The Art of Inheriting Secrets(38)
“They’ll be after you, though. You’ll see. Be wary.” He paused, leaning on his walking stick. “A beautiful young heiress—it’s a wonder you haven’t made the papers.”
“As long as it’s not page three, I guess I’m all right,” I said, referring to a now-defunct feature in a major newspaper that had run photos of topless girls every day.
George laughed loudly, throwing his head back, and I joined in, pleased that I could elicit such a reaction. But after a moment, he started coughing, and I led him to a chair alongside the portico. “Do you want some water?”
“No, no. Just shaking loose the boring days, that’s all.” He patted my hand. “You’re a delight, Olivia Shaw. Very much like your grandmother. You look like her, of course, but you’ve got her brain and good sense. The estate could use that again. Do you know she tripled the income of Rosemere in the years she ran it?”
“Really? Everyone says she hated it.”
“Oh, perhaps she did. It was more England she hated. She wasn’t as free here as she’d been in India, of course. Used to doing things her own way, which is why she didn’t last with a marriage, even when she gave it a try. I’d have married her, if I hadn’t been married myself.” He winked, and then another coughing fit overtook him. Worried, I looked around for a place to get water.
A woman in her forties joined us, her manner easy, her voice a melodic murmur. “Are you all right, Uncle George?”
“You can walk me inside in a moment, Claudia, but in the meantime, meet the local heiress, the Countess of Rosemere, Lady Shaw. She’s making me feel eighteen and witty.”
Claudia was tall like the earl, with dark hair swept away from her face in a rolling twist, her eyes direct. “Is that right? Pleasure to meet you. I’m Claudia Barber. I do my best to look after this rebel. It might be time to go in, mightn’t it?”
“It might indeed.” He was red-faced with the coughing, and a lock of hair had come loose. However hale he appeared, he was a very old man. He squeezed my hand. “You must come for luncheon next week. I have much to teach you and probably not much time to do it in.”
“Name the day.” I stood up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “It was wonderful to meet you, truly.”
“Leave your number with Mr. Tims,” Claudia said. “Very nice to meet you.”
My obligation done, I turned to leave myself, but as I walked up the steps, a couple waylaid me, introducing themselves as Baron Something and wife. We chitchatted about San Francisco and travel and were joined by another trio, and for the better part of two hours, I was engaged by a dizzying whirl of locals. I did my best to remember something about each of them but failed spectacularly.
One very tall man in his forties brought me a drink. “Gin and tonic,” he said. “You look parched.”
“Do I?” I sipped the drink gratefully. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”
“They always get me through these things. Properly spaced, of course.” He offered his hand. “Alexander Barber, the earl’s nephew. You met my sister a bit ago.”
I accepted the handshake. He had the same dark hair, thick and unruly, and the wiry body of a long-distance swimmer, which I recognized from a high school boyfriend. “Olivia Shaw.”
He grinned, giving his face a boyish expression. “Yes, I gathered. American, is it? What do you do back there?”
Not a single person had asked me this, and it brought into focus how divided I felt mentally. “I’m a magazine editor, a food magazine called Egg and Hen.”
“Is that right? Are you a writer as well?”
“Yes. Essays, mainly, some reporting. Because I’m over here, we’re considering an issue on British food and traditions.”
“We’ve a lot more to offer than most of the world believes.”
“I think so too.” He was a good-looking man, with rugged features and a deep tan on his face. “As it happens, my work is editing and writing, as well. I’m an editor at large for Travel and Adventure. I have a book coming out in the fall on the world’s best treks.”
“No kidding. That’s great.” The gin trickled into my blood, easing the tension I’d been holding, and I sipped again. “What’s your favorite trek?”
“Depends. If you want something accessible, not too long, it’s hard to beat the Coast to Coast in England. A little more active—the Langtang trek in the Himalayas. Not too extreme, not terribly crowded, full of cultural treasures.”
“Ah. I’d probably stick with the first one.”
A trio of women joined us, introducing themselves to me but clearly interested in talking to Alexander. I lifted a hand in a short wave and extracted myself. The butler called Robert, my driver, and as I waited on the front steps, looking out over the well-tended landscape, I wondered if I might be able to stay here in England. If I might be able to make a place for myself in this new world. Did I want to?
And even if I stayed, what were the visa requirements? I should really look into that.
It all seemed more than a little daunting.
What I hadn’t expected to feel was a sense of obligation, but the earl had planted something that tickled the edges of my sense of identity. Did I belong to this estate, to the family seat? Or did I belong back in San Francisco, in my busy, arty world? At the moment, I had no idea.