by Nancy Warren
There were hooks all over the shop for hanging displays so it was easy enough to take down a framed photograph of a woman spinning yarn and replace it with the tribute. “Thank you so much,” I said. “The customers who knew her will love it.”
My witch relatives were clearly planning to stay a while, and I didn’t want to invite them to tea with us. It sounded too much like the beginning of a bad joke. Three witches and a vampire walk into a tea shop…
Behind us, Rafe and Agathe chatted away in French. It was the most animated I’d seen my new assistant since I’d hired her four days ago. She fluttered her hands while she talked and dropped her voice to tell him some story that made him laugh.
While they were talking, Lavinia also dropped her voice and said, “And how are you getting on with the grimoire?”
There’d been a struggle for ownership of the book of spells not so long ago and since I’d won the book, I didn’t want to tell them how confusing and scary I found it.
I pretended to show huge enthusiasm for the ceiling-wrecking, kettle-destroying book. “Great. I’m really working my way through the spells.”
“Excellent,” said Lavinia, looking at me as though she knew I was lying. “I’m so looking forward to seeing a demonstration.”
Rafe, seeing us deep in conversation, must have realized tea was going to be delayed or cancelled, so he purchased a skein of dark purple angora and left the shop by the front door.
A pair of older women came in and Agatha went forward. They showed her the pattern they’d cut out of a women’s magazine. It was for a baby’s blanket, and was made of blocks all in different colors of wool, with the letters of the alphabet in contrasting colors. “It’s for my second grandchild,” the woman with the pattern announced proudly.
“Congratulations,” Agatha said, sounding bored.
I was going to have to talk to my new assistant about her attitude.
Meanwhile, I changed the subject from spells to Gran, a much safer topic. I told them she’d love to see them and they should come for a visit one evening. I made the date for two weeks hence, determined to learn a spell or two by then. I could make things happen on my own, and was learning to control my inborn powers, but the formal spells were another matter.
Violet said, “Oh, but we’ll see you before then. Don’t forget the Wiccan pot luck supper Friday evening at the standing stones.”
There was a stone circle near Moreton under Wychwood, where their coven met, and Violet was determined to introduce me to her friends. It was part of the run-up to Samhain and that was a big deal, I knew. One of eight important pagan holidays. But I’d only known I was a witch for a few weeks. I wasn’t ready to fill my calendar with Wiccan socials.
Was this the real reason they’d stopped in? To remind me about the supper? I’d so far managed to avoid socializing with my fellow witches. I wasn’t very good yet—in fact, disastrous might best describe my spell casting abilities.
Besides, running a vampire knitting club twice a week provided all the socializing with colorful characters I could ever want. “I’ll do my best to drop by.” I had no intention of going.
A trio of young law students walked in. I knew them well. Since they knitted their way through every lecture, they went through a lot of wool. “I’d better go and help them.”
“We’ll look forward to seeing you Friday,” Lavinia said.
“Unless I get a hot date.”
They both laughed as though I were hilarious. The girl wearing the knitted toilet roll holder getting a date. That was a knee slapper.
Thing was, I really did want a date with a dishy detective inspector. DI Ian Chisholm had flirted with me and I thought he’d been close to asking me out when my assistant was killed and our relationship turned professional. He was about half a millennium younger than Rafe, so definitely closer in age, and alive, which was nice when a girl was thinking about marriage and kids. Trouble was, there were things I didn’t want him to know about me and my undead neighbors.
Also, I wasn’t sure if he was really interested in me.
The octogenarian tea shop owner next door was getting more action than I was.
CHAPTER 2
T hree days passed before I found time to go next door for tea. Rafe walked in to buy more of the purple wool about two in the afternoon. We weren’t very busy, so I suggested we go next door for tea and he agreed so readily I suspected he was as interested as I was in how the romance was going.
I pushed my latest knitting project into a tapestry bag, along with my wallet and phone. Rafe’s eyebrows rose. “You’re planning to knit over tea?”
“No.” I lowered my voice so Agatha wouldn’t hear. “But the knitters meet tonight and I want you to unsnarl the mess I made.”
“I’ll need something much stronger than tea if I’m going to fix your knitting,” he said, taking my elbow and ushering me out into the blustery wind. Luckily, we were only going next door since I hadn’t put on a coat. My sweater was warm enough. Fortunately, it had been Alfred’s turn to knit today’s creation and he’d taken his inspiration from the latest fashion knitting magazine I sold in the shop.
The pullover was knitted in cranberry wool with golden leaves drifting down the front. It was so beautiful Agatha hadn’t turned up her nose, which was as good as a compliment from my fastidious assistant. With it I wore ankle length black trousers and short brown boots.
When we walked into the tea shop, I could feel the subtle shift in the atmosphere, like a still pond after a stone’s been thrown into it, long after the initial splash, the ripples continue to stir the surface.
Of Miss Watt and her long-ago suitor there was no sign. I should have expected that; they could hardly catch up on fifty years and rekindle their romance in the middle of a busy tea shop with tourists and locals sipping tea and munching scones.
