Lucy had to give her credit. Each woman and child stood taller and swelled with pride at their importance, dress, and general preparedness by the time Willa stopped talking and shot Lucy’s father a We’re ready glance.
The motion sent Lucy’s eyes toward her dad as well. He’d clearly been working the same magic with the men. It brought to mind Sid’s advice one day as they had sat debating a sketch. Enchant the wives and stay within budget to please the husbands. They may not care about the rooms, but they want to keep their wives happy and feel smart doing it. Her father clearly followed the same dictum—but played it with a different hand here.
Catching Willa’s look, Lucy’s father raised his voice and addressed the entire group. “We are so delighted to have you join us on our little adventure today. We will start with a short walk through Bowness-on-Windermere, this lovely town with foundations dating back to 1415, as you’ll see when we visit St. Martin’s church. And, since you all are such strong walkers, I’m going to treat you to some special stops more abroad than the usual fare. This will allow you to more fully appreciate the romance and unique history of the area.”
He started through the town, calling above the din created by cars, tourists, and general commotion. Within minutes they were on a small outcropping nestled into the lake. He pointed to the sky. “ ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud; That floats on high o’er vales and hills, when all at once I saw a crowd, a host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze . . .’ ” He continued in a strong, melodic voice, weaving a spell around his walkers.
Even the children quieted and listened. And just when the first child twitched, he drew himself upright and laughed. “Wordsworth is a genius and probably the most noted poet from the area. Those were just a few choice lines from ‘I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud,’ composed here”—he spread his arms to encompass the lake, the town, the listeners—“in 1804.”
Without another word, he walked farther down the walk and up a scanty path into the trees, talking Wordsworth and poetry as they followed. At a bend, he shifted topics. “Now, ladies, this lovely path is for you. Visiting manor homes, such as Darcy’s Pemberley, is out of the scope of our walk today, but you will find ‘a noble fall of ground, or a finer reach of the woods’ and ‘spots where the opening of the trees gave the eye power to wander and charming views of the valley.’ And here, note the . . .”
With dips and rises in intonation, Lucy’s father made it clear when he was quoting from Pride and Prejudice, again imbuing the walk with an almost magical aura. Lucy began to believe that she herself was following in Elizabeth Bennet’s footsteps and holding her gown high, so as not to stumble over branches along the path.
As they emerged onto a one-lane road overlooking the lake, her father’s tone changed again. “Here you see some of the spectacular views that inspired, not only the great poetry you’ve heard, but some exquisite landscapes and even portraiture. This was a thriving art scene and John Ruskin, the leading art critic from the Victorian era, embodied that sensibility right here in Bowness. He was an avid watercolorist, social thinker, essayist, and philanthropist. Here are some of his favorite views . . .”
Lucy turned toward the lake, letting his words wash over her as she wondered where the line spanned between fact and fiction on this tour. She had read the Ruskin book, and while most of her father’s facts were true—even those he tinged with a softer glow—he did create links and made inferences never stated. She began to note how often he used words such as “surmised” or “tacitly understood” or, her personal favorite, “privately known.”
“. . . And today I have the special treat of my daughter’s presence. An art expert and specialist in the field of silver and antiques, she can answer any of your questions about the art, lives, and interests of this area and its Golden Age.”
Lucy blinked, catching the last words as every head pivoted to her. She gave a small wave as her father walked on. Only one woman dropped back, the American with the right choice shoes. “How do I know I’m getting a good deal if I buy something here? How do I know it’s a real antique? What does that even mean?”
Lucy fielded the question with honesty. “There’s no way for you, as the customer, to truly know unless you have some experience and a feel for what was made within different eras. The term ‘antique’ classically means older than one hundred years. I can say I spent the morning in and out of every shop in Bowness and nothing caught my eye that wasn’t appropriate. There was one shop, Finley’s Fine Treasures, that— Ouch!”
