Читать книгу Kisses To Go - Irene Peterson - Страница 6

Two heavily armed policemen in thick flak jackets greeted passengers disembarking from the plane at Gatwick. There had been soldiers carrying weapons in New York, but they’d smiled at Abby after looking through her purse and “luggage.” And there had been the people at the luggage detector thingy, looking bored to death. These burly guys looked ready to chew her up and spit her out.

Welcome to England.

Still in a fog, her brain addled from lack of sleep, adrenaline, and jet lag, Abby thought at first that they meant to arrest her. “Flying in first class under false pretenses,” one murmured, as he fondled the automatic rifle held at the ready. Or did he? She saw his policeman’s cap, with the little checkered band, not a domed bobby hat. The black flak vest beefed up his rather ordinary chest. He looked everywhere and anywhere, but not directly at her. Which was strange, she figured, since he meant to arrest her.

The other eyed her plastic bag and purse warily.

“Look ’ere, we got enough o’ your lot in this country,” her brain registered, accent and all. Or did it?

“You’re holding up the other passengers, miss.”

The attendant at the open doorway urged her along. “Just follow the arrows to Immigration and Customs and present your entry card.”

Abby snapped out of her daydream. “Oh, yes. Sorry.”

Sorry about not being arrested? Sorry she looked like a bomb-carrying terrorist? Sorry about Lance…yes, she was sorry about that all right.

Abby shook her head to clear away the ugly thoughts. Still, armed guards instead of open arms were not what she’d expected. They were English and she loved their country! But things had changed since September 11. The mess in Iraq only made things worse. Guards everywhere, looking for terrorists. Looking askance at her?

Pushed along by the crowd of passengers, Abby felt as if she were trying to float with lead weights around her ankles. Lack of sleep always did that to her, she reasoned, and the fact that it was merely two in the morning back home registered vaguely in her brain. Here, England was up and bustling at seven. The day, her first day in England, had begun and she chided herself for feeling like crap.

Immigration. Customs. Present card. She had nothing to declare, unless there was some sort of market for plastic shopping bags and one tiny black dress and those little black sandals with the two straps that looked so elegant in the store.

Get a grip, she warned herself.

The clerk looked mean in a foreign sort of way as she faced him across the high, lectern-like desk. He had a tiny bit of lint hanging on his lip, stuck on what looked to be a new mustache. It bothered her. She wanted to reach out and pick it off. Was she completely nuts?

“What is your destination?” he bit out, sounding as tired as Abby felt.

She stopped herself from yawning in his face and turned slightly away so she wouldn’t see the lip thingy. “Someone is meeting me here to take me to Glastonbury. I’ll be staying there for two weeks.”

That was more than he really needed to know, unless they liked to keep track of tourists the way they did in Russia.

Abby tried to unscramble her memory. Had they always treated tourists like this? Her brain drifted off again. Maybe only the French ones.

“Very good, miss,” the official said. “You can claim your luggage now. There will be a slight wait.”

Abby felt a fresh wave of uneasiness wash over her. He’d noticed she had no luggage. What a dirtbag he must think she was! But she didn’t have that thing stuck on her lip. She couldn’t help herself. Her hand went up to her mouth, anyway. Crud!

Maybe he’d take a hint.

But then, she realized, she was only going to be in the country for a couple of weeks. She would never lay eyes on this guy again, so what difference did it make? For that matter, she’d never see any of these people again, so why should she care what they thought about her?

With that thought raising her spirits, Abby squared her shoulders and walked to the exit.

She stood alone. All the other passengers undoubtedly were still fighting over their bags at the luggage carousels. Glancing back, she saw them milling around, waiting, while dull metal plates like the scales of a gigantic reptile whirled past them, empty. The tall, good-looking man striding past the others, carrying a small case and several rolls of paper, caught her attention. He didn’t turn his head as he came within six feet of her.

After a few seconds’ thought, she recognized him as the guy from the plane. With a start, she put her hand in her jeans pocket and pulled out the handkerchief he had lent her.

