The Art of Inheriting Secrets(24)

I am a native Californian, a food writer with no experience in any of this, but Rosemere Priory has a long and storied history, woven with women’s lives, which I find compelling, and perhaps you will too. I’d love to meet with you if you think there might be potential for your show. My telephone number is (01632) 961796, or you may contact me at this email address.

Sincerely, Olivia Shaw, Countess of Rosemere

I pressed send. And as if to reward me, an email popped up from my publisher.

Dearest Olivia,

Heir to an estate? Whyever would you need us anymore?

Love both pieces, as well as the idea of a series of essays on English food and cooking. I’m open to discussing an issue devoted to English food but would like to involve Lindsey. Let’s talk early next week. Wednesday? Let me know a good time to call.

David

My overwhelming response was relief. If I could convince him that an entire British edition would make sense, I’d buy myself a fairly substantial amount of time. Lindsey, the acting editorial director in my absence, would probably eat raw goat eyes to keep me out of the city awhile longer, so that would not be a big problem. I flipped my notebook to a new page and scribbled a few ideas—the cake-shop girl, the lamb industry (take care with the ick factor), and maybe craft beer. Thinking of my upcoming meal with Pavi, I added, “British Indian food?” I sent a quick email back offering a selection of times we could Skype and leaned back, setting pots of possible ideas to simmer on the back burners of my imagination.

On my desk, my phone rang, a quaint British two-note ring, because I hadn’t set a new tone. Ring-ring. Ring-ring. I wondered with a quickening of my heart if it might be Samir. Who else would call me on this phone?

But it wasn’t a number I knew. “Hello?”

“Hello, Lady Shaw,” said a cheery, singsong British voice. “This is Jocasta Edwards. You sent me an email about Rosemere Priory?”

I sat up straight. “Yes! Hello.”

“Oh, my dear, I have loved that house since I was a girl. I grew up just outside of Horndon-on-the-Hill, and when I was small, we went to festivals and picnics on the grounds. Rosemere was the very place that gave me my love of old houses. It’s just tragic, what’s happened to it.”

“Does this mean you might be interested?”

“Absolutely. I could drive up from London on Tuesday if that would work for you.”

“Wow. Yes! That would be great. I should warn you that I don’t have all the figures or any real numbers at all. I’m waiting for that from my solicitor.”

“No matter. Not at this early point. Shall we say one p.m. Tuesday, at the house?”

I laughed. “Yes. That would be wonderful.”

“You know that we don’t pay for renovation? We only offer experts and sometimes help scare up a bit of support.”

“Wonderful. That’s what I need.”

“Do you get my show in America?”

“Not that I know of. Someone here told me I should call you.”

“Hmm. Interesting. All right, darling, I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye-bye now.”

I sat with the phone in my lap for a moment, dizzy again at the speed of things. Should I text Samir and tell him? I thought of the chilly stiffness in his car at the end and my own awkwardness.

No. Better leave it alone.

I stood and stretched, trying to decide whether to wander out for dinner or stay here and eat pub food. My stomach protested. I wasn’t used to eating such heavy food every day, and it was time to see what else the village had to offer. As I dressed, my grandmother’s face gazed at me from the photo on my desk.

I was suddenly filled with a sense of outrage. How could my mother have looked at me, wearing her own mother’s face all these years, and not said a word about it? Had she loved her mother? I tugged a sweater over my head. Was my resemblance a blessing, or had she hated it?

Would it have killed her to have shared the secret with me? Surely she’d realized that I’d be in this situation once she died.

Or maybe she hadn’t realized it. Maybe she’d believed that someone else would step up or the whole business would just fall into the hands of the government.

My limp was much improved, though I knew I wouldn’t wear heels for a bit longer. The cobblestone streets were wet, reflecting lights from shop windows and the flats on the floors above them. In one window, I saw a woman washing dishes and wished with a weird force to be her, to be cooking and cleaning up dinner for myself. It had been ages since my life had felt anything like normal—months since my days had taken on a reliable rhythm of walking, research and writing and editing, cooking and eating. I missed everything about that life, but at the moment, it didn’t look as if I’d be returning to it quickly.

Still, maybe I could create some sort of normality for myself. After I spoke with Jocasta on Tuesday, I’d decide whether to find an apartment for a couple of months or continue to stay in the hotel.

Several restaurants were open and serving, and I peered into each one curiously, intrigued to see a fairly upscale crowd, judging by the tidy trousers and crisp bobs. They must come from the housing estates Peter had told me about. Maybe the large number of restaurants had risen in response to that population, rather than the other way around. I made a mental note to do some research. Suburbs populated by commuters to the city had a familiar ring—uncovering how it was different from the US might make an interesting slant on an article.