With a crash, Willa tripped and plowed into Lucy and clutched at her to keep from falling. “I didn’t even see that. Thank you for catching me. I almost fell.” She held her hand to her throat and glared at the ground as if it had bitten her. “I’ve been on this walk so many . . .”
Lucy quit listening as the woman tourist touched her arm, mumbled a quick thanks, and returned to her husband. Lucy turned and whispered to Willa, “I gather I misspoke?”
“Not at all. You’re wonderful.” Willa took a few steps in silence. “Finley overprices a touch, I know, but she’s a dear friend and sends lots of business our way.”
Lucy nodded, casting a quick glance to her father. He was absorbed at the front of the group. “You both are good on these tours. I can see why they’re popular.”
Willa beamed. “I don’t have all the schooling Anthony does, but I take care of the details. He’s forgetful about those, but what a wonder with the talking! He tells such a good story, makes you feel the facts rather than just hear them. That’s a gift, you know.”
Willa cast her eyes to the front of the group with such adoration that Lucy trailed Willa’s gaze. Her father gave Willa a quick wink before addressing a tall man’s question. “You can see why everyone loves him.” Willa gripped her elbow.
“I can, which makes it surprising that the tours aren’t selling well. My dad mentioned that you’re moving to France,” Lucy whispered.
“Oh no.” Willa tucked closer. “They’re selling like mad. We’ve pre-booked more extensive, driving ones with overnight stays, all through next summer. Multiday packages and real ‘Sensory Experiences,’ as he calls them. They’re so popular, clients smack down a 90 percent deposit just to get on the books, but we—”
Willa twisted toward the front again and jumped. “Oh, he needs me . . .” She darted up to assist one of the kids who drooped beside his mother and instantly her voice regained its slow, cultured tones. “Is this walk too long for you, dear? Well, I may find a treat right here . . .”
Lucy lost the rest of Willa’s wooing as her father’s lilting accent recaptured her attention. “Beatrix Potter, as a young girl, lived . . .”
The tour landed back in the town square, where the men all shook hands and pressed bills into their tour guide’s hands. “Couldn’t have been better,” “Jolly good afternoon,” and other compliments hung in the air around them.
Lucy heard her father gently chide one man, “It’s a commitment, but we’re filling fast. I strongly recommend registering soon for the three-day package we discussed. I don’t want you to miss out. It’s a much finer experience because we have the time and ability to introduce you to the food and wine and some of the finest accommodations in the area. And”—he addressed the man’s fawning wife—“if you’re committed to seeing Bath, we can offer the same experience there. I’ve studied Austen’s Bath years intimately.”
“That’s the trip I want to take.” She beamed.
Lucy’s father nodded in agreement and stepped away, allowing the couple to talk. Within moments, the man returned to him and said, “We’d like that trip.”
As Willa gathered their information in a ledger book, Lucy left the group and retreated to the water’s edge. Within moments, she heard the pebbles crunch behind her.
“You were marvelous today.” Her father moved closer.
“I was a participant. Only one woman asked a question.” Lucy glanced over h
er shoulder to find everyone had gone. “They all loved every minute, even the kids.”
“It’s a good tour.”
Lucy twisted again, realizing everyone had gone. “Where’s Willa?”
“She went to run errands. I told her I wanted to spend some time with you alone.”
Lucy stumbled back. “You don’t need to do that, Dad. I came to get to know you, and Willa’s a part of that.”
“I appreciate that, but I want to give my daughter my undivided attention. Let’s grab an early dinner. All that walking has worked up my appetite.”
Chapter 30
Lucy laid down her fork. “Willa said the tours are popular, and I heard you mention Bath to that couple. You’ve found the perfect job, haven’t you? You seem happy here.”
“It’s taken years to figure how to make my passions pay, but I’ve finally done it.” Anthony leaned back and rubbed his chin. Lucy could hear the scrape of stubble on his palm. “People pay lots for tours and sightseeing, but at the end of the day, all they get are cold facts and old monuments. You give them a story and it all comes alive. It becomes an emotional experience, one that resonates with their souls and their desires. That’s what I offer and why I can charge more.”
