Aunt Dimity Down Under by Nancy Atherton Page A

According to Aunt Dimity, Aubrey Pym, Sr., had been an unrepentant wastrel who’d been disinherited, disowned, and cast out in disgrace. She would have been dumbfounded to hear him described as “a bit of a black sheep” whose behavior had been merely “regrettable.”
    “The rift was never bridged,” Mr. Makepeace continued. “My clients were forbidden to communicate with their brother in any way. They were informed of his death, of course, but they were unaware of their nephew’s existence until ten days ago, when they discovered a letter buried at the bottom of a trunk that had once belonged to their mother.”
    “Who wrote the letter?” I asked.
    “Aubrey, Senior,” the solicitor replied. “He wished to inform his mother of his son’s birth. I do not know whether she wrote back to him, but I do know that she concealed the letter and the information it contained from her daughters.” Mr. Makepeace touched a finger to the orchid in his lapel, then pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “As I indicated earlier, Ms. Shepherd, the family rift was quite deep.”
    “What a stupid waste of energy,” I said, shaking my head in disgust. “Ruth and Louise would have made wonderful aunts.”
    “I’m afraid it is too late for them to establish a long-term relationship with their nephew,” Mr. Makepeace said softly. “But it is not yet too late for them to reach out to him. They must move cautiously, however, because they do not know how their overtures will be received. It is entirely possible that their nephew is unaware of their existence. It is also possible that his mind has been poisoned against them. Their intentions must, therefore, be conveyed with the utmost diplomacy.”
    I couldn’t restrain a snort of laughter. I’d been called many things in my life, but I’d never been called diplomatic. I lost my temper too easily, I spoke too hastily, and I seldom let facts complicate a good theory. If Ruth and Louise expected me to act the part of a discreet, mild-mannered envoy, they’d made a grave error in judgment. An ambassador blessed with my diplomatic skills would be more likely to inflame their family feud than to douse it.
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Makepeace,” I said, disguising my laughter with a cough, “but I don’t think I’m the right person for the job.”
    “I beg to differ, dear lady,” he said, smiling broadly. “My clients regard you as the perfect person for the job. They believe that you will succeed where others might fail because you are”—he closed his eyes briefly, as if he were trying to recall the Pyms’ exact words—“strong-willed, determined, and naturally inquisitive.”
    “Bossy, bullheaded, and nosy,” I said under my breath.
    “I beg your pardon? ” said the solicitor.
    “Never mind,” I said, motioning for him to go on.
    “I have been given to understand that you are independently wealthy,” he said. “If such is the case, you will be able to make the journey without risking a loss of income or requiring a leave of absence from your employer.”
    “I don’t work for a living,” I conceded, “but I have two young sons and a husband who travels a lot, so I don’t see how I can—”
    Mr. Makepeace held up a chubby finger for silence.
    “My clients,” he continued, “believe that your father-in-law, who currently resides with you, will not only be capable of looking after your sons, but glad of the opportunity to do so.”
    “My father-in-law is great with the boys,” I acknowledged, “but he doesn’t know the first thing about cooking, cleaning, or doing laundry, so—”
    “My clients,” Mr. Makepeace broke in, “have informed me that your father-in-law’s, er, legions of admirers will, without hesitation, rise to the occasion. I have been advised that the, ahem, merry widows of Finch—my clients’ phrase, not mine,” he hastened to assure me, “will vie for the privilege of providing your family with the home comforts to