“Wait!” she called out. “Sir, I have your…”

Heads turned in her direction. Too late, Abby remembered what she’d read in one of the guidebooks she’d pored over after going to the travel agency. She’d memorized a list of things one didn’t do in England:

1 Do not raise your voice:laugh loudlycall outswear

2 Do not brag—America is not the only country in the world that has great stuff.

3 Do not ask personal questions.

4 Do not talk about intimate subjects:operations or illnessessexspecific family problemsmoney

5 Do say “sorry” and not “pardon me.” That is reserved for burping or farting and no one really wants to hear that.

Here she was. She’d dreamt about coming to this country since she was a teenager. She’d studied art history. She knew all about architecture and the fine arts. And she wasn’t raised in a turnip patch, either. This was a place of culture and refinement. People were classy, especially where she was going. She’d watched tons of PBS shows and Merchant/Ivory movies.

She was going to behave properly, even if it killed her.

Back to her seatmate—he was already gone, his long legs carrying him toward a door marked “car park.” Abby made one step to follow, then thought better of it. She’d been kind of rude to him with the butt business and all. Evidently he’d written off the hankie, just as he’d written off her.

She let the white linen flutter in her hand. Then she noticed the small mark on the corner. Bringing it closer, she saw that it wasn’t a mark but a small crest, neatly done, bearing what looked like a red dragon or a really ugly dog in the center. There were words, perhaps a motto or something, but the thread was too thick and the letters were far too small for her to make out.

With a sigh, she stuffed the thing into her jacket pocket. People moved past her, tugging suitcases and travel bags. All of them looked tired and mussed, although her former seatmate hadn’t given her that impression. He’d looked cleaned and pressed. As if his clothes wouldn’t have dared wrinkle. Chuckling to herself, she moved on. With nothing to declare and no luggage, she quickly made it through customs, suffering only a deep frown from the clerk, into the arrivals area.

A few people carrying small signs with names on them fretted impatiently by the exit. Chauffeurs, she guessed. One stood out, an elderly man dressed in a uniform straight out of an old movie—black brimmed cap, fitted jacket with buttons down both sides of his rather lean chest, gray breeches and highly polished black boots. He carried a small sign with “Porter” written on it.

Relief brought a small smile to her lips.

“That’s me,” she said as soon as she came close enough to him.

He actually bobbed his head and touched the visor of his cap. Abby grinned.

“Miss Abigail Porter of Nutley, New Jersey?”

She nodded.

“I was led to believe there would be a gentleman accompanying you,” the distinguished old gent said.

Abby remembered “the list” and shook her head. “That’s a long story. A real long story.”

A look of confusion passed over the man’s face, replaced immediately by one of unflappable attention. “This way, miss,” he said. He, too, looked for her luggage.

Abby shrugged. “That’s part of the story.”

Riding in a chauffeur-driven Bentley had to be the most luxurious way to travel, Abby told herself. The venerable old car was immaculate, a testament to the driver, who said she could call him John when she asked.

“Just John, miss,” he’d said after holding open the door for her and making sure she was seated comfortably. Too tired to ask anything else, Abby succumbed to the sleep that she had so desperately needed on the plane and the old car rolled elegantly away from the airport.

Abby woke up when she sensed the car had stopped. The light disoriented her. Surely she’d slept into the evening. This wasn’t Nutley. Not Lower Manhattan, either. And it certainly wasn’t the middle of the night.

Like words appearing on the bottom of a Magic 8-Ball, the realization of where she was slowly materialized in her brain. She’d flown through the night. She was in England. It wasn’t home; it wasn’t evening. It was just England.

Holy cow, she thought, I’m in England!

London! Yorkshire dales! Colin Firth! Stonehenge! She wanted to see all of it and here she was! Cool, cool, cool.

A light tap on the window startled her, jerking her out of her daydreams.

The most beautiful, fresh-faced young lady smiled at her. Abby took one look at that lovely, clear-skinned face and, suddenly, felt rumpled and worn out.