“I helped the owners at the inn in Haworth redecorate some rooms and name them to create an ‘emotional experience,’ and you’re right, it’s important. Sid and I—”
“I’d hate that work. Jerry runs the Stags Head on Church Street and it’s too hard a life.” Anthony rested his fingers under his chin.
Lucy leaned back. “I . . . Bette loves it.”
Anthony waved, dismissing the subject. “But the tours! We’re all wired to crave and worship something and I tap into that, Lucy, the emotional need.” He slapped his hand on the table in his excitement. “It’s not in movies, which hit the box office and disappear, and it’s not even in the bestsellers. Those are almost as disposable and shallow. To capture that moment of stillness and transcendent completeness, you must go to the classics or poetry. It’s still alive in poetry, even the modern stuff. The soul soars with those words.”
He waggled a finger at her. “And all those Austen and Brontë films? They’ve blown the market wide open. The market craves those stories, pays for them, and now travels to see where the drama occurred. They’ve given place and a visual touch-point to the emotions.”
Lucy tilted her head and sifted through his speech, and once she got beyond feeling affronted on Bette’s behalf, she realized she agreed with some of what he said. Hadn’t she helped Bette capitalize on these emotions as they named the rooms?
He continued, “So yes, the tours work, but I’d like to move them somewhere warmer now. The damp cold seeps into my bones. There’ve been a few BBC movies lately that take place in France . . . Not the stature of a Downton Abbey or Poldark; that’s really put England back on the map. But the movies and a few books have opened France for tours like mine.”
He leaned over his empty plate. “You can be a part of it, Lucy. Remember all the books I sent you that take place there? The Three Musketeers, The Count of Monte Cristo, The Scarlet Pimpernel, even some of Dickens . . . You could come back at Christmas and lead tours with us. With your help, we could add more. Willa can’t lead them, but we two could and she could handle logistics.”
Lucy weighed her next words. “I don’t get a lot of time off work, Dad. Maybe I could squeeze in a few weeks next summer. You’ll be back here?”
Anthony’s eyes drifted to the ceiling as he became lost in thought. “Willa wants to head to Italy after France, but that’ll take a couple years. You can’t rush it. It takes time to curate contacts and a proper clientele, and I’m too old to rush.” He took a sip of wine and swallowed and sighed as if restored by a good vintage and better plots. “That’s another reason I’m glad you found me. As you get older, Lucy, you learn that family matters. It’s good you’re here.”
“Dad, I need a little clarity. Are you asking me to join you here or in France? Because I thought you had tours booked here in England. Isn’t that what you set up today? A tour to Bath for next summer?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say . . .” Her dad held out his palm—the embodiment of openness and clarity.
Lucy resisted the urge to grab it and roll his knuckles as Willa had hers that morning. Instead, she forced her voice into a melodic and conversational tone. “Or should I plan on finding you in France?”
“We do plan to leave here . . .” He shifted his gaze from one table to another. “We don’t need to talk about this now. All the details will sort themselves soon. We can talk more at breakfast tomorrow.”
Lucy scooted her chair back a few inches. She leaned back as well, as if distance would allow the pinpoints of the picture to blur together and create a cohesive whole.
Her dad surveyed the room and she realized she had only one question. “I need your advice, Dad.” She waited until his eyes, so like her own, drifted from the tables, tours, plans and scams, France and Italy, and sharpened in their focus on her. “If you decided that France wasn’t for you and that you wanted to stay here and grow roots, what would you do? In other words, what would you do if you found home and never wanted to move again?”
Lucy had to give her father credit. In that moment, he didn’t look left, he didn’t look right, and he didn’t prevaricate. He stared her straight in the eye and whispered, “You never violate home. If you want to stay, you must do everything on the up-and-up and always keep it that way.”
