by Leslie Meier
“It’s the opportunity of a lifetime,” said Pam with a sigh. “Imagine staying in a stately home and hanging out with nobility.”
“A change of scene can have a positive impact on the psyche,” said Rachel. “New places, new people, new ideas—they can be very stimulating. However,” she added, in a warning tone, “the effect can be quite short-lived. For real change, I still think Lucy needs to talk to a qualified therapist.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” snapped Sue. “There’s nothing the matter with Lucy that a cream tea and a breath of spring won’t cure. You know spring comes earlier in England than it does here. Remember the daffodils?”
Lucy took the last bite of her marmalade-covered toast and thought of the hundreds, maybe thousands, of naturalized daffodils with their nodding blooms she’d seen overrunning acres and acres of woodland at Hampton Court. “I’ll go,” she said, surprising her friends and even herself as the words flew out of her mouth, apparently of their own accord.
But that wasn’t really true; deep down, she knew she’d been looking for something that would help her break out of this depression. She was ashamed that she was unhappy, even miserable, and she didn’t want to go on like this. It wasn’t fair to the kids who’d grown up hearing her repeat her mother’s favorite adage that “you can find sympathy in the dictionary” all too often. Whenever she’d suspected they were feeling sorry for themselves, she had advised them to count their blessings, and though she’d tried to follow her own advice, it hadn’t worked. Even worse, she felt that it wasn’t fair to Bill to have a mopey wife who neglected him. But most of all, it wasn’t fair to herself. This was her one life. It wasn’t a dress rehearsal, it was showtime and she needed to take center stage. Maybe a trip, a change of scene, was just what she needed to perk herself up. “When do we leave?” she asked.
Chapter Two
“The show opens May eighth, but Perry wants us to have a nice visit, so he suggests we come a week or two before,” said Sue as Norine stopped by their table to present their checks.
“Bluebells might be in bloom then,” said Lucy, who remembered seeing a photograph of an English bluebell walk in a travel magazine she’d read in the dentist’s waiting room. The photo showed a woodland where the ground was covered in a gorgeous carpet of blue blooms.
“Jo Malone’s Bluebell was Princess Diana’s favorite scent.” Sue was an avid magazine reader and knew about such things.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful to smell bluebells,” said Lucy, checking the tab and putting down a five dollar bill.
“Maybe we will.” Sue stood up and was buttoning the luxurious shearling coat Sid had given her for Christmas.
“I’m sure there’ll be bluebells,” said Pam, digging into her enormous African basket purse in search of her wallet. “Be sure to take a photo and send it to us.”
“We’ll want to hear all about it,” said Rachel, wrapping her plum-colored pashmina scarf around her neck.
“Do you think you’ll meet royalty?” asked Pam as they made their way through the café to the door. “Maybe Perry is friends with Prince Charles or somebody.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Lucy. Assailed by second thoughts, she stopped at the door. “I wouldn’t know what to do!”
“I think you curtsey,” said Pam, opening the door.
“I know you’re not supposed to touch royalty unless they touch you first,” said Rachel as they gathered in a little circle on the sidewalk. “Some basketball player got in trouble for hugging Princess Kate, didn’t he? In Brooklyn.”
“What was Princess Kate doing in Brooklyn?” asked Pam.
“Hanging out with Beyoncé and JayZ,” said Rachel. “I read it in the New York Times.”
“Face it. They’re the closest thing we Americans have to royalty,” said Sue, adding a wistful sigh. “We’re hardly in that category so I doubt very much that we’ll be meeting any royals, but what if we do?” She smoothed her brown leather gloves. “They’re just people and I’m sure our natural good manners will see us through. After all, we’re Americans. We’re not subjects and we don’t have to bow and scrape and tug our forelocks. That was the whole point of that little revolution we had in 1776.”
“I don’t know,” said Lucy as dark clouds of doubt started to build in her mind. “What if they dress for dinner like at Downton Abbey, and there’s all those forks and knives and snooty footmen who sneer when you pick up the wrong utensil?” She shivered and stuffed her gloved hands into her pockets.
