Susannah empathized with the admiration in Marcy’s eyes. Neville’s enchantment called to her almost spiritually.
After they all enjoyed a variety of scones, sandwiches, and two pots of tea, Susannah walked outside with the group and breathed in the fresh air as they followed the stone path to the car park. Susannah closed her eyes and inhaled the sharp smell of mown grass.
She took out her camera. “You two go on ahead. I want to take a few more pictures of the pub.”
A split path led to the side of the brownstone building. She admired the thatched roof and leaded windows and took a few pictures. Beside the courtyard garden, an elderly gentleman leaned against the gate watching her. On impulse, she strolled over. “Good afternoon. It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”
He removed the pipe from his mouth, beamed and replied in a strong British accent, “That it is … that it is. How’re you today?” He wasn’t a tall man, lean and sturdily built.
“Fine, thank you.” She scanned the garden’s color. “It’s so delightful.”
“It’s been my favorite spot in Neville since I was a lad.”
“So, you’ve lived here a while?” Susannah admired his thick gray waves.
“Yes, ma’am. All my life. This pub—" He used his pipe to point at the building. “—was built many years before I was born, and I’m ninety-seven next week.”
“You don’t look it.” Susannah took in his straight back.
“Thank you. Don’t act it either.” His blue eyes twinkled with mischief. “At least everyone around here says. I still tend my gardn’ and the one here at the pub.”
“You do a fantastic job. I admired it throughout our afternoon tea. Would it be all right if I took a few pictures inside the garden?”
“That’d be no problem at all.” He held the gate open to allow her to step across the stone threshold.
“By the by, the name’s Hodge.” He tipped his hat.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Susannah.” She snapped a close-up of the fountain and stood back to appreciate it.
“Caught your fancy?” He had stepped from the gate to stand beside her. “It’s original.”
“How old is this place?”
“My family built it in 1702.” He straightened, shoulders back.
Susannah rose from photographing a cluster of white phlox, surprised. “It’s yours?”
“Yes, tried to keep it as it was, except for modern plumbin’. The entire lot looks as it did over 300 years ago.”
It touched Susannah to imagine the love and devotion of one family to keep a historic place like this for so long. She said as much.
Hodge’s grey eyes sparkled with pride. “Most don’t appreciate it, but I can tell you regard commitment. I may be an old sentimental fool, but it seems your interest is more than a tour stop.”
“That’s perceptive of you. I love history, especially Britain’s. My family came from here, and they passed little of the information down. I have an aunt who traced our genealogy, and I value it, but I want to learn about my ancestors on a more personal level—by visiting where they lived.” She held his gaze. “And how you must be proud of the devotion of your family to this place. You’re a part of it, and I long to be a part of where my ancestors lived.”
“I can understand that.” Hodge grew silent for a few moments. With a croak in his voice, he continued, “Susannah, you’re a special lady. I’d love to share our history with you, but you must be gettin’ on that bus.” He pointed with his pipe. “May I have your address? I’ll be glad to send you every spot of information on my place. And Neville.”
On impulse, Susannah gave him a gentle hug. “Hodge, thank you … I mean that with sincerity. You’re so kind.” She pulled a business card from her purse and gave it to him. He glanced at it, and with gnarled fingers tucked it into the pocket of his tweed vest.
“You best be gettin’ on that bus before it leaves.”
Susannah started toward the bus and turned back. “Hodge, say cheese.”
He gave her a broad grin and waved as she snapped the picture.
∞∞∞
A few days later, after the tour wound through other villages with their castles, cottages, pubs, and gardens, Susannah and Diann returned to Neville. They settled into the Horden Inn. Susannah perched on the edge of her bed and scanned a brochure about the village.
“It says Neville also has tea shops, two churches, and a castle.”
“Oh, I can hear your brain-wheels turning.” Diann placed her shirts in a dresser drawer. “The obsession must be fed.” She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise.
