Grief seizes me, and I have to push myself past the grand entranceway. To my right, footsteps echo, and lights flick on, and I follow the trail of illumination into the sitting room. The sweet scent of tea roses wafts over me, as if it’s engrained in the wood itself. The last time I saw this room, it was mid-century modern. Now, it’s cottage chic, in cream and beige with pink accents. A striped couch begs me to sink into its deep cushions, as does a massive wooden armchair buried under pillows and blankets. Books are artlessly strewn over a rough wooden coffee table.
Aunt Judith also painted the woodwork, and I try not to cringe at that. When Michael and I married fresh out of college, we’d rented a house for which the term fixer-upper would be a compliment. A crash course in home renovation turned into a shared passion I haven’t indulged since his death. Now, I imagine stripping that paint and refinishing scratched wooden floors, and a long-buried thrill runs through me.
“Miss Dale,” Delores calls from the next room.
“Bronwyn, please,” I say as I follow her voice into the kitchen.
At one time, cooking would have been done outside the house—in a courtyard kitchen. The modern version would have been more of a service area. It’s compact but pretty with painted wood cupboards and a smaller refrigerator than I have in my condo. A good quarter of the space is dedicated to the AGA stove, already lit, warming the tiny room enough that I peel off my sweater. The faint smell of oil wafts from the stove, the scent as familiar as the Yorkshire tea I smell here, too, an open box on the counter, as if Delores drank it while preparing the house.
“Got a few groceries in the cupboard. Fresh scones and a loaf of bread, too. My wife baked them.” Her gaze lifts to mine, defiant now, waiting for a reaction.
“Please thank her for me.”
A grunt, and she waves at the AGA stove. “You know how to work that?”
“I do.”
“You’ll need to do a proper shopping. Don’t know how you’ll manage ba’ht a car.”
Ba’ht. It takes me a moment to access my rusty North Yorkshire dictionary, substitute “without” for “ba’ht” and realize she’s commenting on my lack of a vehicle.
“My aunt’s will said my uncle’s car was still in the garage?”
A bark of a laugh. “You couldn’t get that mouse motel running down a steep hill, lass. You’ll need to get sowt else. I can’t be running you around. You saw my mode of transportation. I’m not giving you a croggy.”
I smile. “I don’t think I’d fit on the handlebars anymore. I’ll be fine. I won’t need anything more now that I’m here.”
“Nah, now that you’re here, I can fix that mullock of a yard. Been wanting to for years, but your aunt insisted it wasn’t worth the effort. Her will pays me five years of wages, so I’ll be fixing up the property.”
She circles through the dining room, a small office and then the formal parlor. The last stands empty.
“Your aunt had me sell the furniture. She asked me to put it in the town shop and use the dosh for the upkeep. I have her letter, if you want to see it.”
“I don’t need that. Thank you.”
While I hate the thought of Aunt Judith selling furniture, I’m not surprised. Thorne Manor had been her one luxury, passed down from her grandfather, whose first wife had been a Thorne. The fact that she passed it on to me is both an honor and a responsibility, one that makes my heart ache and tremble at the same time.
I follow Delores up the wide, grand staircase. My hand slides over the wood railing, worn gray and silk-smooth with age, and at the feel of it, I remember all the times I stepped through the front door, dropped my bag and raced straight upstairs as my dad laughed below.
“Uh, Bronwyn? Your aunt and uncle are down here.”
True, and I adored them, but first I had to see . . .
“Your room,” Delores says, as if finishing my sentence.
I smile. “I know the way,” I say, and I turn left at the top of the steps.
She shakes her head. “I made up the master suite. That old room is small and dark, and the bed’s ready to collapse. No reason for you to use it.”
No reason except that it’s mine, and I spent some of my happiest days there. My perfect, wonderful room, with its perfect, wonderful secret.
Secret? No. Delusion.
I swallow, tear my gaze away and hurry after Delores to the master suite.
“Linens are all new and laundered,” she says.
I cross the large, airy room to the king-sized bed and make a show of smoothing the linens. I’m ready to gush politely, but they’re five-star hotel quality, and I sigh with pleasure as I rub them between my fingers. Then I notice the thick quilted comforter. It’s clearly handmade . . . by someone who knows what they’re doing. It’s a star pattern, diamonds of jade and wine against a black backdrop.
“Oh, wow,” I say as I stroke the comforter. “This is amazing.”
Delores harrumphs, but she’s clearly pleased. “The wife made it for your auntie and never got a chance to give it to her.”
I turn to face her. “Thank you. For everything. This is far more than I expected.”
Delores waves a gnarled hand. “I told her she was making too much fuss. You’d think Queen Liz herself was coming.” She tromps from the room. “I’d best be getting home.”
I walk her down to the front door, and then say a heartfelt, “Thank you, Ms. Crossley.”
“It’s Mr.” She doesn’t give me time to respond, just meets my gaze with that challenging stare. “I prefer Mr.”
“And he? Or they? Ze?”
His eyes narrow, as if I’m mocking him.
I hurry on. “I’m a university professor, Mr. Crossley. I use proper pronouns.”
A slow, thoughtful nod. “I prefer he.” A pause. “If you forget and use she, though, I won’t hold it against you.”
“I won’t forget, Mr. Crossley.”
“Del’s fine, too.”
That’s right. He’d signed his e-mails “Del.” The only time I’d seen “Delores” was in the introduction from the lawyer handling the estate.
He heads for the door. “You have any trouble, call. Or come on down’t. We’re at the bottom of the hill, first cottage on the left. Easy enough run for a strong lass like you.”
“I’ll be fine, but thank you.”
“I’ll be back come morning. Take a look at that old car. See if there’s any life left in her.”
I thank him again, and then walk out and watch him leave, a shadowy figure on a bicycle, newly lit pipe gritted between his teeth.
2
Del leaves, and I’m alone, which is nothing new, and hardly bothers me, even in this isolated old house. I plan to snuggle in with tea and biscuits and a book. I get as far as donning my nightshirt—one of Michael’s old tees—before the bed upstairs seems a lot more inviting than tea or biscuits or even a book. I’ve spent the last day crammed into a seat of some sort: plane, train, taxi. I desperately need to stretch out and sleep.
When I flip on the stairway light, it flashes once and sputters out. I flick it a few times before fetching a candlestick from the kitchen.