Lucy nodded, grasping the many layers of meaning. He was subtle. His answer reached back twenty years, thirty years, maybe even two generations, and it was clear. She quirked a small smile. Helen had been right after all—on all counts: every gothic story needed a good fire to warm the shadows and cast light on the secrets; she could enjoy this trip because that’s what it was now, only a trip with nothing more required from it; Emily Brontë was wrong; and, finally, there was most definitely a bend in her road.
Lucy sighed, feeling restored herself, as the strings that had pulled for so long cut free. “So, Dad, tell me how you and Willa met.”
Off he went in one direction, allowing Lucy’s thoughts to travel an entirely different path.
Chapter 31
Lucy ran her hands across the wooden desk. It was a lovely little piece. Early twentieth century, beaten, but well repaired and lovingly polished. The wood felt like velvet. She’d miss this—bumping into history at every turn. Sid’s gallery held it, but its essence was more refined, polished, and erudite. There was something earthy and elemental about living with and knocking into objects every day that were one hundred, two hundred, even three hundred years old. She thought of that sweater she’d shrunk, and she committed to salvaging it in some way, even if it became a square in a new creation.
She laid down her pen and reread the letter.
Dear Dad,
I’m so glad I found you. Twenty years is a long time to wait, a long time to wonder. There is so much of myself I see in you and I don’t know that I’ll ever look in the mirror again and not remember your right eyebrow, matching my own, your green eyes, or the way both our left eyes crinkle shut when we smile. I’ve noticed that about myself in pictures and now I know I’ve inherited the “disappearing eye” from you.
There are other things, perhaps, I get from you too: an insatiable love for story and history and an ability to become so absorbed that I miss appointments, schedules, and sometimes, reality. Those last issues may be mine alone, but your Birthday Books certainly fostered such distraction with so many wonderfully rich tales. Thank you for that connection and for encouraging a love for reading and learning. I hope, after this letter, you will not stop sending me a book each year.
I need to go now. And while perhaps I should give you the respect of speaking to you directly, I also feel I need to protect myself and you from hasty words or judgments. I heard you last night and understand your path and plans. And I thank you for your clarity in answering my q
uestion. I will be forever grateful for that moment, perhaps our only moment, of pure honesty. I agree, home must always be protected. Unlike you, I have found my home. But contrary to your advice, I’ve made mistakes. Everything has not been on the “up-and-up.”
Now I must return and make things right, protect the people I love, and redeem my mistakes. I want to be more than I am right now. In my imagination, I linked our stories, our lives, and our salvation. If you were thriving and doing well, then so could I. But my journey is my own and I’m responsible for the consequences. I can’t use you as a scapegoat or a savior.
I may not search for you again, Dad. In many ways, I feel I caused you more concern than joy. Be safe and be well. And if ever you don’t feel that the stories truly speak to your soul and provide the “transcendent” experience you crave—or if you get to the place where you don’t need them “to pay”—come find me. I’m beginning to suspect true wholeness lies somewhere else entirely.
All my love,
Lucy
Lucy reached for the envelope the hotel’s receptionist had given her. She folded the letter into thirds, slid it inside the envelope, and licked the seal. She carefully wrote “Anthony Montrose” on the outside and slid it into the outside pocket of her handbag. She grabbed her suitcase, gave the room a last good-bye, and pulled the door shut behind her.
Upon reaching the cramped alcove, which served as the inn’s lobby, she handed the letter to a man pushing a vacuum. “An Anthony Montrose is planning to meet me here for breakfast. He’s about fifty with short black hair, graying on the sides, about my height, and he’s got green eyes. He may be here already, waiting in your pub.” She gestured across the room. “Could you find him and give him this? Or give it to him when he arrives?”
He widened his eyes as she handed the letter to him, but made no comment. Instead he headed to the pub’s door. Lucy reached out. “No. Wait. Please give me ten minutes before you look.”
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 78