“Hello,” said the young woman as she opened Abby’s door. “Welcome to Bowness Hall. I’m Letitia Wincott. You must be Abigail Porter.”

Talk about your classy accent!

Abby returned the smile, then slid back in the seat as a huge dog nosed into the car.

A cursory sniff, a tail wag, and a sloppy kiss and the dog backed up a bit, allowing Abby to exit the Bentley.

“Leave the lady alone, Tugger!” Letitia hauled the giant wolfhound back and shoved it away.

“I’m Abigail Porter, all right. Good thing I love dogs.”

“He’s a beast, and I’m sorry. He’s quite harmless.”

“Then he and I will be good friends,” Abby laughed as she watched the dog race after a squirrel. She wiped at her face, then smoothed her hand over her wrinkled jeans, trying to keep her tone as sincere and carefree as Letitia Wincott’s. She waited for the kid to look behind her, knowing full well she would be looking for Lance.

The girl’s face fell. “I thought you were bringing along a gentleman friend.”

Straightening and twisting her back to get out the kinks, Abby stalled while trying to think of a way to explain all that had happened. This might call for a bit more finesse than she usually employed. Watch your mouth. Keep it civil. You’ve got to get your money back.

“Long story.”

She didn’t want to air her dirty laundry in front of the pillared magnificence of the palace behind this kid. Nor did she feel like launching into an explanation of what a failure at male/female relationships she was when she could be staring at the facade of the majestic old home. Her jaw went slack as her eyes traveled over the structure.

“Oh, my.” She turned to Letitia. “This is stunning.”

Behind her, she heard a pointedly soft throat clearing. Her young guide smiled sheepishly and stopped. “Oh, dear, how rude you must think me. This is Mrs. Duxbury, Miss Porter. She is the housekeeper at Bowness Hall.”

Abby met the gaze of a smiling, slender, silver-haired old lady who looked fragile and elegant in a crisp dark dress and white apron.

Mrs. Duxbury bobbed her head in greeting. “Glad you could come to stay with us,” she said, her voice sounding as frail as she looked.

The old lady gave off good vibes. Abby shot a quick look at Letitia and saw love reflected in her young, beautiful face.

“Thank you, Mrs. Duxbury. I’m thrilled to be here.”

John the chauffeur hustled them up the stairs by reminding the ladies that Miss Porter would probably want to see her room and freshen up after her long flight. But Abby only made it through the massive front door before stopping dead in her tracks.

Up on the ceiling, angels and goddesses cavorted in pastel colors from vault to vault, while huge male figures in ancient golden armor drove chariots hither and yon. The foyer, bigger by far than the entire Porter house in New Jersey, contained a few elegant, thin-legged pieces of furniture; some huge jardinières; and several large oil paintings in thick gilt frames.

The floor, white marble veined with soft blush hues, contrasted superbly with the intense Wedgwood blue of the walls.

It all smelled rich to Abby. Rich and elegant and very, very old.

For the first time in her twenty-six years on earth, Abby Porter felt sheer, speechless awe.

Beside her, Letitia breathed out a soft laugh. Slowly Abby became aware of her own bad manners.

Coming round, she uttered a heartfelt “Sorry.”

Her hostess smiled warmly.

“Do you like it?”

Abby nodded, feeling like a hick, a definite, bona fide bumpkin straight from the sticks. She tried desperately to regain some semblance of sophistication, shutting her mouth and remembering not to gawk. After all, in her study of art history, she’d seen lovely old houses before, just not of this magnitude.

Get a grip, she warned herself. They’ll think you’re a peasant.

Her voice came out rather quiet for once. “I think it’s lovely. Quite the most glorious way to enter a house.”

Mrs. Duxbury promised to show her the rest of the house as soon as Abby felt up to it. The woman’s knowing look, the sympathy in her voice assured Abby that she wouldn’t be expected to do much more than rest this day.

