Читать книгу Kisses To Go - Irene Peterson - Страница 9

The drive to Bath was great. The English countryside offered up picture postcard scenery with new green grass covering rolling hills. Rain fell gently on the windscreen of the Vauxhall. Cows grazed placidly in the quilt-like fields that were framed by hedges of hawthorn bushes. Tish told Abby the hedges themselves might be several hundred years old, some even older. Hadn’t anybody ever thought to move them, to change them, to build something new in the fields?

Progress didn’t seem to have touched this part of the country. The houses were small and built of stone or brick or stucco. No vinyl siding anywhere, no clapboards, she noticed, but didn’t say anything about that. She’d been very careful not to seem negative about anything. The list, after all.

Every once in a while Tish would point out a cottage with a thatched roof. When Abby exclaimed over the quaintness of the straw, Tish told her about the drawbacks—of the mice and birds and small animals that might make their homes in such a roof and how any one of them might come crashing through the thatch onto an unsuspecting person below.

“That’s why beds had canopies,” the younger woman said.

Abby shuddered.

This never came up in any history class.

“We’re coming into Bath,” Tish informed her.

Abby squirmed impatiently in the seat and took in the Palladian architecture, the royal crescent, the whole guided tour. She couldn’t wait to get out and walk around. Tish really knew her stuff.

Abby’s imagination soared. Jane Austen had probably walked on the very cobbles they stood on now. All sorts of famous people had taken the waters at Bath, from the ancient Romans to scientists and writers and statesmen. Aged black metal plaques adorned houses in which noteworthy people had once lived. Names familiar to Abby from books.

She loved it.

She loved the tour of the Roman baths, enjoyed the lunch in the Pump Room, but thought the healthful water tasted disgusting.

More shops full of things she couldn’t buy. Topping it off, today was Easter Sunday. No one in the busy town seemed to take notice of it. Was it just another day? Apparently so. There weren’t even chocolate bunnies or colored eggs in shop windows. Not like back home at all.

Abby continued to enjoy herself, though, hoping God wouldn’t mind that she was on vacation.

On the way home, Abby sat quietly on the wrong side of the car. Wrong in that Tish was driving, sitting where the passenger would have been sitting had they been in America. Would she be able to drive on the opposite side of the car on the opposite side of the road? Tish was doing a good job. She was on vacation. Why strain her brain?

So she settled back and mused about the sights she had seen: the elegant architecture of Bath and the throngs of people celebrating the day off from work. She also thought that she’d like to take a wet rag to all the old buildings and clean them up a bit. They were all filthy with centuries of soot and grime.

I can just imagine what Grandma would say if she saw these wonderful palaces covered with black dirt, she thought. She could picture the old lady pouring Spic & Span into a bucket and tackling the baths first. The image that evoked made her laugh out loud.

“What’s got you laughing, Abby?”

Turning her head to face the driver, Abby shrugged.

“My grandmother would have a fit that the buildings aren’t sparkling clean.”

“Noticed that, did you?” Tish frowned. “Some of the buildings in the city are four hundred years old. Some older. They’ve survived the Industrial Revolution and two world wars. They’ve withstood centuries of air pollution. I fear that if someone were to really clean the dirt from the stone, the stone would wash away with it.”

Abby understood. “It’s never simple, restoring things. I’ve seen people spend years working on an oil painting. I can’t imagine what it would be like to try to clean an entire building.”

“Even the grit on the most precious structures is a part of history,” Tish added.

Abby wondered whether she might have hurt the woman’s feelings, but after some thought, she realized that it was pride in Tish’s voice, not offense.

“You know, Tish,” she added, “I’ve lived in the suburbs around New York City all my life. There are some old buildings, a few that are maybe two…three hundred years old. But they’re not old, not really. Not when compared with what you have here. Have you ever felt the history? Have you ever had it hum in your body?”

Tish gave her an odd look. Then she said, “I think I know what you mean now. I’ve grown up with all this old stuff around me. To me, it’s just something that’s always there. I guess it takes someone from a place where everything is new to feel the history, as you put it.”

Abby shrugged. “Yeah, I guess that’s it.” She turned back to look at history passing by the side of the road.

Ian prowled around his office like some great beast. He’d cleaned himself up a bit though he still hadn’t felt the desire to shave. Let it go another day, he’d thought. He had no engagements, nothing to do at all until his uncle arrived.

His gaze slid once more to his desk.

