vermillion blouse. She looked, in short, like a woman who’d been shipwrecked on foreign shores without a hairbrush, a hairpin, or a change of clothes to call her own.
“Good morning,” I said brightly. “My name is Lori Shepherd and I live just up the lane.” I held the canvas carryall out to her. “I’ve brought a little something to welcome you to the village.”
“Is it edible?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the bag.
“Quiche and cookies,” I replied. The question seemed a little strange to me, but I was willing to go with the flow.
Mrs. Thistle licked her lips and released a tremulous sigh before asking, “Is the quiche cooked?”
“All you have to do is warm it up,” I assured her.
“No need for that,” she said. “I adore cold quiche. Do come in.”
She seized my wrist, drew me across the threshold, and kickedthe door shut with her foot. I had a brief glimpse of a front room littered with crumpled newspaper and cardboard boxes before she whisked me through to the kitchen, at the rear of the cottage. Once there, she relieved me of the carryall, placed its contents on a scrubbed pine table, and began rummaging through yet another cardboard box.
“I’ve unearthed the cutlery and my tea things,” she said, “but I haven’t been able to locate the crockery, and my pots and pans are nowhere to be found. I suppose I should have labeled the boxes, but after living in the same place for ten years, one loses the knack for moving house.” She pulled two exquisite antique forks out of the box and offered one to me. “Care to join me?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’ve already had breakfast.”
“How I envy you,” she said. “I didn’t think to bring provisions with me. By the time I abandoned the unpacking last night, the local shops were closed, and I didn’t know where else to go. Dinner was a packet of crisps left behind by the removals men and breakfast was a cup of tea brewed from one of the desiccated tea bags I found at the bottom of my tea caddy. Thank heavens my predecessor left behind a roll of loo paper or I would have been in real trouble. As it is, I’m famished.”
“Dig in,” I said, gesturing to the quiche. “I’ll make a fresh pot of tea.”
“You are an angel of mercy.” She pulled a chair out from the table, sat down, and attacked the quiche, scooping bites of it directly from the pie plate with her fork.
I slid out of my dripping rain parka and hung it to dry in the scullery, then turned my attention to tea. The kitchen had been thoroughly
Reginald’s black button eyes glimmered a warning and I understood why. I would be breaking a village tradition by calling on a newcomer so soon after her arrival—a transgression that would earn me a month’s worth of dirty looks from the Handmaidens, among others—but I didn’t care. The quest I was about to undertake was of vital importance to the entire community. Neither slaps nor shrieks nor dirty looks would keep me from seeking the truth.
Six
I awoke the following morning to a leaden sky and the drumming of autumn rain on the slate roof. Having stayed up until the wee hours baking three separate batches of cookies as well as a quiche lorraine, I felt almost as leaden as the sky when I rolled out of bed, but a hearty breakfast and the bracing company of my menfolk perked me up. By the time I reached Pussywillows, with the fruits of my night’s labor tucked safely in a canvas carryall, I was ready for battle.
Mrs. Thistle answered my knock almost instantly, as if she’d been sitting near the door, hoping someone would come to call. Her blue eyes seemed enormous in a face that had grown pale, the gray hair bundled on the back of her head was on the verge of falling down around her ears, and she appeared to be wearing the same clothing she’d worn the day before—knee-length cardigan, tweed trousers, and vermillion blouse. She looked, in short, like a woman who’d been shipwrecked on foreign shores without a hairbrush, a hairpin, or a change of clothes to call her own.
“Good morning,” I said brightly. “My name is Lori Shepherd and I live just up the lane.” I held the canvas carryall out to her. “I’ve brought a little something to welcome you to the village.”
“Is it edible?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the bag.
“Quiche and cookies,” I replied. The question seemed a little strange to me, but I was willing to go with the flow.
Mrs. Thistle licked her lips and released a tremulous sigh before asking, “Is the quiche cooked?”
“All you have to do is warm it up,” I assured her.
“No need for that,” she said. “I adore cold quiche. Do come in.”
She seized my wrist, drew me across the threshold, and kickedthe door shut with her foot. I had a brief glimpse of a front room littered with crumpled newspaper and cardboard boxes before she whisked me through to the kitchen, at the rear of the cottage. Once there, she relieved me of the carryall, placed its contents on a scrubbed pine table, and began rummaging through yet another cardboard box.
“I’ve unearthed the cutlery and my tea things,” she said, “but I haven’t been able to locate the crockery, and my pots and pans are nowhere to be found. I suppose I should have labeled the boxes, but after living in the same place for ten years, one loses the knack for moving house.” She pulled two exquisite antique forks out of the box and offered one to me. “Care to join me?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’ve already had breakfast.”
“How I envy you,” she said. “I didn’t think to bring provisions with me. By the time I abandoned the unpacking last night, the local shops were closed, and I didn’t know where else to go. Dinner was a packet of crisps left behind by the removals men and breakfast was a cup of tea brewed from one of the desiccated tea bags I found at the bottom of my tea caddy. Thank heavens my predecessor left behind a roll of loo paper or I would have been in real trouble. As it is, I’m famished.”
“Dig in,” I said, gesturing to the quiche. “I’ll make a fresh pot of tea.”
“You are an angel of mercy.” She pulled a chair out from the table, sat down, and attacked the quiche, scooping bites of it directly from the pie plate with her fork.
I slid out of my dripping rain parka and hung it to dry in the scullery, then turned my attention to tea. The kitchen had been thoroughly
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