“I’ll be happy to show our guest around the Hall later.” Letitia’s blue eyes flashed merrily. “I can help you unpack your things, too,” she added. Then, as if remembering that Abby had no “things,” her eyelashes fluttered and she lowered her head.

“I’d appreciate your help in finding my room.” It was an effort to speak coherently, but the ancient house called to her. She watched the grin return to her guide’s face. Letitia indicated the proper direction at the end of the foyer and off they went, leaving the chauffeur and housekeeper standing in the vast, now echoing entry.

“Oh, dear,” whispered Mrs. Duxbury as the younger women walked away. “Where is her young man?”

John Duxbury shook his head from side to side slowly. “Don’t know, Duckie. She was the only one at the airport and when I asked, she said there was a long story involved. My guess is, the fellow left her at the altar or something like that.”

Duckie’s worried look deepened, causing lines on her forehead that ran from temple to temple. “She’ll want her money back.”

Her husband of fifty years shrugged. “Let’s hope we can avoid that subject for a while, Duckie. Maybe Miss Tish will figure out a way to handle it.”

Duckie pursed her lips. “This isn’t good, is it, John?”

The old man’s head shook once again. “No, it isn’t, but we’ll work it out, Duckie. Don’t you worry. Miss Tish and all the others, we’ll work it all out somehow.”

Abby and her escort passed door after door as they walked down the thickly carpeted hallway. The deep rich colors registered in Abby’s brain. This was one of those English carpets she’d seen on Roadshow. Probably worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. No, pounds sterling, she hastily corrected herself.

The tops of the doors were rounded, another sign of quality, along with the heavy brass openers. Only the extremely wealthy could afford that kind of millwork and hardware.

Her musings were interrupted by Letitia’s voice. “Just a bit further. I promise you, this won’t seem quite so long a walk after a good night’s sleep.”

Abby laughed. “I’ll just have to take your word for it. I feel as if we’ve walked a mile already.”

Letitia trilled a light, sincere laugh. “Oh, it’s not quite that far, but almost.”

Somehow, Abby thought the kid wasn’t far off. Before she could say anything, though, they stopped before one of the doors. Letitia pressed the brass lever and the door swung open to reveal a bright, airy bedroom. Gesturing Abby inside, she went over to the closest window and fussed with the heavy draperies, moving them to let in even more light.

Abby surveyed her room. The high bed took up one entire wall. Curtains ran around the canopy, cordoned back to reveal the matching cabbage rose spread with a lovely burgundy background. A vivid pink warmed the walls, highlighting the color of the roses in the curtains and spread. The wood was dark and old. Abby placed her hand on the bedside table, running it slowly and appreciatively along the smooth old wood.

“Oak?”

Letitia looked temporarily confused. “Oh, yes, I believe that’s all English Oak. This room is known as the Rose Room, Miss Porter. There’s an attached lav and bath,” she added, walking over to an interior door and pulling it open with a quick tug. “We have a bathtub equipped with a shower, too. There are fresh linens inside, and everything you should need.”

She looked at Abby, obviously hoping for some kind of response.

“This is truly lovely, Miss Wincott.”

“Why,” Miss Wincott had the grace to blush, “thank you. Now, if there is anything else you need?”

Abby eased herself onto the bed. It stood much higher than any bed she’d ever slept on. She kicked off her shoes.

“Please,” she said. “Call me Abby, Miss Wincott. I’m not used to being called ‘Miss Porter’ and probably won’t answer to it without a great deal more thought than I am capable of giving you right now.”

Letitia beamed. “Oh, please, Abby. You can call me Tish, if you don’t mind. I dislike my name intensely and only use it when I must.”

The kid gets younger with every word out of her mouth, Abby realized. She probably couldn’t even drive a car back home. But those pretty eyes and great hair would sure turn some heads.

“Now, I’ll just leave you for a while. If you’d like, I can come back in, say, an hour or so and take you on that tour.” Her eyes sparkled with anticipation.

Abby wanted a quick shower. She also wanted someone to help her find her way around the rest of the place.