An envelope lay open on it, a letter from a solicitor in London. Ian fingered it again, removed the thick letterhead from within, and read the words one more time.

Seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds could be his.

All it would cost him was his title.

The lands would remain in his possession, the houses, and other lesser titles. What this unknown person wanted was simply the hereditary title that had been handed down his family from ancient times, from when the Romans had ruled Britannia. The title that he had been bequeathed by Vikings and Saxons and Normans.

Just give it up, just relinquish the rusty old title of Earl Bowness and his prayers could be answered. The Rivendell project would be finished; the good it would do might serve as a model throughout the country, throughout Europe. The revival of the simple village could catch on and eventually bring him fame and fortune.

The drawback, of course, was that he would no longer be the earl, nor would his son, should he ever have one.

Ian slapped the paper back on the desk, watched it skid across the blotter and land on the floor. He didn’t bother picking it up.

“You look wonderful, Duckie,” Ian exclaimed when he saw the old lady propped up by pillows on the bed. “How are they treating you here? Are they torturing you?”

The nurse giggled behind her hand but her eyes went dreamy when they rested upon Ian.

“Come here,” Duckie said, patting the sheet, “and stop making that pretty nurse blush.”

Sitting gingerly on the hospital bed, Ian accepted the invitation. He worried about jarring his beloved housekeeper’s ankle. When he looked into her blue eyes, he saw pain and worry.

He had looked into those eyes thousands of times and always found love and care in them. Now, for the first time ever, he noticed how the lids drooped, how the color was clouding, and the face, no matter how adored, showed signs of age. Duckie was getting old. She’d been hurt, probably more than she knew. A broken hip might take ages to mend. Maybe she was too old to be taking care of such a large house. Maybe she and John should retire.

“I’ve been thinking, Ian,” she said, in her soft west country voice. “I don’t really like being in hospital. If I were to come home, I could get around quite nicely by wheelchair….”

He couldn’t help grinning. Here he was thinking of retirement and she was thinking about getting back to work.

“No, not just yet. Doctor said you must remain here for at least another day, dear heart. He knows you, Duckie. He knows that the minute you come back home, you’ll be wanting to work, and that’s not good.” Ian quirked a smile to soften his words.

Duckie’s eyebrows arched up. “The house is probably falling down around your ears without me!”

“Let it. It’s several hundred years old. Let it fall.”

She pursed her lips. “And just who is doing the cooking? Who is feeding you?”

She poked a bony finger into his ribs for emphasis.

Ian turned his head away from her, unwilling to admit the supposed guest was managing to feed them all quite well.

The housekeeper’s face fell. “I knew it. You’re all starving! That sister of yours can’t even coddle an egg….”

He turned and flashed her one of those smiles that had always managed to melt the lady’s heart. Going over to the window, he fiddled with some of the flowers he had brought.

“Now, now, don’t upset yourself, Duckie. We’re managing just fine. The American fancies herself a chef.”

Mrs. Duxbury gasped. “Never! You’ve got that lovely American woman cooking? Oh, Ian, she’s paid to stay at Bowness Hall. She’s paid for a wonderful holiday! What must she think of me?”

Seeing the fat tears roll down Duckie’s wrinkled cheeks, Ian immediately went over to her and, taking her hand, sat back upon the bed. “You’re not to worry about this. Actually, she told Imp that she likes cooking and she’s getting some wonderful ideas from your secret receipt files.” He playfully waggled his eyebrows at her and she lost her horrified expression.

“Oh, dear, this isn’t working out at all! Duxbury and I were afraid something terrible would happen, but Miss Letitia thought it would solve all our problems. Now it has only caused more.”

Ian patted her hand again. “Well, let’s not discuss this. What is, is. There isn’t anything we can do about it now. Besides, Imp has taken her into Bath today. They’re probably having the time of their lives, and that’s good for both of them.”

Mrs. Duxbury sighed. “If only…”

Ian shook his head. “If only covers enough, Duckie. It would seem that the luck of the Wincotts has just about run out. But it isn’t the end of the world. Something always turns up. You just get better and come home to us in one piece. Then we’ll play whatever hand we’re dealt.

“Now,” he continued, “I had better get back to Bowness Hall. Uncle Clarence and his new wife are due for dinner. If Imp and the American aren’t back from Bath, they should be shortly.”

Mrs. Duxbury brought her hand up to her mouth. “Oh, dear, whatever will you do if they’re late? What if Letitia goes haring off into the countryside with her guest?”

