Warwolfe (de Wolfe Pack Book 0)(3)

Queensborough’s gaze lingered on Abigail for a moment before turning to set the plants down on the potting table behind him. In fact, the entire room with glass walls and ceiling, called a sunroom in America but in England it had a variety of names, like garden room or The Orangery, was full of plants in various stages of growth. Plastic pots littered the table along with gorgeous mums and foxgloves. Queensborough brushed off his dirty hands as he returned his attention to his guests.

“Come on, then,” he said, sounding annoyed that he’d been interrupted. “It’s all in the dining room.”

That was as much of a greeting as the old hermit could muster. Abigail looked anxiously at Groby, who simply shrugged and followed Queensborough as he headed towards the front of the house.

“Queenie, when is the last time you left this place?” Groby asked, trying to strike up a cheerful conversation. “I’ve not seen you over at The 1066 in over a month.”

Abigail knew that The 1066 was a bar over on High Street, an older place without televisions or games to entice the younger crowd. It was an old establishment for older people who just wanted a pint without all of the noise and hype of today’s bars. She was trying to peer around Groby to see how Queensborough was reacting to the question, but the man with the cotton hair didn’t give much reaction. He seemed singularly focused on what was in his dining room.

“No time,” he told Groby. As they entered the dining room with the dark blue walls of peeling paint, dark wood, and a fireplace that was as tall as Abigail was, he waved his guests in with impatience. “Come, come. Sit down so we can get on with it.”

Abigail was coming to think he wasn’t the hospitable type but Groby didn’t seem to be bothered by it. He sat down in a very old chair with a faded red velvet cushion as Queensborough organized a vast array of items already on the table – papers, things that looked like booklets, and an old box that was fairly nondescript except for the fact that it was ancient like the rest of the house and reinforced with iron strips.

In fact, Abigail was quite interested in that box. She summoned her courage to speak as Queensborough fumbled with the latch on it.

“Thank you so much for agreeing to see us today,” she said politely. “Your home is just exquisite. Mr. Groby said that your family has lived here since Medieval times.”

“Henry VIII to be exact,” Queensborough said, his manner clipped. “That’s not exactly Medieval. The lands were given to an ancestor of mine, a great friend of the king’s, but most of it was sold in the eighteenth century and our family retained just this small parcel of land and this house. The rest of it went to different owners.”

Abigail looked around the dining room, magnificent in its aged state. “How old is the house?”

Queensborough opened up the top of the box, the iron joints creaking. “These two front rooms were built in the time of William Rufus. It was a house for the abbot of Battle Abbey but legend says that his mistress and their children lived here. The rest of the house was built with stones from Battle Abbey when Henry demolished it during the dissolution.” He paused to look at her, his old eyes intense. “Tell me something, Miss Abigail Devlin – tell me why you’ve really come here. What stories do you intend to tell about us?”

Abigail was a bit taken aback by the question because it bordered on hostile. In fact, Queensborough hadn’t shown anything but hostility since they’d arrived. He was either an ass or just extremely socially awkward. But something told her it was more than that; there was a look in his eye that suggested… protectiveness… even fear.

An old man with a secret.

Not looking at Groby, Abigail answered calmly.

“I only intend to tell the truth,” she said. “Mr. Groby explained who I am. I’m researching my….”

“I know what he said,” Queensborough cut her off. “I know you’re from university. You want to know about what’s been buried.”

Abigail regarded him. Having parents who were trial lawyers, she was used to aggressive people. His manner didn’t bother her. “I want to give a voice to those who have never had their stories told.”

“You? An American?”

“Americans have done pretty well at telling English stories and vice versa.”

Queensborough’s bushy brow furrowed. “But this isn’t your right. You know that, don’t you?”

Abigail leaned forward on the ancient table. “Why not? Because I wasn’t born on this soil?” she asked, trying not to sound defensive. “Mr. Browne, I have had a fascination with England for as long as I can remember. I probably know more about its history than most Brits do. Just because I wasn’t born here doesn’t mean I don’t have a great love for it. It doesn’t mean I can’t do justice to telling the story of those whose glory isn’t yet known. In fact, I don’t see any of your native British students taking a stand and demanding to tell the stories I want to tell. So why not trust me with them? I don’t love England because it’s in my blood; I love it because it’s in my soul.”

Queensborough considered her declaration. She was well spoken and passionate, and that impressed him just the slightest. But he was still hesitant.

“All right, Yank,” he said after a moment. “Then tell me why you’re here. Tell me what you want to know.”