Free Aunt Dimity Digs In by Nancy Atherton

another aromatic stockpot.
    “Francesca, this is brilliant,” I said, stepping carefully over the cord. “Just like the circus animals in the tree yesterday.” I crossed to breathe in a bouquet of mouth-watering scents. “Lunch, I hope?”
    “Tomato-and-basil soup,” Francesca replied. “I thought it’d go well with the croissants left over from breakfast.” As she reached for the wooden spoon, her bronze medallion swung forward.
    “That’s a striking piece of jewelry,” I said. The medallion featured a raised, cherubic face surrounded by a halo of curly hair—not unlike my own—with a pair of tiny wings protruding from the temples. “Is that supposed to be Mercury?”
    “It’s Mercury’s winged head.” Francesca touched the bronze disk. “It’s called a phalera . It’s a military decoration Roman soldiers used to wear. My father gave it to me, to remind me of where he came from.” She lifted the wooden spoon to her lips and switched off the stove. “Finito. D’you want to take care of the bambinos before or after we eat?” She used the Italian words offhandedly, and without a trace of an accent, apart from her west-country burr. I wondered if she was testing the waters to see if the cottage had been infiltrated by the prejudices her father had encountered.
    “Bambinos first, is my motto,” I said, and was rewarded with an amused flicker from the corner of her eye.
    Francesca had already prepared bowls of pureed chick peas and rice, and we spent a splendidly messy half hour helping Will and Rob vector in on the glide path between bowl and mouth. My little aces hit the target so often that they barely had room for milk afterward, and were willing to doze, full-bellied as Buddhas, while Francesca and I sat down to eat.
    Between spoonfuls of savory soup and bites of buttery croissant, I told Francesca my plans for the afternoon. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be, and I don’t want to be late for the boys’ next meal the way I was yesterday, so . . . Would you mind coming along? I know it’ll be a lot of trouble, loading Will and Rob into the car and all, but . . .”
    Francesca’s dark eyes gleamed. “I’ve run eight kiddies to the Sleepy Hollow Farm Park and back any number of times. I think I’ll be able to manage a pair of lamb chops like Rob and Will.”
    I looked down at my empty bowl, remembering the agonized hours I’d spent preparing for the six-mile (roundtrip) journey from the cottage to Saint George’s for the boys’ christening. I felt limp with inadequacy.
    “I’d just as soon not bring the boys into the tearoom, though,” Francesca added. “Wouldn’t want to bother Mrs. Pyne’s other customers. I’ll sit with ’em up at Saint George’s churchyard, if you like. You could meet us there when you’ve finished.”
    I nodded my agreement. None of the churchyard’s customers would complain if the boys decided to exercise their right to free speech. “I’ll get the keys to the Mercedes. The Mini’s backseat isn’t big enough for—”
    “You’ve reminded me . . .” Francesca interrupted. She reached into her apron pocket. “I found this in a ratty old plimsoll at the back of the linen cupboard. Thought you might’ve misplaced it. D’you know what it’s for?”
    I gazed at the key resting in Francesca’s palm and blushed to my roots. “Yes,” I admitted. “It unlocks the padlock on the, um, bathroom cabinet.”
    “Clever of you to hide it,” Francesca commented. “Can’t be too careful where little ones and medicine chests are concerned. I could tell you stories. . . .” She gazed at my bambinos and pocketed the key. “I’ll put it right back where I found it.”
    I nearly wept into my soup. At last! I’d done something right!
     
    Francesca took the wheel of the Mercedes while I kept an eye on the boys in the backseat. They dozed as soon as the engine started, and were fast asleep by the time we reached the humpbacked bridge.
    It was another warm