Aunt Dimity Digs In by Nancy Atherton

an uneven, flyaway fringe. Her long nose and narrow face were smudged with dirt, as were her formerly pink T-shirt and checked shorts.
    “I’m going to be nine this coming Sunday,” she announced, jiggling from foot to foot. “Do you live in Finch? Will you come to my party? Bill’s going to sit with me and Gran, and help me cut the cake.” She leaned against Bill’s desk and fluttered her eyelashes worshipfully. “I adore Bill. He lets me push the buttons on the fax machine.”
    My adorable husband was sitting with his eyes shut and his head in his hands. I looked down at the little chatter-box and beamed. I couldn’t have invented a better form of revenge. An afternoon with Rainey Dawson was surely equal to twenty minutes with Peggy Kitchen.
    “I’d love to come to your party, Rainey,” I said. “ Thank you very much for inviting me.”
    “Gran said I could invite anyone I liked,” Rainey informed me. “She has the tearoom next door and—” Rainey broke off abruptly and stared hard at my chest. “ You’ve got a baby,” she said.
    I folded my arms self-consciously. “What makes you say that?”
    Rainey pointed at my folded arms. “You’ve got spots on your blouse, just like Mum.”
    “Spots on my . . .” I glanced down and saw a pair of telltale damp patches on the front of my hitherto clean blouse. “Ack!” I cried. “I’m late! The boys’ll be starving! And it’s all your fault!” I shook a fist at Bill as I sprinted for the door, and hollered over my shoulder, “Keep talking, Rainey!”

6.
    I gunned the Mini all the way home and skidded into the driveway with such reckless abandon that I came within inches of hitting the horse.
    “Sorry, Rosie!” I cried, as the poor creature shied. “But I’m late!”
    The chestnut mare’s presence on my front lawn meant that Emma Harris had come to call. Rocinante belonged to Nell, Emma’s thirteen-year-old stepdaughter, but since Nell was spending the summer in Paris with her paternal grandfather, Rosie’s daily regimen of training and exercise had become Emma’s responsibility. “It’s the least I can do,” Emma had told me, “considering Rosie’s voluminous contributions to my garden.”
    I scrambled out of the Mini, gave Rosie’s nose an apologetic rub, and hastened into the cottage, ears cocked for the piteous wailing of my neglected infants.
    Silence greeted me.
    I dashed into the living room, saw that the playpen was empty, and darted upstairs to check the nursery.
    No sign of life.
    “Francesca?” I called, flying back downstairs. “Emma?”
    No answer.
    I ran into the kitchen only to be waylaid by a cloud of delectable aromas emanating from a stockpot that had been left simmering on the stove. I crept over to lift the lid and stood inhaling the heady fragrance of garlic, onions, herbs, and fresh tomatoes until, faint above the sauce’s bubbling, I caught the sound of Rob’s raspy laughter.
    The sound was coming from the back garden. I dropped the lid onto the pot, flew through the solarium to the back door, and was brought up short once again.
    Francesca and Emma were sitting in two wicker armchairs in the shade of the apple tree. Emma had pulled her gray-blond hair back into a single thick braid that hung past her waist, and placed her black velvet riding helmet on the stone bench. She wore black riding boots and fawn breeches, but had dispensed with her fitted jacket in favor of a short-sleeved cotton top that was better suited to the heat of the day. She was cradling Will in her arms and feeding him with a bottle.
    The sight of Emma Harris playing nursemaid was enough to make my jaw drop. Emma had about as much maternal instinct as a frying pan. She’d stumbled into stepmotherhood by marrying a widower who had a son and daughter already in place. No one could deny that she’d made a go of it—her stepchildren adored her—but she was the first to admit that her success with Peter and Nell owed far more to their patient