The Art of Inheriting Secrets(6)

Pewter’s tail swished, and he lifted his head in our direction. All three horses wore blankets, and I liked the look of the horse with a red coat and black mane. Steeplechase. I didn’t want to confess that I didn’t know what steeplechase was but tucked the word away for later on a growing list of things I needed to research. It felt as if I’d fallen down a rabbit hole, and everything that served me back in my own world was useless here.

As we pulled into the drive, I admired the house, which was long and rambling, two stories of sturdy walls beneath the thick thatch roof. Two men were at work on it, one high against the gray sky, weaving a pattern along the roofline, and the other carrying a bundle of thatch up a ladder.

“I noticed all the thatch in the village this morning,” I said. “I had the impression that real thatch was on its way out.”

“It is,” she said, “but we are lucky in Saint Ives Cross, because Tony there—on the top—is a master thatcher from one of the oldest families on record. Handed down from father to son since the sixteenth century.” She dropped her keys in her purse. “See how he’s weaving the pattern? It’s his signature. Every thatcher has one.”

Both men were dark haired and tall, with long limbs. “Is that his son, then?”

“Oh, no. Tony’s a wild one, never married. The other fellow is Sam, his journeyman.”

The one carrying thatch slung it against the roof and climbed sideways on a thin wooden shelf. It made me dizzy.

As I swung my legs around to get out, I realized that my whole leg was getting stiff in the damp, cold day. Beneath my feet, the ground was muddy, and I took a moment to balance carefully—it was amazing how fast your balance went off!—hearing my mother remind me to put my best face forward. In her memory, I methodically measured out one solid step and then another.

In front of me, Rebecca called up to the thatchers, “You must come in and have some venison stew, boys. It’s going to rain again any moment.”

Venison. My heart sank.

“Come on, then,” Rebecca said, sweeping me inside. “Let’s get you settled. Cup of tea?”

A friendly fire burned low on the hearth, and I sank into a big, soft chair nearby, looking around: two rooms with wide-paneled wood floors, a sitting room with the fireplace, and a kitchen with mullioned windows looking out toward a garden.

Bernard flopped down on the rug in front of me, and a yellow cat came running from another room to swirl up to him. He gave it a lick, and it settled down next to his furry body. “That’s adorable,” I commented.

“They’re the best of friends.” Rebecca bustled around the kitchen, filling a kettle. “Jimmy’s mother rejected him when he was about four or five weeks old, and Bernard was in love.”

“You’d get a million hits on YouTube.”

“Mmm.” She shrugged. “Who has time for that?”

Her attitude was vaguely startling, another reminder that I’d left my world behind. In the arty, techy Bay Area, everyone used all social media all the time. I had to admit I was enjoying the break. “Right.” My leg loosened next to the fire, and I stretched it out a little. “Have you lived here a long time?”

“Not terribly, just five years. My husband, Philip, and I met in London, and we both wanted to find an old property to renovate, one where I could raise my horses. Dovecote is perfect.” Grabbing a shawl from the back of the sofa, she sat down in front of me. “It took us nearly a year to make it livable. I’ll give you a tour after lunch if you like.”

“I’d love it.”

“Philip’s in banking, so he stays in the city during the week, then comes up on weekends. I rattle around a little on my own, but it’s been my dream since I was a child, so I’m very pleased to be here.”

“I can see why.”

The kettle began to whistle, and she hopped up. “Sugar, milk?”

“Both, please.” I watched her pour water into the pot, her figure slim and elegant, her long blonde hair cut ruler straight just below her shoulder blades. “Did you work in the city too?”

“Oh, yes. I was a banker as well, though one of us had to step away when we got married—we both worked for the same company. It grew . . . complicated.” She carried a tray over. “The house and stables are my project now—and the racing is an absolute delight.”

“You do the racing yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Impressive.” I accepted a cup of tea on a saucer.

“So you really don’t know anything about the Rosemere estate?” she asked.

“Nothing. My mother died a month ago, and when I was going through her things, I found the papers from Jonathan Haver. When I called him a week ago, that was the first I’d heard of any of it.”

“Papers?” she asked.

A little bit too much blandness in her tone alerted me to keep details to myself. “I haven’t made full sense of it, but there’s evidently been some interest in buying the property.”

“Ah, of course.” Rain began to spatter the windows, and Rebecca looked up at the ceiling, as if she could see through to the thatcher. “Tony will be along now. He’s crotchety, so don’t mind his manners.”

I shrugged.

“What kind of interest—have you heard?” She sipped her tea. “The house is a wreck. I mean, a falling-down disaster of a house, but it’s listed, so you can’t touch a bloody thing without permission.”