Chapter 3
“A real English pub,” Bernie said happily. “Exactly like I’ve always imagined it.”
“Plenty of pubs in North America,” I said.
“Yeah, with fake ceiling beams and waitresses in short kilts and someone checking your reservations at the door. No one here even bothered to ask us if we’ve been having a nice day. There’s a table over there.”
“Where?”
“Behind that pillar.” Bernie darted off, and I followed.
The room was packed, the noise deafening. A real coal fire burned in the small fireplace; wet coats were draped over chair backs or dangled from hooks on the walls.
Bernie shrugged out of her coat. We’d asked the hotel receptionist for a recommendation to a restaurant we could walk to, and she named the White Hart pub. We’d made it about halfway before the skies opened. “All part of the experience,” Bernie said, pulling up her hood.
We settled into a table for two, tucked within the dark corner behind the pillar. I looked around me with pleasure. Thick, scarred oak beams holding up the low ceiling, heavily trod wide-plank wooden floors, whitewashed walls. The hotel receptionist told us this pub had been here since 1713. Shelves of bottles lined the wall behind the bar, and the bartenders filled large glass mugs from beer pumps arranged along the counter.
We were lucky to have snagged a table. People were lined up three deep at the bar, and a group of men stood on the far side of the room, holding glasses of beer and roaring with laugher.
“You have a look at the menu,” Bernie said, “while I go to the bar for drinks. What do you want?”
“Glass of white wine, if they have it.”
She left, and I studied the people in the pub, wondering if anyone was here for Lady Frockmorton’s birthday. Hard to tell, as I expected a wide range of ages would be attending the celebration.
The hotel’s restaurant was open for dinner tonight, but Bernie and I suggested going out for something less fancy. Rose declined to join us, saying she was tired from the days of travel and wanted a nap before the drinks party later.
I was too wired to nap, and I suspect Bernie felt the same.
I glanced toward the bar to see that my friend had fallen into conversation with a man a few years older than us. He was slightly taller than her and quite good looking, with shaggy blond hair, strong cheekbones, and carefully maintained dark stubble on his jaw. She gave him a dazzling smile and said something in return.
You’re outa luck, buddy, I thought. By coincidence, Matt Goodwill, my neighbor and Bernie’s boyfriend, was doing research in York. Matt is a hugely successful bestselling author of true crime. His latest book was about seniors who commit murder, and he was at the early stages of gathering information. On Monday, Bernie planned to meet Matt in York. Rose and I would travel home alone later in the week, after allowing some time for me to see the sights of Yorkshire.
It wasn’t easy for me to close my business, Tea by the Sea, for two weeks. But late October is a quiet time in Cape Cod, after the main tourist season and before holiday festivities begin. Same for Victoria-on-Sea, Rose’s B & B, which at the moment was just a B. We kept the house open for guests at a much-reduced rate—no breakfast provided. Edna Harkness, who helps me in the kitchen, had moved in to keep an eye on the property and attend to guests’ demands while Rose was away.
As for the gardens at Victoria-on-Sea, they were barely being maintained at all, that was—
“We’ve been invited to a party.” Bernie said, interrupting my thoughts, as she put two glasses on the table before dropping into her chair. Wine for me and a tall glass of beer for her. “At least, I’ve been invited to a party. I told him I was with a friend, and he said you can come, too.”
“How thoughtful,” I said. “I assume you said no.”
“Yeah, I did.” She took a sip of her beer. “This is good. What are you having for dinner?”
“I haven’t even looked at the menu yet.” I picked it up.
“I read the specials board behind the bar. Lamb chops should be good. Comes with mint sauce and mashed potatoes and mushy peas. What are mushy peas?”
“I’ve no idea. Peas that are mushed?”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“I don’t know, Bernie.” I closed the menu. “I’m going to have the steak pie. Also with mashed potatoes and mushy peas. Do I have to go to the bar to order food, too?”
“Yes. Other people were, anyway.”
I got up and made my way through the crowded room. People stepped aside to let me pass, and several smiled at me. I caught snatches of conversation about things I didn’t understand: predictions about tomorrow’s match and something unkind about a government official.