“I don’t have a watch on me,” she apologized, “but when you come back, I’ll be ready.”

Tish let herself out of the room, closing the door noiselessly behind her. Abby thought she heard a small shout of triumph, then the echo of running feet down the long hall.

“Nice kid,” she said to herself out loud, then headed to the bathroom and the shower.

Abby awakened to a light tap on her door. Disoriented once again by the strange surroundings and the hour of deep sleep, she struggled to remember where she was.

“Miss Porter? Abby?”

The voice, muffled through the thick, ancient door, brought her slowly to her senses.

She shoved herself into a sitting position.

“Uh, I’m okay,” she said. “The door isn’t locked. You can come in.”

The lively young lady she was to call Tish peered around the door.

“Hullo,” she said, her eyes dancing merrily. “I came by to take you on that tour.”

Abby smiled at the girl’s restraint. She could tell that Tish was having trouble bridling her natural enthusiasm. “I dropped off,” she explained. “I took a quick shower and thought I’d see if the bed was as soft and comfortable as it looked and…wham! Next thing I knew, I heard you knock on the door.”

Tish nodded. “Jet lag. I’ve seen it happen. I read in a magazine that just a brief nap often sets things right, though. Makes up for the time difference, although I don’t know if that’s true, really.”

Abby stretched. “Have you ever been to America?”

“Oh, no!” her visitor replied. “I’ve never been anywhere, really, but I know quite a few people…well, one actually…who goes there frequently. He…they always complain about feeling deprived…not enough sleep, too much sleep…”

Considering what had made Tish’s eyes go dreamy, how her voice wandered off made Abby smile. Just a few days ago, the possibility of going on a long, wonderful trip had made her smile just that way.

“This is my very first trip abroad,” she confessed.

Tish’s mouth opened in stunned surprise. “Really? I thought…that is to say…I guessed you were used to traveling light…ready to go anywhere….” She stopped herself by looking down at the carpet.

Abby laughed softly. “Yeah, well, I’m not an experienced traveler to England and Europe, but I’ve traveled all over the States. When I was a kid, my parents decided to take us to visit every one of the states on summer vacation.”

The girl’s eyes rounded in awe. “You mean you’ve been all over the entire country?”

Abby’s nod caused Tish to gush. “Oh, how lovely! I wish…,” but she stopped before completing the thought.

Rising from the bed, Abby straightened her sweater and ran her fingers through her hair.

“How about that tour you promised?”

Bowness Hall had ninety-three rooms. Tish danced down the endless hallways, leading Abby past tens of arched oaken doors, occasionally opening one to show the American a room with a purpose.

“A purpose,” she explained, “such as drawing room, lavatory, library…you know…something other than a place to store old furniture.”

Abby lost count of the bedrooms. One of the numerous travel tips she remembered reading was that Europeans considered it bad taste to even suggest being shown a person’s home. Tish didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, the exuberant guide stopped occasionally to point out a particular artifact or painting. The art history major in Abby appreciated them all. The antiques on display, or rather in daily use in the huge house, were priceless.

When Abby commented on a rare vase she recognized as very old Chinese porcelain, Tish only shrugged. “It’s old. I don’t know which earl collected it, but we have a whole cabinet full of porcelains in one of the ladies’ lounges. I’ll show you if you’d really like to see them.”

She turned her face toward the startled Abby, showing none of the pride of possession Abby expected to find. This was just old stuff to Tish. To Abby, it was rare history.

The two of them rounded one of the innumerable right-angle bends in the hall. Here, Tish stopped once more and began her tour guide speech, the cheekiness in her tone showing a definite lack of respect.

“This is the portrait gallery. It is called a gallery because it overhangs the main hall. In the old days, the earls had musicians play for their guests from here. This is also where the portraits of all the earls of Bowness hang, along with those of their wives, some of their children, and some other people I don’t really care to remember.”

With a gesture, she ushered Abby into the long, dark hall. On one wall hung grim-faced portraits of the earls of Bowness.