Still, I hoped that her sister, Mary, might stop by our table for a little gossip as she usually did when I was here. She was seating an American couple who carried a copy of Rick Steves’ Guide to England when we arrived. They were raving about how cute the place was. It really was a quaint and charming room, with an oak-beamed ceiling, windowed alcoves and the original oak floor, attractively scarred from a couple of centuries of use. The décor was the perfect backdrop for afternoon tea. Dainty lace cloths covered every table, with glass over top to keep the laundry down, fresh flowers in glass vases, and around the edges of the dining area large dressers covered with tea pots, many of them antique. Two framed prints showed Victorian ladies in frilly dresses taking tea, one set on a perfect green lawn and the other in an elegant living room.
He saw me looking at the prints. “You still haven’t been out to see my collection. Would you like to come Sunday?”
I knew he had an art collection that would rival some galleries and I was fairly certain he let very few people into the secret of its existence. I was intrigued, not only by the idea of seeing Van Gogh’s and Rembrandts no one knew had survived, but I was curious to see how he lived.
Sylvia, a gorgeous older vampire who’d been a silent screen star in the 1920s, had told me the house was well worth a visit. She’d made it clear he was bestowing a great honor by inviting me. “Yes. I’d love to.”
He nodded, not at all surprised that I’d jumped at the invitation. “I’ll pick you up about two.”
I had a moment to observe Mary Watt before she saw me, and she looked distressed.
Her color was higher than usual and her mouth set in a straight line. However, when the couple were seated and she saw us she beamed her usual sunny smile. “Why, Lucy, what a pleasant surprise. And, Rafe, we haven’t seen you since your excellent talk on illuminated manuscripts at the Bodleian. Come in. I’ve got a lovely table in a quiet corner.”
She led us forward and, as soon as we were seated, said, “I’ll send Katya right over. She’s our new girl. Polish.” Instead of stopping to gossip as I had hoped she would, she bustled off to greet the next customer who, most anno
yingly, had arrived right behind us.
“Tea for one, please,” she said in a soft, Irish accent. She was about sixty, with once-red hair that was now mostly gray. She wore a green woollen coat, black boots and clutched a well-worn handbag to her chest. I wouldn’t have noticed her but for the strong sense of sadness I felt. It enveloped her like a rain-laden dark cloud.
Miss Watt led her to a table across the room but she asked, “Could I sit here?” and indicated a table set for two beside ours. “It’s got a bit of a view,” she explained, though all I could see was gray sky and the shops across the street. Even those were blocked by the man and woman sitting in the window table.
However, Miss Watt sat the woman there and told her the waitress would be right over.
“No sign of the lovebirds,” I whispered to Rafe, searching the room once more. I did see a woman who taught yoga locally. I’d been once or twice to the classes she held in the church hall around the corner, but I’d been so busy lately, what with sleepwalking vampire grandmothers, figuring out how to be a witch without destroying my home, and keeping Nyx fed and sufficiently played with, that I hadn’t been back. Her name was Bessie Yang and she was one of the calmest women I knew.
She wore her long black hair in a braid that hung over one shoulder of a blue linen shift. With her was a stylish woman with short blonde hair that curled around her ears. They were deep in conversation.
The two best tables in the bow fronts of the windows were occupied by a very stiff looking man in his seventies with white hair, a bristle of white moustache and a very annoyed look on his face. With him was a downtrodden woman about his own age, no doubt his wife.
At the other window table a group of three women and one man were collecting bags to leave. They all spoke Spanish and wore lanyards and name badges around their necks.
“You’re being rather presumptuous. Perhaps Miss Watt had no interest in the old boy, and sent him on his way.”
“Then where is she?” I answered my own question before he could dampen my enthusiasm any further. “They are upstairs in the Miss Watts’ private quarters talking about old times. I’m sure of it.”
“Perhaps. But I would say her sister isn’t much of a fan of this match.”
So he’d observed that, too. “Maybe she’s jealous. It must be difficult to imagine losing her sister to a man after all these years of the two sisters living and working together. I wonder what she’ll do if Florence goes off with him.”
“Or the old boy tries to move in here.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
At that moment our waitress came up to the table. She was an unremarkable looking young woman in her early twenties. Her hair was lank brown and styled in a sloppy bun at the back of her head. She had a round face, hazel eyes and a mouth that would have been her best feature if it were not currently drooping at the edges, either in boredom or general unhappiness.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “What would you like to eat?” Her English was competent though her accent was heavy.
Before I could open my mouth, Rafe spoke to her in a language I could only assume was Polish and ended by treating her to his charming smile. No doubt, he had also seen her unhappiness and sought to put her at her ease by speaking to her in her own language. However, the result was not a happy one.
Her eyes widened and she jumped back as though he’d smacked her. Then, she glanced furtively behind her and said, “I am allowed only to speak in English.”
With that she scurried away, without taking our order. I glanced at Rafe and saw him watching the girl with a puzzled frown. “Well that was odd,” I said. “Why would Miss Watt care if she speaks Polish to a customer? She made poor Miss Watt sound like a terrible tyrant when she’s anything but. What did you say to her?” I couldn’t imagine Rafe saying anything rude or suggestive to the waitress.
“I asked her how she’s enjoying Oxford.”