Susannah tossed a pillow at her, then rummaged through her bag for the realtor listings. “I like this village. There were a couple of cottages I found here in my research. This place spoke far more than any of the others. And it is one of the villages where some of my ancestors lived.”
“Hey, you may be related to Hodge.” Diann winked.
“Could be. I need to ask him more about his family.”
Diann sighed and paused her unpacking. “Why don’t we go for a walk? It doesn’t get dark till late, and I’m restless. We may see some cottages from your list.”
“You’re always restless—got more energy than your four-year-old grandson.”
“Ha … I wish. Grab your purse, and let’s take it outside, sister!”
The cool early evening air was invigorating. Susannah pulled her light jacket closed and inhaled a familiar scent that she couldn’t place. “I’m not sure what that aroma is, but I like it.”
“That’s another thing—your nose is too sensitive. What’s that all about?” Diann gave her friend a tight-lipped grin.
“Sense of smell can trigger memories powerfully. Maybe it’s an ancestral pull to this place.”
“I never thought of it that way, but I suppose it’s true. If I smell biscuits baking, I always think of my grandmother. She made the most wonderful biscuits.” Diann tilted her head back and closed her eyes. “I can almost see and smell them right now. Browned to perfection, fluffy circles of joy.”
Susannah’s delighted laugh brought Diann back from her past.
“Such a nice memory.” She chuckled as they walked on in companionable silence.
As they strolled along the main street, Susannah studied the brochure. That internal tug toward Neville wrenched at her again. The market cross remained at the square’s center as it had since the 13th century. At the end of the street, St. Gregory’s Church beckoned, parts of it dating back to 1085. A defensive fortified tower, built in 1330, rose above the lower stone structure. Late afternoon sun glinted off the grey edifice that cast it in an amber-hue. It stood proud as it had once protected the village from marauding Scots, the eight ancient bells waited to warn citizens. Susannah could very nearly hear the past sounds of this history-filled village.
They stopped in front of the enclosed churchyard, its gravestones tilted sorrowfully, etchings worn away by time and weather.
“I don’t want to walk in there right before dark,” Diann’s voice wavered.
“What? Are you serious? You’re not afraid, are you?” Susannah teased.
“Of course not. I’m not fond of cemeteries at any time of day … or night.” Diann drew a deep breath. “It’s so sad to see all those lives gone, not knowing where they ended up.” She shoved her hands deep into her pockets and stepped away from the cemetery.
Susannah drew her gaze from her friend, entranced by the antiquity of the stones. “I wonder if any of my ancestors are buried here? It’s too bad that most of the engravings have worn off on the oldest stones.” Her voice was solemn. She traced the top of the churchyard’s closed gate with an outstretched finger. The yellow facade of the museum across the street darkened in evening shadow. “Hate that the museum is closed.”
“Yes, sad.” Diann gave her a gentle shove.
Susannah realized her friend’s sense of morbidity. She picked up her pace, leaving Diann to follow.
“He
y, where are you off to? I thought we would explore.” She added, “Except the cemetery, of course.”
“We are.” She held up a map. Susannah pointed to the street they were on. “If we go this way and turn right by the pharmacy, and down a short way and take another right, there’s a cottage for sale. I couldn’t tell much from the photos. But you never know …” Her voice trailed off as she studied the map.
Diann reached for the map, and Susannah released it. They stopped at the corner and spotted The Wynd posted on the building across the street. “We’re on the right track,” Diann gave a wave. “We turn here.”
Susannah simpered. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
After a short walk, they reached a paved one-lane road. A house’s exterior wall curved to follow the turn. It was a medley of older grey stones at the base and newer red bricks stacked to the roof. A few feet further, a white gate led to an alley of sorts. The sign on the gate read— Beware of the Ferrets. Diann and Susannah glanced at one another and burst out laughing.
A sandstone wall topped with moss lined the left side of the road, and on the other side were trees. Beyond a deep curve, the cottage stood to their left. A white-washed gate hung loosely on its hinges.
“Hmm ... it’s seen better days.” Diann stood with fists on her hips, lips pursed.
