"Good afternoon, sir," the servant said, beaming. "You'll be wantin' a vase for those flowers," she noted, pointing to a waiting glass container filled with water. The housekeeper must have spotted her employer and his guest through the window and noted the masses of blooms Blythe had been carrying. As Mrs. Quiller retrieved the fragrant bounty, she cast a friendly look in the visitor's direction. No Mrs. Danvers here, Blythe reflected, as she watched the older woman place the flowers in the tall receptacle and arrange them expertly.
"So 'appy ya kin sample our Cornish cream tea, ma'am," she added cheerfully.
Blythe sat down on a faded chintz love seat and gazed at the teatime delicacies. Then she surreptitiously glanced around the room, noting the shabby-chic quality of the antique furnishings and faded damask wall-coverings. Watermarks discoloring the ceiling in several places confirmed the presence of old leaks in the roof. But despite this, and the eighties-era television set sitting in the corner that added to the frozen-in-time aspect of the place, Blythe felt remarkably comfortable. Even so, she would judge that Barton Hall had seen far better days.
Her gaze returned to the abundant tea table as she watched Mrs. Quiller place generous portions of her homemade specialties on their plates. Blythe had noticed that afternoon that she had a bit of a scratchy throat—no doubt due to her long flight in the air-conditioned jetliner—and eagerly looked forward to a soothing cup of tea. The queasy stomach that had plagued her earlier in the day had magically disappeared, and now she was ravenously hungry.
"You'll eat dinner after such a feast?" she asked, glancing at a handsome enameled clock ticking loudly on the mantelpiece. It was fifteen minutes past the hour of five. Christopher's family in the Midlands, she recalled suddenly, had dispensed with such hallowed English traditions as afternoon tea and preferred coffee at meals. This was certainly not the case at Barton Hall.
Only two teacups stood in readiness next to a plump teapot that was muffled in a large quilted "cozy" to keep its contents scalding hot. Was there not a lady of the house?
"Thank you, Mrs. Q," Lucas was saying to his housekeeper. "We can manage from here, I think."
"Yes, sir," the gray-haired woman murmured. Taking a step backward, she pushed against what appeared to be a built-in bookcase. The rectangle magically turned sideways, allowing Mrs. Quiller to retreat into a small pantry beyond. Instantly the book-lined panel slid back into place.
"That must have made for marvelous games of hide-andseek when you were young," Blythe commented, watching her host prepare to do the honors with the teapot. Lucas Teague had donned his tanned moleskin trousers once again, topped by a garnet-colored turtleneck, complete with leather patches on the elbows. Very tweedy and certainly a handsome contrast to his blue-black hair, she concluded silently.
"The secret bookcase? It did indeed," he laughed, first putting a splash of milk into the fine bone-china cups, followed by a stream of steaming amber-colored liquid poured through an ornate silver tea strainer. He expertly filled each cup to exactly half an inch beneath its gilded rim.
Blythe settled contentedly against the sofa's overstuffed cushions, noting with silent amusement that a thin sprinkling of dog hairs dusted most of the furniture. Mrs. Quiller obviously favored cooking over housecleaning.
"Mrs. Stowe—"
"Please. Call me Blythe," she urged, savoring the sinful dollop of Cornish cream topped by a spoonful of raspberry jam that Mrs. Quiller had spread over her scone.
"Lucas—or Luke—will do as well," he agreed genially. "Well, Blythe, then… I must say I am quite delighted that you have determined you'd like to stay with us at Painter's Cottage all summer because…" He hesitated, his black brows furrowed under the roguish shock of dark hair spilling over his forehead. "I wonder if you'd be willing to give me your professional opinion about something."
Blythe was startled by his request and took time to chew slowly on her scone and swallow.
"I'll certainly try, if my profession could possibly be of any use so far away from Hollywood," she replied with a rueful smile.