“The lamb chops, please, and a steak pie,” I said.
“Table number?” the bartender asked.
“I—Sorry, I don’t know.” I turned and pointed. Bernie had twisted in her chair, and she waved back at me. “That one.”
“American redhead. Got it, love,” he said.
I returned to our table. “Be right up.”
Bernie and I sipped our drinks. The group of six at the table next to us began getting to their feet. Coats and scarves were found and pulled on, good nights exchanged.
Another group descended on the table before it was completely vacated. They were two men and two women, Bernie’s blond admirer among them. He gave her a grin and lifted his glass in a salute as he slipped into a chair.
“Like Tony says, closed for a week isn’t exactly good business,” the second man continued talking as he sat down.
“Come on, Julien, it happens once a century. We can manage,” said a woman. She was a few years younger than the blond man, and the resemblance between them was strong: same color hair, same long-legged, slim frame, same facial bone structure. Siblings, I suspected.
“Bankruptcy might only happen once a century too, Susannah,” Julien said. “Doesn’t lessen the impact.”
“We are not going bankrupt.”
“The hotel’s closed, but we still have guests. That means the staff are being paid. Bar closed early tonight. Restaurant, all day tomorrow. Closed to any income, that is. We’re still serving but not charging.”
The man doing most of the speaking was in his late forties. English accent, but not the strong tones of Yorkshire. He wore ironed jeans and a starched white shirt under a navy blue jacket. He was freshly shaven, black hair swept back from the high forehead. Not so much handsome, I thought, as impressive. The sort of man who expected people to pay attention when he spoke. He turned to the person next to him, and I caught a glimpse of large dark blue eyes.
Bernie and I exchanged glances. She wiggled her eyebrows. I hadn’t needed to see the color of the eyes, to know some of these people must be Frockmortons. Or should they be referred to as the Crawfords? I didn’t know what to call people who had a whole pack of family names.
“It’s rather late to be complaining, Julien,” the younger woman said. “The party’s organized, the guests are arriving. Many of them are already here. The food and drink have been delivered. Granny’s not about to change her mind.”
“I’m not arguing we cancel the party,” Julien said. “As much as I’d like to.”
“First time I’ve heard that,” the blond man said, with what I assumed was intended to be sarcasm.
“Enough out of you, Tony,” Julien said. “I am simply pointing out that the time has come that something be done about our grandmother’s control of the estate.”
Bernie and I jumped as a server put plates in front of us. My pie looked fantastic. Thick golden crust, fragrant steam emitting from the small hole cut in the center. It came with a mountain of mashed potatoes, a small bowl of dark, rich gravy, and something green and lumpy that must be the mushy peas.
Good thing the food arrived when it did, before the people at the adjoining table noticed we were listening in.
“Not much we can do as long as she’s of sound mind,” the young woman said.
“Our grandmother is a hundred years old, Susannah.”
“Technically, that’s not true. She’s ninety-nine. She won’t be a hundred until tomorrow.”
“Never mind the people she’s invited,” Julien continued. “Wouldn’t be so bad if the MP was coming, some ragged collection of local politicians or important businesspeople. But an upstairs maid? The gardener? A girl who worked reception and went away to Uni? Why not invite that other girl—I forget her name—the one who won all those medals in swimming or something.”
“Yes, that one. Something. Granny fired her because she was an incompetent fool. The point is she’s invited people who were close to her at one time and—”
“Even a kitchen maid. A former kitchen maid from when Granddad was alive! How could our grandmother have been close to a kitchen maid, I’d like to know.”
Our food smelled wonderful, but Bernie and I weren’t even attempting to eat it.
“And—” Julien was in full throttle now, barely able to get the words out fast enough. Red faced, spittle flying; he pounded the table. “And because the kitchen maid is almost as old as Granny, she’s brought her granddaughter. Another mouth for us to feed.”
“Put a sock in it, Julien,” said the blond man, Tony. “I might agree with you, but this isn’t the place. Or the time.” He lifted his glass in a toast to Bernie.