That seemed harmless enough. “Maybe she doesn’t want to be reminded of home?”
“Or she doesn’t understand Polish.”
I was so surprised I stared. “Why would she lie about being Polish?”
“Any number of reasons,” he said, with the air of a man who had seen and experienced several lifetimes of human behavior. Also learned more languages than Berlitz.
I couldn’t think what those reasons might be, and watched as the possibly-not-Polish waitress cleared the table the Spaniards had vacated.
She headed back to the kitchen bypassing us and also the Irish lady who was staring hopefully over her closed menu.
Before I could grill Rafe about what he meant, Mary Watt started toward us. She had an amazing ability to keep an eye on every table in the tea shop at once. She brought ice water to the American tourists and then came up. “Has Katya taken your order?”
I didn’t want to get the new waitress in trouble. The Miss Watts prized efficiency and, as kind as they were, would fire any waitress who couldn’t keep up. For some reason, Rafe speaking to her in Polish had rattled the young woman and I didn’t want her to be penalized. “We’ve only just decided what we want.”
She glanced at me sharply as though she didn’t believe my little white lie. “Why don’t I take your order?”
“I’ll have a pot of English breakfast tea and a scone with jam and cream,” I said. I might be here out of romantic curiosity, but a delicious scone lathered with strawberry jam and clotted cream was a very nice side benefit.
“Do you want the classic scone or would you like to try the chef’s daily special? It’s made with lemon and white chocolate and it’s really very nice.”
I nearly fell off my chair. I’d been coming to Elderflower Tea Shop since I was a little girl. I’d tasted my first scone in this very room and had probably eaten hundreds since. In all that time there had never been a choice of scones. Well, that’s not quite true; the Miss Watts offered the classic scone or the classic scone with raisins. They never even strayed as far as a cheese scone, and here they were venturing into lemon and white chocolate territory?
To come into the Elderflower Tea Shop and find, not only that one of the Miss Watts had a gentleman caller, but that they were branching out into unfamiliar scone territory was like finding out the earth had begun rotating in the opposite direction. Still, I am not one to look a gift scone in the mouth and so I happily chose the white chocolate and lemon.
Rafe said he’d join me with English breakfast tea. He declined food saying he’d eaten a big lunch.
I felt guilt stricken. When Mary Watt was busy taking the Irish woman’s order, I leaned forward. “I’m sorry, I never thought that you probably don’t drink tea.” I was fairly sure they didn’t serve human blood at the tea shop, though after adding white chocolate and lemon scones to the menu, who knew what might turn up next?
“It’s fine,” he assured me. “One becomes accustomed to blending in.”
It wasn’t long before Katya returned to our table carrying a tray. On it was one of the Brown Betty teapots and two of the pretty mismatched china teacups the Miss Watts serve tea in. A sandwich plate in another pattern held my scone. A tiny dish of bright red jam and another of clotted cream accompanied this treat.
I understood then why Rafe had chosen the same type of tea as I was having. With one pot between us it would escape notice that he wasn’t drinking any. While the young woman was still there I asked him if he wanted ice water, thinking perhaps something cold would be preferable but he declined.
Katya refused to look anywhere near Rafe, presumably in case he broke into another stream of Polish. She placed a pot of tea at the next table and headed back to the kitchen rapidly.
Rafe watched her with a tiny frown. I said, “Maybe you have a terrible Polish accent. Or you speak Medieval Polish or she really is nervous to speak anything but English in the tea shop.”
“Perhaps.” He did not look convinced.
I was busily spreading cream and jam on my scone while the tea steeped. When I had
finished doing that I added milk and sugar to my cup and lifted the teapot. I raised my brows to him in a questioning look. “Shall I pour you some tea?”
“Just half a cup if you would.”
I did and then poured the fragrant brew into my own cup. Apart from the grossness of having to rely on drinking blood to stay alive, it must be so sad not to enjoy all the flavors of good food. I bit into my scone, enjoying the thick texture of the cream and the gushy sweetness of the jam and then the flaky texture of the scone. He watched me closely, I thought with envy.
I would’ve moaned with pleasure at this amazing afternoon treat, but I thought that would be rude.
He waited until I’d swallowed my first bite and taken a sip of tea and then, looking slightly amused, asked, “And is it as good as the classic scone?”
“Oh, yes. They must have a new cook. Florence always does the cooking, but if she’s otherwise engaged, maybe they’ve hired someone new.”
As much as I was enjoying the scone, my real purpose in coming here had been nosiness. I wanted to know if that gallant older gentleman had prospered in his errand. The elder Miss Watt was either too busy to come by my table and gossip, or she simply didn’t want to talk about her sister’s surprise visitor. If it was a shock for her sister to have an old boyfriend turn up, it must have been a shock for her, too.
Now that I looked around me, I saw that not only were the scones changing but so was the regular menu. For as long as I could remember, and that was nearly two decades, the menu had rarely changed. There was quiche of the day, to be sure, but anyone who came here regularly knew the daily quiche was broccoli and Stilton on Tuesday and Wednesday, quiche Lorraine on Thursday and Friday, salmon Saturday and Sunday and on Monday the shop was closed.