All my family portraits are in a big box in the cellar at home. Abby smiled at the thought, then scolded herself. Peasant!

The other wall rose only four feet from the floor, capped by thick, polished wood, dark with age. Abby walked toward this half wall and peered over.

Below ranged the main hall of the manor. Hung with banners and pennons and heavy old tapestries, it boasted a long, rough table flanked by wide wooden chairs. Abby let out a whistle of admiration.

“Twenty…no, twenty-two on each side!” she marveled.

Before each chair rested a place setting that gleamed in the afternoon sun courtesy of a bank of unseen windows. The chef in Abby mentally figured out a menu that would fit the grand arena. Joints of pork and beef, platters laden with fowl in full feather—maybe swans, perhaps a peacock or two.

Then she snapped back to reality.

Tish gave a girlish giggle. “Were you picturing knights gathered around the table?”

Abby felt the flush creep up her cheeks. She bowed her head briefly, then met Tish’s gaze. “Yes, I have to admit I was. Only I was dreaming up the menu for the meal, along with what wine to serve with it,” she confessed.

Tish smiled, warming Abby with her girlish glow. “That’s right. You’re a chef in America, aren’t you?”

Abby glanced at the line of portraits on the far wall. She didn’t want the specters to judge her harshly. She was, after all, a commoner who worked serving others. “I’m a chef, yes. That’s what I do for a living.”

The younger woman nodded. “In the old days, you’d have had to cook in terrible conditions here. We have two kitchens in Bowness Hall. One is a huge cavern set off from the main house originally, then joined to it as the house was modernized late in the nineteenth century by the twelfth earl, I think it was. Of course, at that time, a completely new kitchen was added on to the house. And that’s been made modern, or at least as modern as it could be in the late sixties.”

“It must be gigantic,” Abby mused.

Tish flashed her a grin. Abby liked the girl’s unabashed spunk and genuineness.

“Would you like to see the kitchens? I mean, being a chef and all, they might interest you.”

She hesitated, remembering the warning about being nosy. “Would that be all right?”

Tish paused, then shrugged her shoulders. “The whole pile is rather dull, actually. I only use a few of the rooms myself…and then there are the servant’s quarters, but there aren’t all that many what you might call servants nowadays. The earl likes…oh, dear…never mind…now, what was I saying?”

Abby caught the girl’s dithering but didn’t understand the cause. “You were talking about the kitchens. About the rooms you use.”

The girl smiled gently. “Oh, yes. This way.” Then, brightening, she led Abby down the long corridor, pointing out various earls, naming them and recounting an anecdote about each one. One served in Elizabeth I’s navy; one saved a crown prince’s life; another dueled with a German prince before one of those nameless European wars. Abby had difficulty keeping track and soon gave up.

They all had rather similar dour features—dark hair, eyes that seemed to follow as you walked by, some clean shaven, others with beards and mustaches, suitable to the style of the day, Abby assumed. Seeing ruffs around some of their necks, the change in clothing, going from colorful to somber to sedate to flamboyant, turned the tour into a walking history lesson.

All those portraits…did any of those former owners haunt these ancient halls?

“Do you have any ghosts?” Abby asked.

“Oh, no.” Letitia laughed it off. “Nothing of the sort. I don’t believe in spirits. I leave all that to my brother.”

Seeing the girl’s dismissive shrug, Abby dropped the subject, even though she’d read enough about England to know they loved their ghosts. Don’t let her think you’re just a crazy American.

When they reached the end of the gallery, Abby stopped by one rather large painting of more recent origin. The young man staring back at her from the canvas looked to be about sixteen. He had long dark hair, a long-sleeved shirt open at the neck and wore what looked like blue jeans, although since the figure was posed coming through the bottom half of a stable door, Abby couldn’t be sure. One hand rested on the long nose of a dun-colored horse. Although his lips seemed set in a rather implacable line, the artist had captured a light in the young man’s eyes that gave Abby the impression he was incredibly amused by the whole thing.

She found herself drawn to the young man by that light.

“Who’s that?” she asked.