Ian rose with care from the bedside. “Don’t you worry, Duckie. I have a plan, should my sister fail me.”

“You’ll cook?” she asked, her voice wavering with alarm.

Ian grinned down at her. “No, I won’t cook. But I have the number of the Chinese takeaway in Glastonbury somewhere in my billfold.”

Lord Clarence Wincott exited the Rolls-Royce, holding the door for his wife. He didn’t see her vivacious smile because he was looking at the imposing structure before him, his childhood home, Bowness Hall.

Still imposing, he thought. Still fit for a king.

“Clarey,” his wife said, poking his ribs with her flattened hand, “I never thought it was like this!”

He smiled. “My dear, this is merely the outside. Wait until you step across the threshold.” Turning slightly, he placed his hand at the small of her back and ushered her to the magnificent door of the manor house. It opened from within just as they reached it. John, wearing suitable livery from the time servants cared about such things, greeted them formally.

Lord Clarence pulled back his lips in a restrained smile and nodded.

“The Earl and Lady Letitia await you in the lounge,” Duxbury intoned. “Allow me…”

“No need,” Lord Clarence replied. “I can find the way.”

John’s eyebrow raised imperceptibly as he bowed from the waist. Then, when the guests had cleared the doorway, he took their wraps and left them to find their way alone.

“Hurry along, my dear,” the tuxedoed man said.

“Clarey, I just want to look at all this…stuff. It all looks so rich and expensive. Hoity-toity!”

Lord Clarence stopped short. Turning to her, he scowled. “How many times have I told you one does not mention money or value, ever, Daisy?”

A look of true hurt crossed over her face. Her eyes then focused on the floor and her blond, stylishly cut hair shook ever so slightly.

Clarence thought yet again to himself that he should have left her back in London. The girl had no inkling of proper decorum. Yet, when he would have chastised her further, he thought once again about what she had done last night in order to get him to bring her along and, after the rush of sexual excitement had flashed through his body, he realized he had had no other option.

“Now, now, dearest,” he muttered, “just remember the other things I told you and everything will be fine.”

She looked up, a small, triumphant smile on her lips. “Oh, I won’t forget, Clarey.”

He looked at her and sighed. The lessons had better begin in earnest before he brought her along to any of his friends—beginning with getting rid of that common accent of hers.

“This way,” he said briskly.

Abby looked over the array of dishes and smiled with satisfaction. Everything about the meal cried perfection, from the Wedgwood to the finest, freshest ingredients. The local farmers truly knew the meaning of the word “fresh.” The herbs and dairy products were newer than any she could have obtained stateside. The meat, well, she knew that it had been slaughtered and hung at the butcher’s mere days ago, and had never felt the antiseptic caress of foam backing or cellophane wrap.

Working with these ingredients in this huge, fully equipped kitchen, it had been easy to come up with a menu worthy of any of the restaurants in which she had studied and worked in her career.

In fact, it made her feel giddy to have produced the rather spectacular meal.

With a quick wipe of her cloth, she removed a spot of sauce from a pristine plate. John Duxbury would serve the meal, along with one of the village girls who helped at the manor. She would join the family at dinner herself, something Tish had insisted upon.

“But I made it,” she had protested.

“Then you should eat it,” the younger woman had insisted.

After several more go-rounds, she had finally accepted. The feeling that she didn’t belong remained, however, despite Tish’s reassurances. This was a family meal. Their uncle was bringing his new wife to meet them. The earl’s sister’s thoughts were one thing. Those of the earl were another. She hadn’t seen much of him in the past couple of days, but he made absolutely no effort to be friendly and she had given up worrying about it.

What was that phrase? Somebody who went on vacation and ended up working? A busman’s holiday. That’s what this whole mess had turned into, but she really didn’t mind. Touring during the day and the little bit of cooking she’d done—it was still better than being in New York. She’d seen Bath and Wells and lots of Cornwall. She’d walked where Jane Austen had walked; tasted local specialties, which were not that special tastewise but certainly historic; and gradually been able to shed the feeling of despair that had dogged her since her “unfortunate departure” from the States.

Thrusting all thoughts of Lance from her mind, she wiped her hands on the dishcloth and made her way to her bedroom to change for dinner. She had that little black dress that couldn’t wrinkle and those sleek black sandals just waiting for her to slither into, and slither she would.