Read Online Aunt Dimity's Christmas by Nancy Atherton - Free Book Online

enormous fiberglass box.
    There was a pleasing air of prosperity about the place. The outbuildings were well tended, the fences in good repair, and the stable yard was immaculate. Anne Preston, it seemed, had a knack for farming.
    No sooner had Julian switched off the engine than the front door opened and a pair of frisky black-and-white border collies trotted out, followed by a fair-haired young man.
    â€œBranwell! Charlotte!” he called, and the dogs came to heel at his side.
    â€œBranwell?” I muttered. “Charlotte? I thought Brontë country was further north.”
    â€œBrontë country is a state of mind,” Julian said sternly. “Now behave yourself. We’re here on serious business.” He took the canvas carryall from me and we both got out of the car. The stable yard’s earthy scent wafted through the crisp, cold air and I heard a horse’s whinny as we approached the house.
    â€œCan I help you?” the young man inquired. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, tall and sturdily built, with a bull neck and broad shoulders beneath a bulky fisherman’s sweater.
    â€œWe were hoping to speak with Anne Preston,” said Julian, stopping a few feet from the doorstep. “I understand she lives here.”
    The young man smiled. “She’s Anne Somerville now,” he informed us proudly. “I’m Charles Somerville. We were married three weeks ago.”
    â€œCongratulations,” Julian said heartily. “Is Mrs. Somerville in?”
    It was clear that the novelty of hearing the words
Mrs. Somerville
had not yet worn off. Charles flushed with pleasureas he turned to shout over his shoulder, “Anne! Anne, you have visitors!”
    A moment later, a petite, dark-haired woman came to the door. Her raven hair hung thick and straight to her jawline, framing a creamy complexion and a pair of arresting green eyes. She was stylishly dressed in well-cut twill trousers, square-toed leather boots, and a charcoal-gray cowl-neck sweater made of the softest angora.
    â€œMrs. Somerville?” Julian asked.
    â€œYes,” said the woman, in a pleasantly husky voice. “I’m Anne Somerville. Have you come about the rape?”
    Julian blanched. “P-pardon?”
    â€œThe rapeseed,” said Anne Somerville. “I’m expecting a delivery of—” She broke off abruptly and gave a small gasp as she caught sight of the canvas carryall. “
Kit
…” she whispered, and without further warning fell, fainting, into her new husband’s strong arms.

C harles Somerville placed his wife gently on a low settee in the farmhouse’s front parlor. A wood fire crackled in the hearth, casting a flickering light on the oak-paneled walls and the jewel-hued Persian rugs layered over the carpeted floor.
    The sharp tang of pine mingled with the mellow scent of wood smoke. A cut-glass decanter rested on a bed of evergreen boughs atop a Jacobean sideboard, and a Christmas tree stood between the two mullioned windows, bright with glittering ornaments, a host of tiny white lights, and a quivering waterfall of tinsel.
    Branwell and Charlotte lay side by side on the hearth rug, their ears cocked forward, their eyes on their mistress’s face. Julian and I sat in a pair of velvet armchairs separated by a low walnut table, looking on helplessly.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” Julian murmured, wringing his hands. “I’d no idea she’d react so strongly.”
    â€œWhy shouldn’t she?” Charles caressed his wife’s forehead. “Kit saved her life.”
    â€œI’m not even sure we’re speaking of the same man.” Julian motioned toward the canvas carryall at his feet. “The bag belongs to a man who calls himself Smitty.”
    â€œHis name’s Kit Smith. He worked here for a time.” Charles looked over his shoulder at Julian. “Is he dead?”
    â€œNo,” said Julian.
    â€œDo