"Very much so," he responded quietly. "You see… well… in the last few years I've begun to face an inevitable situation here at Barton Hall." He inhaled slowly, as if to keep some emotion in check.
"Which is?"
"That summer lets, constant economies, and reducing my sheep and cattle herds will not ward off the ravages of the Inland Revenue's devouring an ancient family seat like this."
"You mean the income-tax people?" she said sympathetically.
"I do, indeed."
Having been married to an Englishman, Blythe had heard quite a lot about Britain's crushing death duties and confiscatory taxes that people of wealth and the landed gentry had faced since the Second World War. The Inland Revenue's dogged quest of the Almighty Pound was the principal reason the ambitious Christopher Stowe had pursued his directing career in America. As a married couple earning two incomes, the Stowes had paid their fair share of taxes to Uncle Sam, but Chris had probably made and saved a couple of million by becoming a legal resident in the United States instead of plying his trade in the British film industry and paying up.
In fact, her husband's only holding in Britain had been an investment they had made in a reforestry scheme near some Highland moor in Scotland that neither of them had ever visited. "At last," Chris had proclaimed smugly, "a splendid tax dodge in the UK—and perfectly legal!"
"Barton Hall has become a greater burden every year," Lucas continued. "I've reduced my staff to the bare minimum, which is terribly unfortunate for those who live in the village. Even so, I still find that the costs of maintaining the house and keeping up the gardens you've so admired are becoming prohibitive. The death duties at the time my father passed away have made it nearly impossible to carry on… unless a drastic change of course can be found."
Blythe was astonished that a member of the English upper classes would speak so candidly about his financial woes to a relative stranger. Conditions at Barton Hall must be dire indeed, she reflected.
Her thoughts drifted to the remarkable sight of the man of the house, stripped to the waist, mucking out his own horse stalls. If Mrs. Quiller was the only house servant in Lucas Teague's employ, no wonder there were dog hairs on the furniture. How could the poor woman possibly cope with keeping fifty-seven rooms in perfect order? Was there no Mrs. Teague or a "significant other" to assist this attractive creature in solving his domestic woes? Blythe nibbled at her scone and looked at her host expectantly.
"So…" Luke continued, apparently choosing his words with care, "I've been thinking of turning Barton Hall into some sort of posh country hotel." He was staring into his teacup, as if a final confirmation as to the wisdom of his plan might be found in the few leaves floating at the bottom. "You know… first-rate service… Mrs. Quiller's glorious food… the bedrooms done up à la Laura Ashley—that sort of thing. In the long run it might prevent my having to sell the place, although I haven't the faintest idea how to execute such a scheme, or to judge if it would be successful, so far off the beaten path." He set his cup down on a side table with a clatter and met her gaze. "I simply cannot bear the thought that after eight hundred years of Barton Hall having been part of my family, I am to be the descendant who sells it to some German industrialist."
"Or to an American movie star?" Blythe couldn't resist adding.
Luke had the grace to flush under his bronzed countenance. Then his dark-blue eyes fixed on hers intently.
"Would you be willing to have a thorough look around and give me your honest opinion?" he queried earnestly. "Could it work? It seems clear that I shall be forced to make some decisions before the summer is out, so I'd consider it a very great kindness if you'd offer a candid appraisal of the notion," he finished, masking some emotion Blythe couldn't quite define by retrieving his cold cup of tea and sipping it slowly.
She gave the sitting room another cursory glance. Despite the manor's down-at-the-heels appearance, her practiced eye saw a host of possibilities. She reflected on the fairy-tale spell that the Barton estate's rounded castle walls had cast upon her when her car had driven down the stately, tree-shrouded entrance. Modernized and glamorized inside, it was just the kind of place that would appeal to wealthy Americans on vacation, especially those seeking the elegance and romance of a bygone era.
Her glance was drawn to the antiquated electrical outlets and well-worn furnishings. There was little doubt, however, that bringing it up to five-star standards could cost a fortune. And despite Mrs. Quiller's glorious scones, the woman was obviously getting on in years and could hardly be expected to dish up eighty to a hundred meals a day.