“Downton Abbey is a TV show and it all takes place a long time ago. They’re in the roaring twenties now, which is almost a hundred years ago. The women are all wearing those awful chemises and ugly cloches, which I don’t think flatter anybody,” declared Sue, flipping up her fuzzy collar. “I think we can assume that a lot has changed since then.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure, if I were you,” cautioned Rachel, fingering her car keys. “If Perry has this big ancestral house, you have to assume he’s rather well-off. I don’t think they’re going to be living like we do. You know, clipping detergent coupons and taking out the garbage.”
Lucy knew she hadn’t even had the energy to clip a coupon or take out the garbage lately.
“It’s probably more like Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous than Downton Abbey,” said Pam, adjusting her hand-knit mittens and hoisting her bag over her shoulder. “I’ve got to run. I’ve got to teach a yoga class.” Turning and hurrying off down the street, she passed the neat row of storefronts. “See you next week!” she called over her shoulder.
Rich and famous certainly didn’t describe her lifestyle, thought Lucy, giving Pam a little wave and stamping her feet. She’d unthinkingly put on running shoes instead of winter boots, and her feet were beginning to freeze. “I don’t know what to pack.” She hated packing—all the worry about whether toothpaste could go in a carry-on bag or had to be carried separately in a clear baggie. She was sure she’d feel completely out of place in a stately home and thought it might be better to skip the trip altogether.
“I’m going to pack like I always do,” said Sue, who prided herself on having the appropriate outfit for every occasion. “Mostly casual sportswear, comfortable shoes suitable for sightseeing, and one evening outfit. I have that long black skirt that I can dress up with a lacy top or a tuxedo shirt.”
“I’ll help you pack. I’ve got a TSA pamphlet at home,” offered Rachel, sensing Lucy’s hesitation and giving her a reassuring hug. “See you next Thursday, if not before.” She tossed Sue a quick air kiss before crossing the sidewalk to her car and driving off.
“You’ve got those nice black pants. They will certainly do in candlelight,” said Sue as they walked down the street. “Especially if you wear heels and something a little sparkly.” They stopped by Sue’s parked SUV, where she hesitated, then ventured a little joke. “And when I say sparkly, I don’t mean your Christmas sweatshirt with the rhinestones and sequins.”
At first, Lucy felt stung by the comment, but seeing Sue’s suppressed smile she realized her friend was teasing her. “Darn! You must have read my mind,” replied Lucy, revealing the first flash of humor her friend had seen in a long time.
“I think this trip is a good idea,” said Sue, beaming at her and giving her a parting embrace before climbing into the enormous Navigator. Settling herself behind the steering wheel, she lowered the window. “And don’t forget to bring your good jewelry,” she advised, before shifting into DRIVE and zooming off.
* * *
Seven weeks later, Lucy found herself following Sue in a straggling procession of freshly disembarked British Air passengers who were making their way through a maze of stainless steel and glass corridors at Heathrow, hoping eventually to reach Immigration and be admitted to the United Kingdom. As Sue had advised, she’d carefully packed a small leatherette case containing her good jewelry—a modest diamond and platinum lavaliere she’d inherited from her grandmother and a pair of cultured pearl earrings that Bill had given her—in he
r purse. She had disregarded the rest of Sue’s advice, however, and had neglected to pack anything dressy in the carry-on sized roller suitcase she was towing behind herself. There hadn’t been room after she’d thrown together a pile of comfortable jeans and favorite sweaters, plus a couple of guide books and a mystery novel or two.
Finally reaching the glass booths inhabited by immigration officers, Lucy patiently waited her turn, grateful for the rest from the rushed march through the terminal. She watched with amusement as Sue flirted with the rather good-looking young fellow who was smiling as he examined her passport. Sue could never resist a man in uniform.
Getting the nod from a rather less attractive officer whose neck rolls spilled over his tight collar, Lucy stepped forward and presented her passport along with the little slip of paper she’d been told to fill out on the airplane. It provided the details of her visit in England, including lodgings.
“Moreton Manor, eh?” he said, scowling at the paper. “Is that a hotel?”
“It’s a house,” said Lucy, smiling in what she hoped was a friendly manner.