Susannah squeezed between the gate and wall and slipped on a moss-covered stone. She grasped Diann’s shoulder for support.
“I’m not sure this is what you were looking for, Sue. It’s dilapidated.”
They gaped at the shabby thatched cottage. The panes stared, dark and lifeless. Plaster crumbled amidst dark green ivy that clawed its way to the roof. What was left of the garden held more weeds than flowers. A few struggling blooms peeked out like small bright insects climbing barren stalks.
Diann hung back for a moment and moved to the front window and peered through the dirt-encrusted glass. “The inside doesn’t appear bad, but it could use a coat of paint. I wonder if the structure is solid.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Susannah stood rooted to the spot and absorbed the derelict sight.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. It’s too dilapidated to consider.”
“I mean, it doesn’t matter.” Susannah pulled the realtor listing from her pocket, glanced at the cottage, and envisioned it as it could be. The tug inside her tightened, and joy swelled. “This is where I belong.”
Chapter 2
Neville, North Yorkshire, England
2019
The cottage grew shabbier each day. The panes hung, cracked and lifeless, desire to live again in its windows like eyes in search of someone to revive its former splendor. Faded plaster revealed underlying stones of a previous life, deep green ivy weaving in, out, and up to the thatched roof. Exceptional artisanship from years long past held it together.
Each day, April Conyers paused on the path to stare longingly at the cottage as memories of when it was inhabited returned to her mind. She regretted those last days of secondary school education, before her short stint at Uni. At that time, she’d been painfully shy. The lovely, yet tired-looking woman, had moved into the cottage. She’d be gardening in her yard when April walked by. April made a point to walk past the cottage whenever possible, to view the progress of the cottage restoration. The woman had an American accent, her voice was sweet and kind, and there was a glint in her eyes when she greeted April with a “good morning” or “good afternoon.”
One day the woman asked April if she’d like to sit in her garden and share tea and biscuits. Timidly, she’d declined. The woman was friendly but never invited her again. Oh, how she wished she’d said yes. Months later, she became brave and walked with purpose to the cottage to invite herself for tea, but no one came when she knocked. She tried again and again, noticing weeds as they crept into once immaculate flowerbeds. Then she was away to Uni.
Upon her return, many months later, April approached the cottage and saw a young man leave. He locked the door behind him. Soon after, the cottage became more derelict. No one lived there since. Each time April passed by her heart felt its sadness.
Now, two years later, April strode on her way from work and paused. A man stood in front of the cottage, arms across his chest, brows furrowed.
With a surge of boldness, April stepped toward him. The closer she got, the more she noticed the slump in his shoulders—shoulders that appeared beaten with the weight of grief. Hesitant to intrude on a private moment, she pushed on.
“Hello,” she said in a small, cheerful voice.
Startled, he turned with eyes wide. His voice taut, he said, “Hi. Sorry. I wasn’t aware that anyone was there.” He presented a halfhearted smile, voice clipped in irritation.
His accent held her attention. “I didn’t mean to surprise you. I have seen no one taking an interest in this cottage for some time.”
His brow wrinkled. “You live around here?”
“Yes, and ...” She wet her lips. “I’ve passed here almost every day, and the sweet lady who lived here even invited me for tea once, though I was too shy to accept.” She hesitated. “But that was a long time ago. When I dropped by again, she was gone. Sometime later, I saw a man come out of the cottage. I never saw her again.”
An awkward silence grew. His blue eyes stared at her—vacant. She waited for him to speak.
∞∞∞
Ryan’s mind flew into his painful past and almost made him shudder. He saw the woman who had once lived in the cottage, yet she was younger, trying to raise a small son alone in the U.S.
“I’m sorry to intrude. I should be going. It was nice to meet you …”
“Sorry. My name’s Ryan.” Tentative, he reached out his hand. “I’m not myself right now.”
She gripped his hand in hers. “I’m April.”
The warmth of her hand engulfed his, a tingle of energy shot through his palm.