Tish stopped her chattering. She tossed her honey-colored hair, looked at Abby, then turned her head away as she answered. “That’s Ian. The current earl.”

Abby noticed the change in the young woman’s demeanor.

“He’s rather young, isn’t he? And good-looking,” she added, waiting for a response from Tish. Something didn’t add up here, only Abby couldn’t guess what. Something was a little wrong. Was the current earl away at school? Why was Tish suddenly reluctant to impart her vast knowledge of the Bowness history?

Tish appeared to consider her words, then said, “He’s a little older. That portrait was done several years ago.”

Abby looked at the young man in the portrait. Yes, he was handsome. He’d probably grown into killer good looks that would make a young girl blush through to her knickers. Maybe that was what had silenced her guide.

“Oh,” said Abby. “Do you have a crush on him, Tish?”

Tish looked at her directly, her eyebrows dipping with the momentary confusion showing in her eyes. Then she laughed, the tinkling music of it making Abby like the girl even more.

Finally, Tish regained her composure. “Oh, I guess I like him a little, Abby. I guess I should. But I couldn’t go so far as to say I fancied him. After all, he is my brother.”

Surprise washed over Abby followed by awkward paranoia.

She was talking to the sister of the earl of Bowness or, more appropriately, Lady Letitia.

And she’d been treating her just like anyone else, like a buddy. But how else was she supposed to handle this? Americans didn’t do titles.

A demure sparkle came to her guide’s eyes.

“Oh, dear. I’ve seen that look before. Abby, I’m just a regular person. We don’t much go in for titles around here. It’s no great thing, you realize.”

That was an eyebrow raiser if ever Abby heard one.

“No big deal, you mean?”

Tish shrugged. “I’ve been the daughter or sister of an earl all my life. Believe me, it doesn’t mean all that much. Maybe to Ian it does, but nobody around here treats me like anything special, I can tell you, and neither should you. I’m just regular old Tish to everyone. I haven’t heard anyone use my title since I was very, very young. I don’t like it.”

“What do you mean, you don’t like it? I should think you’d be proud of it, all the history, all the…” She stopped, because she really couldn’t understand what Tish had meant.

“It’s rubbish as far as I’m concerned.”

Abby thought she detected a bit of disdain in Tish’s voice. “Perhaps it doesn’t mean much to you now, but when you get older, I’m sure…”

Her guide shook her head. “Maybe when I am old and gray, if I haven’t married, I shall write a book about being the daughter of an earl, then the sister of one. But now, it doesn’t mean a thing. It’s all rather silly, if you ask me.”

Abby waited for her to add to this, but Tish turned and, with great drama, waved her hand toward yet another doorway.

Another long dark hall. Abby didn’t know what floor she was on anymore. They’d gone up and down several small flights of stairs on their tour so far. Before Tish turned on the hall lights, though, Abby sensed they were not alone. Figures rose from the shadows on either side.

“Suits of armor!” Abby gasped. She laughed away her uneasiness when the dull gleam of metal reflected the electric light. There must have been twenty or so ranging from very ornate sets to one very old, very simple one without mail but linked brass squares over leather padding. It had a simple nobility to it, though it looked the poorest of the lot.

“These were worn at one time or another by various Wincott men,” Tish explained. “That last one, the one with the embossed decorations, was never used in battle, though. It dates back to the time of Henry the Eighth.”

That particular suit still bore a plumed helmet. The visor, a mere slit, had a sinister look about it. Creepy. But that did not capture Abby’s attention as much as the plain leather and brass set draped over a black display dummy. She looked it over carefully, drawn to its age, she supposed, and its simplicity.

This was ten times better than a museum. Abby had never been this close to history before and she longed to touch the ancient brass of the chest piece, so she did. A faint hum sounded in the back of her head that distracted her attention. She felt compelled to place her palm against the small gold-colored squares. As she did so, her mind filled with images of blood and savagery.

She jerked her hand away. Looking at her guide, she gave a weak smile in response to Tish’s quizzical look.