Barton Hall's glorious gardens, on the other hand, offered some very interesting commercial opportunities, she mused. Then Blythe pulled herself up short.
"And is Mrs. Teague keen on the idea?" she asked quietly.
"She was, actually. I lost her eighteen months ago… to cancer."
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry…"
Blythe's host accepted her embarrassed condolences with a brief nod. Then, once again, he solicited her professional opinion on the merit of his proposal.
"Well… perhaps this is the moment to conduct me on the Gold Star Tour?" She smiled, avoiding giving him a direct answer until she had a thorough look around.
"Not before I get you to sign your lease, Ms. BartonStowe," Lucas announced firmly, conferring on her a hyphenated double-barreled surname in the English manner. Blythe watched as her host crossed to a small desk tucked in a rounded alcove that was surely the ground-floor section of one of the stone turrets outside. "Can't have my adviser slipping away."
He pulled a legal-looking document from the desk drawer. "I noticed your middle name—Barton—in the letter from your travel agent when she first contacted me. Are you aware that the Barton-Trevelyans were the original owners of the house? You must have a look at my genealogical chart in the library and see where your American branch might fit in."
"It was probably just a fancy of my grandmother's," Blythe replied briskly, "but her stories that we originally came from this part of Cornwall were what prompted my decision to spend some time in this area."
That, and the fact that my husband jilted me for my sister
, she added silently.
"Your curiosity is my good fortune, then." Lucas Teague grinned, transforming his slightly forbidding features into those of a man possibly possessing a very potent measure of charm.
Charm. It had been the quality she'd grown to like least in Christopher Stowe.
Lucas Teague indicated the sheet of paper lying on his desk. "This is merely an addendum to your original lease for the cottage."
Blythe glanced at the one-page document and then looked longingly at the telephone perched on the desktop. Perhaps Lisa had overreacted to whatever had happened in Los Angeles. Blythe couldn't imagine what could have prompted her lawyer to arrange for such a prolonged stay in this remote part of Cornwall. In fact, she realized suddenly, the woman's high-handedness annoyed her quite substantially.
Meanwhile Lucas was holding out a silver-plated fountain pen that was probably manufactured at the turn of the last century. Still Blythe hesitated. She shifted her gaze to a seascape hanging above the mantelpiece and its magnificent enameled clock. The picture was executed in the same style as those that hung in Painter's Cottage.
If I want to leave before September… I'll just leave! she thought, reassuring herself that she wasn't signing up for a stint in the Royal Army. After all… some might consider her quite a wealthy woman now. She could do anything she wished.
As she continued to stare at the oil painting executed by Luke's eighteenth-century ancestor, an inexplicable feeling of gloom seemed to close in around her.
"I-I really must first touch base with my attorney in Los Angeles," she said in a low voice, struggling to control the strange tightness gripping her throat. "Could I impose on you to use your telephone before we tour the house?"
Lucas's puzzled look signaled that he sensed a distinct change in the atmosphere. However, he merely pointed to the old-fashioned black instrument with a rotary dial that sat on his desk.
"Certainly. Help yourself. Let me just have a word with Mrs. Quiller so she can tidy up in ten minutes or so, and you can have some privacy."
"Thanks…" Blythe replied faintly. "I'll use my calling card, of course. I was told that cell service is a little iffy in these parts."
"There's talk of putting up a mobile phone tower on a hill above the next village," Luke replied with an apologetic shrug, "but there's been an awful controversy about it. Farmers worried about radio waves zapping their sheep, and so forth."
Without considering what time it was in California, Blythe laboriously dialed 0101 to reach the international operator, feeling annoyed, suddenly, by the lack of a touchtone phone. Fortunately her call was quickly put through.
Lisa's receptionist answered. It was morning in Los Angeles and Blythe was informed that her lawyer was preparing to leave for a deposition across town.