Everyone else at his table stared at us. Bernie grinned. I blushed.
This was going to be embarrassing when they saw us at the birthday party tomorrow.
Susannah got to her feet and picked up her glass. “If all you lot are going to do is rehash your grievances, I’m not interested.”
“I’m not rehashing anything,” Tony said.
“I don’t have any grievances,” Julien said. “I’m pointing out the practicalities, or rather the lack of practicalities around this party, is all.”
“Granny’s still alive,” the second woman said, “for the foreseeable future anyway. When she isn’t, which I hope isn’t for many years to come, the business, which is the estate and hotel, will go to our parents to run as they see fit.” I detected traces of a Canadian accent when she spoke, and remembered Elizabeth telling us her younger son lived in Canada. This must be his daughter, Emma. These, clearly, were Elizabeth’s grandchildren. Cousins and siblings to one another.
“Won’t that be a mess,” Susannah said, “Our parents can’t agree on the time of day, never mind how to run the company. You know that, Emma, we all do.”
“We don’t know that,” Julien said. “Let me remind you my father is the current earl, and according to tradition, if no longer law, he is the rightful heir and—”
“I’ll thank you not to use that tone of voice with my sister,” Tony said. The bantering manner was gone. His words were sharp, his eyes narrow with anger. “You don’t have to remind us you’re the heir to the earldom, Julien. You never let us forget it.”
“It’s okay, Tony,” Susannah said. “We all care about the future of the family.”
“Tradition’s important,” Emma said. “Our family has a proud and important heritage to uphold.”
“Our grandmother owns a hotel and a sheep farm,” Susannah said. “These days people pay to sleep in what was once the earl and countess’s bedroom.”
Emma threw a poisonous look at Susannah. She was a year or two younger than Julien, about ten years older than Tony and Susannah. Elizabeth was obviously the mutual grandmother they were discussing, unless another dowager countess was having a hundredth birthday tomorrow. Emma was shorter and chubbier than the others in her family, with round pink cheeks, brown eyes, hair an unnatural shade of black, cut in a sharp line at her chin, and heavy bangs that fell below the level of her eyebrows. She peered at the world through a veil of hair.
Julien’s phone was sitting on the table. It buzzed with an incoming text, and he read it. “Carmela. Traffic tie-up getting past Sheffield, so she’s going to be delayed.”
Tony’s head snapped up. “What? Carmela? I thought—”
“Carmela’s coming?” Susannah laughed. “Surely you’re not planning on continuing with that pretext?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Julien snapped. “Of course, my wife’s coming to my grandmother’s party. We didn’t travel together as she had work.”
“Right. Got it,” Susannah said.
“As for the topic at hand,” Emma said. “I’m saying it’s not our concern. By the time we inherit, if we do, there might not be anything left other than the title. Which I consider to be worth something, even if you don’t.” She glared at Susannah. “Even if there is anything of value, once it’s divided between the pack of us, we might have enough to have a nice dinner out. No place too expensive, mind you.”
“That is precisely my point, and thank you for making it, Emma,” Julien said. “If the company is going to survive, if our legacy is going to survive, we need to do the hard work now.”
“Your legacy,” Tony said. “You’re the one in line to the title, Julien, not the rest of us. Susannah and I are nothing but the offspring of a lowly daughter and Emma of a second son. As for me, I’ll keep on doing what I’m doing, and that means running the hotel to the best of my abilities. For the benefit of us all.”
“The title’s not worth anything without—”
“Hey, guys. Great to see you.” A couple, beers in hand, had stopped at the table next to us. Handshakes and hugs were exchanged.
“The gang’s all here,” Tony said.
“Looks like it,” one of the new arrivals replied. “Going to be a great party.”
“Not if Julien has anything to say about it,” Susannah said. “That table’s coming free. I’ll join you. The conversation here’s getting mighty boring.”
They moved off.
Emma swallowed the last of her wine. “I need to get back. I said I’d do my bit by keeping an eye on the drinks party tonight.”
“I’ll come with you,” Tony said. “I need to check in with the bar staff.”