“And what’s your business there?” he demanded, fixing his rather small, pale blue eyes on her.
“I’m a houseguest,” said Lucy.
“And who is your host?” he asked, turning to his computer screen.
“The Earl of Wickham,” said Lucy, somehow feeling this wasn’t going to work in her favor.
“And how exactly do you happen to know the earl?” The officer seemed to have developed a rather strong Cockney accent and was studying her bright pink all-weather jacket with some skepticism.
“My friend”—she nodded toward Sue, who was waiting for her beyond the barrier—“met the earl at a hat exhibit a few years ago. They both collect hats, you see, and there’s going to be a show of the earl’s hats at Moreton Manor. He invited Sue and her husband, but Sid didn’t want to go, so I got invited.” Lucy paused. “I’ve been a bit down in the dumps lately and everyone thought the trip would do me good.”
The officer took a long look at her passport, then folded it closed and handed it to her. “I’m sure it will, luv, and be sure to give my regards to his lordship.”
“Oh, I will,” said Lucy, suspecting he was being rather sarcastic but not quite willing to risk joking with a person in authority.
“What was that all about?” asked Sue when Lucy finally joined her. “They couldn’t have thought you were a terrorist or a smuggler, though that jacket does look like something a desperate refugee might wear.”
“I like this jacket. It’s bright and cheerful,” said Lucy. “I saw someone wearing one just like it on the British version of Antiques Roadshow. I’ve been watching a lot of PBS, boning up for the trip.” She nodded. “And I got it for practically nothing in a thrift shop.”
“Why am I not surprised,” said Sue with a resigned sigh. “We don’t have anything to declare so we can skip customs, but we have to get the bag of hats. It’s on to the baggage claim.”
After collecting Sue’s big roller case that contained her hats, they proceeded to the ARRIVALS hall, toting all the bags on a wheeled trolley. There, they joined a small group of travelers studying a large yellow sign with arrows pointing to various transport options.
“We’re supposed to catch a bus to Oxford,” said Sue, checking her smartphone for the instructions Perry had sent.
“That way,” Lucy said, pointing in the direction indicated by the sign.
“It’s still quite early in the morning. Do you want to stop for a coffee or something? I couldn’t drink that stuff on the plane.”
“Sounds good.” Lucy could never sleep on a plane and was feeling even more tired than usual. “I need something to perk me up.”
The two perched on stools at a little snack bar and ordered extra-large coffees. After a few reviving sips, Sue again consulted her smartphone. “The busses to Oxford run quite frequently. We can catch one in an hour.”
“You’ve got the schedule?” asked Lucy, somewhat amazed.
“Perry sent it. And once we’re on board, I’m supposed to call and he’s going to have someone meet us.”
“In a limo?” asked Lucy. “A Bentley or a Rolls Royce?”
Sue licked her lips and smiled. “I imagine so. Don’t you?”
* * *
When the bus rolled into the Gloucester Green bus station in Oxford, a fortyish man in a dark green Barbour barn coat, green Wellies, and a tweed cap stepped forward and greeted them. “Mrs. Finch and Mrs. Stone?” he asked, tipping his hat.
“That’s us,” replied Sue with a big smile. “But I’m Sue and this is Lucy.”
“Harold Quimby,” he said, introducing himself. “Pleased to meet you ladies. Now if you’ll just come this way . . .” He deftly relieved them of the giant bag and led the way past the busses’ docking station to the parking lot where he stopped beside a huge and very muddy, very aged Land Rover. He opened the rear hatch and stowed their bags amid a collection of umbrellas, boots, blankets, flashlights, and assorted tools, including a small hatchet. “I hope you don’t mind a few stops.”
Lucy was doing her best to restrain a case of the giggles and not succeeding, despite a stern glance from Sue.
“Is it a long drive to the manor?” asked Sue.
“Not at all.” Harold opened the rear door for them and removed a wire dog crate from the backseat. “I bet you were expecting a fancy car, weren’t you?” he asked with an amused smile.
“We were,” admitted Lucy.
“The Bentley’s in the shop. Besides, I had to come this way anyway, so I said I’d meet you at the station.”
