Read Online Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch by Nancy Atherton - Free Book Online
Authors: Nancy Atherton
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alertly until she added, “Amelia, please. Guardian angels are allowed to use first names.”
“I’m no angel,” I said, “but if I’mto call you Amelia, you must call me Lori. Everyone does. Have a seat and a cookie, Amelia. Leave the parlor to me.”
I was a bit disappointed in myself for failing to nail down Mrs. Thistle’s true identity within the first thirty minutes of my arrival at Pussywillows, but my disappointment was replaced by a tingle of excitement as I entered the front room. Although I would have lent a helping hand to anyone in Mrs. Thistle’s situation, I couldn’t deny the special pleasure it gave me to see up close what Bill and my neighbors had seen only from a distance.
I quickly cleared the room of packing debris, pushed the half-emptied boxes into a neat row along one wall, and lit a fire in the hearth. I piled the bulging trash bags near the front door for later delivery to the recycling bin, then paused to take in the scene my cleanup work had revealed.
I saw what Bill had seen: a pleasing mix of the old and the new. Burgundy silk taffeta drapes hung at the windows and a colorful Turkish rug warmed the polished plank floor. A secretaire bookcase made of lustrous cherrywood served as a focal point for the interior wall—an efficient use of space on Mrs. Thistle’s part, since the secretaire combined the virtues of a small desk with those of a display cabinet.
A brass floor lamp with a vellum shade cast a soft glow over a plump love seat and a pair of armchairs grouped around a low rosewood table before the hearth. The love seat was covered in a reddish-brown tweed and the armchairs were upholstered in a glorious brown, gold, and burgundy paisley. The dark furnishings looked well against the room’s whitewashed walls and complemented the smoke-blackened oak beam that had been set into the chimney breast to serve as a mantel.
Mrs. Thistle’s pots and pans might still be among the missing, but a selection of smaller, less practical items had clearly been found. The secretaire ’sshelves were filled with pretty and possibly revealing ornaments—porcelain posies, blown-glass blossoms, bone-china bouquets—and a charming, enameled carriage clock sat upon the mantel. A pair of photographs flanked the clock, silver-framed color portraits of two different men, both smiling, one blue-eyed, clean-shaven, and balding, the other sporting horn-rimmed glasses, a dark beard, and long, dark hair. I wondered who the men were, realized that Mrs. Thistle could probably tell me, and returned to the kitchen with the broom resting on my shoulder.
I could tell upon entering the room that my quiche—and a handful of oatmeal cookies—had revived Mrs. Thistle. She’d pinned her hair more securely in place, the color had returned to her cheeks, and her eyes had lost their mildly desperate gleam.
“Have you finished already?” she said, brushing crumbs from her fingertips.
“As the mother of two little boys,” I said, “I’ve learned how to deal with messes. Not that your room was a mess—”
“It was,” she interrupted amiably as she pushed herself to her feet. “Let’s take our tea to the parlor and see what you’ve accomplished.”
I could almost hear a Victorian silversmith rotate in his grave as Mrs. Thistle used his splendid creation to convey a chubby red teapot, two jam jars, and a plastic box filled with oatmeal cookies to the front room. Smiling, I put the broom back in the cupboard and followed her.
She deposited the tray on the low table, clasped her hands to her bosom, and turned in a circle to survey a room she hadn’t yet seen decluttered.
“I can’t thank you enough, Lori,” she said finally. “It would have taken me a whole day to do what you did in twenty minutes.” She sat in one of the armchairs and motioned for me to take the other. “Please, dear, you must tell me all about your little boys.”
It wasn’t easy to refuse an open invitation to brag about my
“I’m no angel,” I said, “but if I’mto call you Amelia, you must call me Lori. Everyone does. Have a seat and a cookie, Amelia. Leave the parlor to me.”
I was a bit disappointed in myself for failing to nail down Mrs. Thistle’s true identity within the first thirty minutes of my arrival at Pussywillows, but my disappointment was replaced by a tingle of excitement as I entered the front room. Although I would have lent a helping hand to anyone in Mrs. Thistle’s situation, I couldn’t deny the special pleasure it gave me to see up close what Bill and my neighbors had seen only from a distance.
I quickly cleared the room of packing debris, pushed the half-emptied boxes into a neat row along one wall, and lit a fire in the hearth. I piled the bulging trash bags near the front door for later delivery to the recycling bin, then paused to take in the scene my cleanup work had revealed.
I saw what Bill had seen: a pleasing mix of the old and the new. Burgundy silk taffeta drapes hung at the windows and a colorful Turkish rug warmed the polished plank floor. A secretaire bookcase made of lustrous cherrywood served as a focal point for the interior wall—an efficient use of space on Mrs. Thistle’s part, since the secretaire combined the virtues of a small desk with those of a display cabinet.
A brass floor lamp with a vellum shade cast a soft glow over a plump love seat and a pair of armchairs grouped around a low rosewood table before the hearth. The love seat was covered in a reddish-brown tweed and the armchairs were upholstered in a glorious brown, gold, and burgundy paisley. The dark furnishings looked well against the room’s whitewashed walls and complemented the smoke-blackened oak beam that had been set into the chimney breast to serve as a mantel.
Mrs. Thistle’s pots and pans might still be among the missing, but a selection of smaller, less practical items had clearly been found. The secretaire ’sshelves were filled with pretty and possibly revealing ornaments—porcelain posies, blown-glass blossoms, bone-china bouquets—and a charming, enameled carriage clock sat upon the mantel. A pair of photographs flanked the clock, silver-framed color portraits of two different men, both smiling, one blue-eyed, clean-shaven, and balding, the other sporting horn-rimmed glasses, a dark beard, and long, dark hair. I wondered who the men were, realized that Mrs. Thistle could probably tell me, and returned to the kitchen with the broom resting on my shoulder.
I could tell upon entering the room that my quiche—and a handful of oatmeal cookies—had revived Mrs. Thistle. She’d pinned her hair more securely in place, the color had returned to her cheeks, and her eyes had lost their mildly desperate gleam.
“Have you finished already?” she said, brushing crumbs from her fingertips.
“As the mother of two little boys,” I said, “I’ve learned how to deal with messes. Not that your room was a mess—”
“It was,” she interrupted amiably as she pushed herself to her feet. “Let’s take our tea to the parlor and see what you’ve accomplished.”
I could almost hear a Victorian silversmith rotate in his grave as Mrs. Thistle used his splendid creation to convey a chubby red teapot, two jam jars, and a plastic box filled with oatmeal cookies to the front room. Smiling, I put the broom back in the cupboard and followed her.
She deposited the tray on the low table, clasped her hands to her bosom, and turned in a circle to survey a room she hadn’t yet seen decluttered.
“I can’t thank you enough, Lori,” she said finally. “It would have taken me a whole day to do what you did in twenty minutes.” She sat in one of the armchairs and motioned for me to take the other. “Please, dear, you must tell me all about your little boys.”
It wasn’t easy to refuse an open invitation to brag about my
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