They left Julien sitting alone, not looking at all happy. He left half his beer unfinished and followed his cousins out the door.
“That was interesting.” Bernie cut a slice of meat off her lamb chops and slathered it with mint sauce. “Nothing like overhearing people arguing and you know you have absolutely nothing to do with it. All fodder for the writer’s pen. Or keyboard, I suppose I should say.” She chewed happily. “This is great. How’s the pie?”
“As good as it looks,” I said.
“I’m thinking of taking Rose, my Rose, and Tessa back to England, what do you think?”
“I think that’s an appallingly bad idea, Bernie.” Rose, named for my grandmother, and Tessa were the main characters in the book Bernie was writing. Or, I should say, attempting to write. It was a historical mystery, set in New England in the nineteenth century, with Rose as the strong willed, independent-minded daughter of a rich and prominent Boston family, and Tessa the rough-and-tumble Irish immigrant. Bernie was a skilled writer, and the book had, I thought, enormous potential. Except for the fact that she kept dashing off in all directions, plot-wise. She’d changed the time frame and the location more than once.
“Think of the atmosphere it would add,” she said. “Crowded pubs, fireplaces, grizzled barmen pulling pints. Lamb on the menu.”
“They can do that in America, too, although maybe not with so much lamb. Remember the outline you showed me? It said nothing about an impromptu dash across the ocean. Remember how you promised to stick to said outline?”
Bernie dug her fork into her mountain of mashed potatoes. “An author must go where the muse leads.”
“An author must remember that for a book to be published and enjoyed by the reading public, it needs to be finished.”
She didn’t look entirely convinced as she tasted the potatoes. “Wow. Good. I thought the English were supposed to be terrible cooks.”
“A rumor spread by the French, or so I’ve been told. I’d like to get the recipe for this pastry. If I have to expand the menu over the winter, a hearty meat pie like this one might fit in well.”
“Back to more important matters than the petty squabbles of our hostess’s family. Or even meat pies. What did Simon have to say when you spoke to him earlier?”
I felt a sudden warm glow in my chest. “I’d love to invite him to the birthday party, but seeing as how not only am I just Rose’s companion but I’ve brought you, I thought inviting yet another person might be stretching Elizabeth’s hospitality to excess. I’m going to Garfield Hall the day after tomorrow. He’s going to show me around, and we’re going to have a couple of days together.”
“Nice,” she said.
According to Trip Advisor, Victoria-on-Sea is the number-one garden attraction in North Augusta, Massachusetts. There is no number two, but the gardens are truly wonderful and perfectly located next to the bluffs looking over Cape Cod Bay. Simon McCracken worked for us the past summer. His uncle had been the longtime gardener, but when he abruptly quit not long after I arrived to open my tearoom and help Rose run the B & B she’d bought on a foolish whim (in the opinion of everyone in my family), Simon took over. He dug weeds and trimmed roses; I baked. And gradually, slowly, we came together. But then the season ended, along with his contract, and he returned to England to take a winter job at a stately manor house, coincidentally located not too far from Halifax. Although we’d begun a tentative, not too terribly serious (yet) romance over the summer, we made no promises to each other. I was more excited than I was letting on at the idea of seeing him again and enjoying a few days in each other’s company. After those few days? Perhaps I’d reassess my feelings.
“Is Rose going to be joining you for those couple of days?” Bernie asked.
I grinned. “Absolutely not. Rose is staying at Thornecroft. What did you think of Elizabeth, Lady Frockmorton? I liked her a lot. She’s very much like Rose, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I—” Bernie put a forkful of mushy peas into her mouth. Her eyes opened wide, her face twisted, her mouth puckered. She looked frantically around her searching for someplace, anyplace to spit the mouthful. Instead, she scrunched up her eyes and nose, gathered all her courage, and swallowed. The table almost shook under the force of her shudder as the peas went down.
She grabbed her beer and took a long glug. When she could speak again, she said, “If you add lamb or steak pie to your menu, I suggest you don’t include mushy peas. Now I know why the English have a reputation as bad cooks.”