The Art of Inheriting Secrets(7)

“Mr. Haver mentioned that the house was listed, too, but I don’t know what that is exactly. Historically protected or something?”

“It’s a headache is what it is. Dovecote’s only a Grade II, and we had to practically turn ourselves inside out to get a proper sink in the powder room. The local council is overseen by Mrs. Stonebridge—”

I laughed. It was the kind of name a battle-ax in an old cozy mystery might have. “Not really?”

“I swear. Hortense Stonebridge, and she guards the listed buildings like a general.” She settled her cup on its saucer. “And listed means historical. A Grade I building means it’s valuable or significant to the history of the country. Or a few other designations, but mainly it just means you have to get approval for every step of renovation. Grade II is a step below that, but she put us through our paces.”

“Sounds daunting.”

A knock sounded at the door, and Rebecca jumped up. “Come in, come in,” she said, offering a towel hung by the door.

Two big dogs ran in, dashing directly for Bernard until their master halted them with a no-nonsense “Sit!” They screeched to a halt. The cat bolted.

Crotchety had made me think of someone old, but the man who ducked under the threshold was my age or a little older, maybe forty, tall and fit in a long-worn brown leather jacket and jeans. He gave me a dismissive glance and shook himself out of the jacket. “If it rains for long, I’ll just come back tomorrow. Can’t work with wet thatch.”

“Olivia Shaw, this is Tony Willow. Olivia is the new Countess of Rosemere.”

“How do you do,” he said without inflection. His accent was less plummy than hers.

“Nice to meet you,” I returned as blandly.

The other man stomped his feet on the mat outside. He was as tall as Tony but younger by a decade. Black curls, wild with rain, tumbled around a face drawn with no small drama—large dark eyes beneath black brows, a wide mouth. As he came inside, he caught sight of me, and I had the sense that I’d startled him.

“Hello,” he said after a moment and gave me a grin. “You must be the new countess. The whole village is on fire with your arrival.”

Heat burned along my neck up to my ears. I shook my head. “Yes, but please call me Olivia.”

“Olivia it is.” He crossed to offer his hand. “Samir Malakar. Most people call me Sam.”

“Which do you prefer?”

“Samir, actually.”

I smiled. “All right, Samir. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Come, everyone. Come sit. You, too, Olivia.” Rebecca spread cloth mats on the old wooden table. I stood and carried my tea, but the cold, damp day had caught up with me, and my limp was irredeemably pronounced.

Embarrassing. The younger thatcher reached for my cup silently, and I allowed him to take it as I leaned on the wall and navigated up the single step. He placed the cup in front of me.

“Thanks.”

Rebecca, dishing up stew, said, “We were just discussing Rosemere. Olivia had no idea it even existed until a week ago.”

Samir shook out his napkin and inclined his head my direction. “That must have been a strange day.”

“To say the least.”

Rebecca laughed. “You’re so American!” She placed a bowl of rich brown stew in front of me, full of chunks of carrots and meat and potatoes. It smelled exactly the way you’d want stew to smell on a rainy day in February.

But I remembered she’d said venison, which I’d eaten only once or twice and never enjoyed. It was always so gamey and tough, and I couldn’t help thinking of the deer that wandered through my mother’s neighborhood, with their big dark eyes and long eyelashes. They had nibbled all the roses until my mother had wanted to kill them.

A story I might not want to share right that moment.

“American how?” I asked, my hands in my lap.

She handed Tony a bowl, and he took it, and in the gesture, I saw a flash of something intimate. Were they lovers?

Rebecca brought her own bowl to the table. “American because you don’t seem to realize that you’ve inherited an entire estate and a title to go with it.” Her t’s were crisp, each one enunciated. “The average Englishwoman would kill for that.”

I said, “It’s just . . . kind of ridiculous.”

“It’s the lottery!” Tony said.

“Not if there’s no money to go with it,” Samir said.

“As if you’d know,” Rebecca said. “Please, everyone, let’s begin.”

Samir shrugged but didn’t seem put out by her sharpness.

I picked up my spoon—clearly real silver, recently polished, but not so recently that it hadn’t been used since. The other three dug in with clear enjoyment, so I gingerly took a small spoonful.

Oh. I touched my lips.

Time halted.

Every now and then, a mouthful of food tilted the world on its axis. This was one of them. The stew was dark and rich, meaty, herby. Thick broth and tender carrots and cubes of potato, hints of spice and aromatic vegetables. I moved my spoon through the opaque lake of gravy, imagining words that might describe it in an essay. I’d use the setting of the room, the AGA cooker in the corner, and the mullioned windows and the thatchers in their jeans.