The Art of Inheriting Secrets(13)

I looked out the window at the edge of a thatched roof illuminated by a streetlamp, my head spinning. What next?





Chapter Four

Three days later, I finally had an appointment with Jonathan Haver. The time in between had been quiet, which turned out to be good for me. I wrote two essays for Egg and Hen, one an ode to M. F. K. Fisher and eating some simple food alone, the other, more researched and nuanced, on the venison stew.

I also sent my publisher, the man in charge of my fate, a note.

Dear David,

You will not believe the twilight zone I’ve fallen into—it turns out that my mother was heir to an estate in England, and I’ve traveled here to see what I can do to settle everything. Hope to be finished in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, I’ve been thinking there might be some benefit to the magazine—maybe a series of essays on English food and cooking, keying in to the Anglophilia that’s all the rage. I’ve attached a couple of essays I’ve written this week as examples of what I have in mind. Maybe an entire English (British?) issue? The idea is still shaping up, but maybe follow the seasons or the various cultural influences . . . ? Would love to discuss when you have a moment.

You’ve been very patient with this long, strange trip I’ve been on (cue the Grateful Dead), and I promise I’m working on ways to make it up to you.

Olivia

The rest of the time, I lazed around reading novels I found in the hotel common room, forcing myself not to dig into more about the house or the family. After the previous hard months, my soul and body were tired.

The weather was still horrible, either rainy, wet from the rain, threatening to rain, or foggy. That morning, it was the last, so I bundled up in a pink wool sweater that was one of my favorites, with fleece-lined leggings beneath my jeans and wellies, which were the only practical shoe in such conditions, then headed for the bakery I’d been meaning to visit since my arrival.

The street was empty. Fog eddied around lampposts, drifted down alleyways, obscured and revealed a shop front here, now gone. The butter cross loomed like an ancient pagan monolith, and I glimpsed a car making its slow, careful way down the street. The idea of driving in such weather made me shudder.

A scent of coffee and fresh cinnamon rolls hung heavily in that thick air, a nearly visible lure to the bakery. I followed it into the shop with a growling stomach. A bell rang over the door as I entered.

Within, the place was bustling, most of the tables were occupied, and a line snaked around a glass case filled with pastries and breads. A woman behind the counter called out, “Hello! It looks like a long line, but it goes fast.”

“I’m not in any rush,” I said, and the woman in front of me turned around.

“American.” She wore a brushed wool coat and expensive leather boots, obviously on her way to work. I wondered where. Surely not in this village.

“Guilty,” I said, smiling.

“Leave her alone, Alice,” the woman said behind the counter.

“I wasn’t going to—”

“Yes, you were. Next!” The baker was tall, with rangy limbs and raggedly cropped gray hair. A capable sort, my mother would have said. When I made my way to the front of the line, she said, “Hello, love. What sweet thing would you like for breakfast this morning?”

“A pot of tea,” I said, “and whatever that is.” I pointed to a beautiful dark-glazed pastry.

“A chelsea bun.” She called out the order over her shoulder, then leaned over the counter toward me. “I’ll bring it out to you in a trice. We’re nearly done with the commuter rush.”

“Thank you.” I paid, then turned toward the room, looking for a seat, and realized that several patrons were staring at me. Openly. I flushed, feeling alternately alarmed and shy. Keeping my head down, I made my way to a two top next to the wall and looked out toward the window. The murmur of conversation stuttered back to life, then rolled into a predictable, comforting rise and fall. When I glanced around surreptitiously, they’d all gone back to their phones or companions or even a newspaper or two. My shoulders eased.

The baker brought a tray with my tea and pastry, along with a mug of coffee. “Do you mind if I join you for a moment?”

An odd request from a stranger, a thought that must have showed on my face, because she said, “I knew your mother, long ago.”

“Oh!” I gestured. “Join me.”

“I’m being cheeky because I can,” she said, sliding into the open seat. “I’m Helen Richmond, and I own the bakery. You are Olivia Shaw, the new Countess of Rosemere.”

“Yes.”

She inclined her head. “You have your mother’s grace.”

A sharp sting of tears burned the back of my eyes. I swallowed. “Thank you. How did you know her?”

“We took painting classes together.”

“You’re a painter too?”

“I dabble now and then. Never like Caroline. Did she end up doing anything with it?”

“Yes.” Emotion made it hard to speak for a moment. I had not ever met anyone who’d known her as a young woman. Focusing on my tea, stirring in sugar, then milk, I found calm and had to smile at the power of tea. “She did very well, actually. Illustrated children’s books as well as painting her own work.”

“Children’s books! Lovely.” Her eyes were a clear, light blue. “Was she happy in America?”