“Would you like to go for a cup of tea? There’s a nice shop around the corner.” April croaked, and cleared her throat.
Ryan glanced at his wristwatch. “Sure. I have time before my train.”
April walked by his side as she pointed out directions as they strolled, nervously chatting. Footsteps shuffled around them. People were at the end of their day—heading home from work, tourists chatting with excitement after a day of sightseeing. Various aromas from the pubs and tearooms blended in the air.
“Well, here we are.” She stopped in front of an old structure that must have dated back at least five hundred years. The timber-framed building had a plaster, facade.
“I hope you like this place. It has a lot of character and history. It’s one of my favorites.”
“This is the sort of place my mom would’ve liked. Everything had to be about character or have a feel to it.” He pulled his gaze from hers.
“It’s definitely got that. It’s also a bakery. I meet friends here and sometimes come alone as a sanctuary of sorts.”
The yellow sign above the door read, High Tea, in bold blue letters. The bell jingled as they walked through. White iron tables and chairs placed haphazardly in the petite room bordered the bakery with no divider between the two spaces. Arrangements with fresh daisies peeked from the center of each table. Traditional lace curtains adorned the large bow windows. Display cases were in view of the tables, and wonderful aromas filtered through the room from the unseen kitchen.
Once seated, April commented on Ryan’s earlier mention of his mother. “Your mum sounds like someone I would’ve enjoyed visiting with.” The server came over to their table before Ryan could respond. After April greeted her, the girl gave them each a menu. She smiled at Ryan and turned toward April. “How’s the bookshop?”
“Splendid. I think I unpacked a dozen boxes of new books today. I could murder a cuppa to get me through the rest of the day.” Without a glance at the menu, she told her, “Earl Grey and a cinnamon scone, please.”
“Extra clotted cream and strawberry jam?” She raised her eyebrows.
“Oh, yes. You’re a dear,” April entwined her fingers on the table in front of her as the server turned to Ryan.
“And for you, sir?”
Ryan had a hard time moving his attention from April. How old was she … about twenty-five? Her long, auburn hair hung straight with wispy bangs. She appeared to be just over five feet and of average build. Her face radiated kindness and a sincerity that he found uplifting, with a smile that lit round hazel eyes set in ivory skin.
He glanced at his menu. “Um, I guess the same.”
“Good choice, love.” The server winked at him.
April shook her head. “Watch out. She’s a bit of a flirt.”
Ryan bit his lip and hoped his cheeks weren’t red. He changed the subject. “You must come here often if she knows your order.”
“I do. Their scones are the best this side of the county. Award-winning. I’d eat them every day if I could,” Her lips curved upward. “Do you like scones?”
“Can’t remember ever having tried them, but ...” He didn’t complete the sentence. He’d started to say scones were a favorite of his mom’s.
April gave him a blank stare. “Pardon me?”
“The scones. I can’t remember ever having tried them.” He repeated as he regarded the table. Well-manicured fingers fidgeted with the tablecloth.
“Well, you’re in for a tasty bit.”
Ryan asked about the cottage, which they discussed until their order arrived.
After a thank you to the server, April bowed her head and said a short prayer. Slathering clotted cream and strawberry jam on her scone, she added sugar to her tea. Ryan watched her, then dropped his gaze to his untouched plate.
“I’m sorry. I should’ve asked if you’d like to say the blessing.”
“No need to apologize.” He wasn’t comfortable with the question. The subject of religion brought back painful memories. And—what was he doing here with a stranger? Yet she appeared to be nice, and after seeing the cottage again it brought on an uncommon desire for companionship. A flash of sunlight drew his gaze out the window to the view past April’s shoulder. How many times had his mom walked this way and peered into the windows of the shops along the street—to come to this tearoom and enjoy her tea and scones? He fought to gain composure, his voice hoarse and unrecognizable. “No, it’s fine. I’m not one to say grace.” The window held his gaze.
Permelia Cottage Page 2