“We’re really very grateful,” said Sue, climbing into the backseat and sliding over to make room for Lucy.
“We certainly are,” agreed Lucy, joining her.
“I’ll have you at the manor in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” promised Harold, shutting the door. He went around to the rear of the car where he collapsed the crate and added it to the jumble in the rear, then slammed the hatch and hopped into the driver’s seat on the wrong side of the car.
“It seems odd to have you sitting there on the right,” said Lucy.
“I tried driving in the States once,” said Harold, “and I kept slipping into the wrong lane. I even went around a roundabout the wrong way.”
“Then I’m glad we’re here, where you’re used to the roads,” said Sue.
“Aye, I could drive around here with my eyes closed,” he said, turning to give them a wink. “But for your sake I won’t.”
Leaning back in the comfortable seat, Lucy gazed curiously out the window, watching as the densely packed, narrow streets of the old university town gave way to wider, more spacious modern roadways, dotted here and there with gas stations and shopping malls. Those eventually disappeared and they were in the countryside. Hedges lined the road, occasionally revealing thatched cottages and fields where sheep often grazed.
Reaching a small village where a pub and a few stores clustered together, Harold turned into a fenced yard filled with sheds, dog houses, mowers, and tractors. A sign on a large stone building announced in gold letters on a black ground that this establishment was GALBRAITH AND SONS, LTD. Beneath it, a smaller sign bore the words FARM STORE.
Harold hopped out and was greeted by a stout man wearing an apron, who clapped him on the back and led him inside. Lucy and Sue waited in the Land Rover. A couple of young assistants, also in aprons, barely acknowledged them as they began loading various and sundry products into the car. First, several bags of smelly fertilizer were tucked in next to Sue’s suitcases. An enormous bag of chicken feed was arranged on top of Lucy’s suitcase, and a huge bale of wood shavings wrapped in plastic was added to the pile. The final items were two boxes of adorable fuzzy yellow, chirping chicks, which Lucy and Sue were requested to hold in their laps.
“Everybody comfortable?” asked Harold, taking his seat behind the wheel.
“We’re okay,” said Lucy, uncomfortably aware
of the bale of wood chips right behind her head.
“I meant the chicks,” said Harold.
Sue lifted a flap, peered into the box, and studied the tiny balls of yellow fluff. “They seem to be all right,” she said somewhat skeptically. “They’ve kind of hunkered down. I think they’re sleeping.”
“That’s good,” said Harold as the Land Rover lurched forward and crossed the yard to the gate. He suddenly slammed on the brakes when confronted with a delivery truck attempting to enter. The bale of wood chips slid forward, knocking Lucy in the head before bursting open and showering them all. The jolt wakened the chicks, who were all peeping frantically.
“The chicks!” exclaimed Harold, backing up to let the truck enter.
Lucy and Sue checked, discovering no harm had been done to the baby birds, who were flapping their tiny little winglets and settling themselves.
“They’re fine,” said Sue.
Lucy was tilting her head from side to side, stretching her neck to check for whiplash.
“No harm done, then,” said Harold, shifting into drive and exiting through the gateway.
Lucy and Sue were still picking wood chips out of their hair when he turned through a pair of massive stone piers, each topped with a carved stone lion.
“Moreton Manor,” announced Harold as they proceeded along a drive lined with leafy trees.
In the rather long grass beneath the trees, Lucy noticed dots of blue flowers. “Are those bluebells?”
“Indeed they are,” said Harold. “Moreton is famous for its bluebells. People come from miles around.”
“I can’t wait to see them,” said Lucy.
The Land Rover suddenly swerved round a bend, continued past a circular lawn with a fountain, and came to a halt in front of a massive stone building. “Welcome to Moreton,” said Harold, hopping out.
Lucy gazed at the enormous stately home, which loomed high above them like a castle from a fairy tale. Dotted with ferocious gargoyles, the stone walls were punctuated with numerous arched and many-paned windows, including an ornate conservatory. In the morning sunlight, the stone walls took on a golden glow. The steep slate roof was topped with several pointed towers, each ending in a massive spike that threatened to pierce the clouds.
