Free Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree by Nancy Atherton

Stanley to move from my pillows to a spot near my husband’s feet, I lay back and stared at the ceiling while thoughts of Aunt Dimity’s complex machinations rolled sluggishly through my brain. No one respected her craftiness more than I did, but I’d never heard of a plan in which so many things could go wrong.
    “Not a snowball’s chance,” I murmured, and as dawn’s rosy fingers touched the sky, I plunged into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Six
    Bill concurred with my dour assessment of Aunt Dimity’s scheme, but he thought it was worth a try. He, too, was a big fan of Sally’s jam doughnuts.
    “We’ll pick up Father on our way to St. George’s,” he said, as we dressed for church the following morning.
    “It’s a fine day,” I said, peering through the bedroom window at the cloudless blue sky. “He’ll probably want to walk.”
    “Fine day or no, he’ll ride with us,” Bill said flatly. “When we get to Fairworth, I’ll keep the boys occupied while you run in and present the plan to Father. If he gives it the green light, we’ll start the ball rolling in the churchyard scrum.”
    The “churchyard scrum” was Bill’s affectionate term for the knot of chattering villagers that formed in the graveyard surrounding St. George’s every Sunday after church. Wherever two or more were gathered in Finch there was bound to be gossip, so the scrum would be a perfect place to launch our disinformation campaign.
    “And if William doesn’t give us the green light?” I asked.
    “We’ll hope he comes up with a better plan.” Bill straightened the knot in his tie, then opened the bedroom door, saying, “ Vámonos, muchacha! If we stand around talking much longer, the boys will decide to drive themselves to church.”
    I followed him out of the bedroom, mentally rehearsing a condensed version of Aunt Dimity’s complicated scenario. A full rendition would make us miss the morning service and a missed church service would raise eyebrows I didn’t want raised.

    Fairworth House glowed like old gold in the morning sun. Declan Donovan, clad in khaki shorts, a short-sleeved shirt, and scruffy work boots, was already tending to his duties, using a rake to repair the damage done to the graveled drive by the flotilla of cars that had come and gone the previous evening. He stopped raking and raised a hand to greet us as we piled out of the Rover. Bill took the boys over to meet him while I scampered up the steps and into the entrance hall, where I found Willis, Sr., who was about to leave for church.
    “Such haste on a Sunday morning,” he observed, clucking his tongue. “You are aware that the catering crisis is over, are you not?”
    “Come with me,” I said, ignoring his quip. “I have something to tell you and it can’t wait.”
    I led him to the settee near the window in the morning room, closed the door, and relayed the essential points of Aunt Dimity’s plan to him, shamelessly claiming them as my own. Although my father-in-law had known Dimity Westwood when she was alive, he was unaware of my ongoing relationship with her, and I had no idea how to explain it to him.
    “Well?” I asked, when I’d finished. “What do you think?”
    “An American cousin?” he said doubtfully. “I was rather hoping to play the role of the butler.”
    I frowned at him in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
    “Great minds think alike, Lori,” he said, smiling. “I devised a stratagem very similar to yours over breakfast this morning. Mrs. Donovan, by the way, is an excellent cook. My poached eggs were sublime. She is also knowledgeable about sheep.”
    “Never mind about sheep,” I said impatiently. “What’s all this about playing the role of a butler?”
    “I have always wanted to buttle,” Willis, Sr., replied wistfully. “My accent, alas, will not serve. The butler in an English country house would sound more ... English. I admit it, Lori. Your scheme trumps mine. I am better suited to the role