“Utterly cool. It’s so old!”

Tish shrugged, then opened a door behind the mannequin. Abby peered inside. The walls were full of drawings, huge sheets of paper affixed to the oak and plaster in no apparent order.

“Just the office. Nothing worth seeing in here unless you like looking at building plans.”

Abby couldn’t get over the age of everything in the Hall. “Just how old is this building?”

“People have lived in Bowness for over fifteen centuries.”

“Wow.” She sighed. Again, Abby wondered why the younger woman didn’t think it was the coolest thing in the world. She looked around at the gleaming armor, but finding that Tish was already out the door, she followed quickly behind her. It would be too easy to get lost in this huge, rambling house. She just hoped her guide knew exactly where they were. Of course she did. Didn’t she?

As if she had heard, Tish turned toward Abby and grinned.

“This way to the kitchens, Chef Abigail.”

An English lady. The girl didn’t sound regal, not in the least.

Abby watched as Mrs. Duxbury dipped the tip of the flat-bladed knife into the fluffy yellow mass of goo. She held her breath as the old lady spread the stuff on top of the strawberry jam that threatened to drip over the side of the fresh scone she held in her hand.

“So this is clotted cream?” she asked quietly.

Mrs. Duxbury’s thin face wrinkled into a brief smile. She placed the scone onto a delicate dish.

“Yes. This is Devonshire clotted cream. Here,” she handed the plate with the scone to Abby, who sat across from her at the small table in the vast kitchen. “Give this a go and tell me what you think of it.”

Not really knowing what to expect, Abby took a small bite out of the delicacy. The cream filled her mouth with butterfat and sweetness, made heavenly by the fruity jam, while the scone, though tasty, merely served as a means to support the clotted cream.

Abby thought she’d died and gone to heaven. Closing her eyes, she savored the taste, rolling her tongue around it, allowing the different textures and consistencies to tickle her tastebuds. Rich. Creamy. Strawberry ice cream without the cold.

She wanted to stuff the whole scone into her mouth for one brief moment, some devil within telling her it would be all right and neither obstruct her arteries nor thicken her thighs. When she opened her eyelids, she found Mrs. Duxbury’s merry eyes beaming back at her.

“Well, what do you think?”

Abby allowed her tongue to caress the roof of her mouth and the back of her teeth before answering.

“Is this stuff illegal?”

Mrs. Duxbury chuckled. “I’ve seen that reaction many times, my dear. It’s the English secret weapon. Some might say it is the high point of our rather dull cuisine.”

Thinking back on the taste, Abby wanted to agree but realized she hadn’t had any of the notoriously bad English cooking yet, so she refrained from answering directly. “That’s sheer heaven! Do many people drop dead directly after tasting this fabulous stuff?”

She heard Tish giggling behind her.

“No, not that I know. You’ll have to visit the dairy where we get it, though. The dairyman might know the statistics there.”

Abby took another small bite of the scone.

“Is the jam homemade?” she inquired.

Duckie nodded. “I usually put some up every year. The strawb’ries come from our own garden, although they vary from one year to the next. Some years, depending on the weather, we get bigger berries than other years. This last year wasn’t as good as some for berries, as we had too much rain.”

At this, Tish laughed out loud. “Oh, Duckie, this is England! When do we not have too much rain?”

Mrs. Duxbury’s cheeks pinked, giving her luminous, smooth skin a lovely color. Abby studied her, curious about the woman’s age and place in the scheme of things at Bowness Hall.

After wiping her lips carefully with a serviette, Abby asked, “Did you make the scones, Mrs. Duxbury?”

The older woman fussed with her apron. “Yes. They’re quite the favorite around here.”

Tish chimed in, “She’s famous for them. She’s really a wonderful cook.”

If possible, Mrs. Duxbury’s color deepened.

“Miss Letitia, please,” she whispered.

Bury me in a casket lined with Devonshire clotted cream. Abby finished the rest of the scone and felt her arteries clog immediately thereafter.