“It would be wonderful for you three. But until then, I’m happy to have John in my care.” Ivy would never judge Mac. Or anyone, for that matter.
“Sending checks seems like paltry recompense for all the daily work you do and all the love you bestow.”
“Those checks make all this possible. Not just for John but for the other children as well. So do not torture yourself for one second, Dorothy,” she insists, gripping my hand more tightly.
I inhale deeply to calm myself. “Speaking of which,” I say, “I should probably leave Sidelings and get back to writing. My manuscript is already overdue, and I’m feeling much better thanks to your ministrations.” The headaches have indeed subsided, and while my ribs are still sore, I can get about somewhat normally. I could manage the train back to London.
“I adore having you here, Dorothy, and so does John. So please stay as long as you like. And in any event, I’m fairly certain it’s John and his giggles that are speeding along your recovery.”
“I feel like you’ve been at my side, inspiring me and saving me from myself, for as long as I can remember, Ivy.” I think back on the holidays and long August weeks when Ivy and her mother—Mum’s sister—would stay at the rectory with us. We’d put on plays, write stories, and read voraciously. “Do you remember when we readThe Three Musketeers?” I ask.
“Of course. It’s still a favorite.” She points to a teetering stack of books to the right of the sofa.
As she walks toward the pile, I ask, “Do you think it’s too mature for John?”
“Not at all. You started reading it a bit later, but then you were tackling it in French. What seven-year-old boy is too young for the stories of Athos, Aramis, Porthos, and D’Artagnan, wielding their swords to fight for right?” she asks, handing me the well-loved copy.
The children rush back into the room, bursting with descriptions of the puppy and its latest antics. When they pause for breath, I hold the book aloft and ask, “Are you ready for a tale of adventure?”
They cheer, and I pull John onto my lap. He squirms a little before settling in, and I realize he’s getting a bit old for lap sitting. Before he can wriggle away, I begin reading.
The first few lines do not capture his attention, but that all changes when I say, “A young man—we can sketch his portraitat a dash. Imagine to yourself a Don Quixote of eighteen; a Don Quixote without his corselet, without his coat of mail, without his cuisses… Too big for a youth, too small for a grown man, an experienced eye might have taken him for a farmer’s son upon a journey had it not been for the long sword…”
The other children’s faces light up. Soon they have sidled up to me and study the illustrations on the pages as I read. The sound of a knock on the door registers, but I pay it no mind. Ivy is an integral part of this Oxfordshire village, and neighbors are always dropping off items for her charges, among other things.
I become swept up in the familiar story once again, but then a line I’ve always loved strikes me anew. I slow my recitation. “You are young. You ought to be brave for two reasons: the first is that you are a Gascon, and the second is that you are my son. Never fear quarrels, but seek adventures—”
“Dorothy.” Ivy’s voice finally reaches me.
“Yes?” I look up from the page, over John’s head, to the front door.
There stand Agatha, Emma, Ngaio, and Margery. Cheeks flushed from the brisk spring weather, overcoats cinched around them, and an air of anticipation in their eyes. How on earth had they found me here?
“Your friends are here to visit,” Ivy says, her voice quizzical. “They call themselves the Queens.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
APRIL 13, 1931
OXFORDSHIRE,ENGLAND
The children squeal in frustration when I tell them we’ll have to stopThe Three Musketeersfor the time being. I laugh with delight at their reaction to this favorite book of mine and make a promise. “We shall continue the book at bedtime: How does that sound?”
Ivy, whom I’d just introduced to my friends, informs the children, “In the meantime, we shall have our dinner and baths. And maybe—just maybe—a pudding.” Her singsong tone placates them, as does the prospect of sweets.
“We don’t wish to disrupt your routines,” Emma protests. “It’s no bother to come back tomorrow morning. We are staying at the village inn tonight and could pop by then.”
I stifle a chuckle thinking about Emma staying in the cramped, basic rooms at the Killingworth Castle, a misleading name for the cozy Tudoresque pub with its wide stone hearths. Ngaio and Margery—even Agatha—I can imagine in the drafty guest rooms. But not Emma. Who will turn down her bed at night? And who will draw her scalding evening bath? That she’d even consider a stay at the Killingworth Castle—that they’dalltravel here—moves me.
“Please,” Ivy holds up folded hands. “We are glad to have you. The children and I will continue with our usual schedule and leave you grown-ups to yours. If that suits?”
“Ivy, I don’t want to drive you from your own parlor,” I say.
“Dear cousin, you are hardly driving me anywhere. I will happily retreat with the children and leave you ladies to your own devices.”
“We brought dinner,” says Margery. “Won’t you join us?”
Ivy waves her off. “I will politely demur. Come, children. Off we go!”
