Romance By The Book

by Jo Victor

  Shuddering, Alex wasted a moment speculating about the chain of circumstances that had brought the thing to Yorkshire before looking hopefully around for some sign of a bus, taxi, or just about anything else with wheels that she could borrow, rent or steal. Unfortunately, her surroundings did not reveal any alternative form of transportation lurking helpfully nearby. Apparently, it was this van or nothing.

  “May I ask just who the h—who you are, and why you’ve made off with my luggage?”

  Cam flicked a casual thumb at the side of the van. “Cam Carter.” A pause. “As you can see.” Another pause, and a hint of a grin. Clearly she was enjoying this. Alex declined to play along, simply waiting her out.

  It took longer than it should have for Cam to give in. When she finally did, her voice gave no hint of annoyance. If anything, she seemed amused to have been bested. “Foundation folk asked me to meet your train, seeing as I was going to be out this way.”

  Alex was surprised, and not just by the Foundation’s choice of emissary. She’d provided them with her itinerary as a matter of courtesy, not because she expected chauffeur service. Which under the circumstances she would have happily dispensed with.

  “But how could you be sure who I—” Realizing too late the opening she’d provided, she waited for the riposte, which was not long in coming.

  “Can’t say as I noticed anyone but you getting off that train.”

  Touché. Alex smiled ruefully and nodded in acknowledgment of the hit. But Cam wasn’t quite finished.

  “And an American, headed for Bramfell to boot. Hardly likely to be legions of you wandering about.”

  Well, at least she hadn’t called her Yank.

  Wordlessly, Alex handed over her backpack. Cam put it inside and went around to the left side of the van and opened the door, raising one sardonic eyebrow. Alex stalked over and got in. She reached for the shoulder belt but couldn’t find the end of it. Probably it didn’t get much use—she doubted many people would be willing to risk life and limb being ferried around in this thing—and she couldn’t be bothered with the contortions that would be required to excavate and untangle the belt. It probably wouldn’t make any difference anyway. Even a fender-bender would doubtless crush this thing like a cartoon tin can.

  Cam closed the door with brisk efficiency before taking her place at the wheel and buckling up.

  After a moment, she looked over at Alex. “Seat belt, please.”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  Cam didn’t respond. She just sat there. Waiting. The eyebrow was again in evidence.

  Clearly, the wretched woman wasn’t going to start the vehicle until she complied.

  “Oh, all right!” Alex fumbled around unsuccessfully in the gap between the seat and the door for a few minutes before getting out of the van to dig out the belt, which had somehow managed to lodge itself behind the seat. Climbing in again and closing the door very firmly—for safety, naturally—she clicked the belt sharply into place. She sincerely hoped the trip was going to be a short one.

  Cam favored Alex with a smile that someone else would no doubt have found charming. “Where to, then?”

  “Bramfell. Please.”

  “Aye, lass, but where in Bramfell? Dawson House or Highgate Hall?”

  “Dawson House. And my name isn’t lass.”

  Another smile. “What is it, then?”

  “It’s Alex.” With difficulty she suppressed the urge to add, but it’s Ms. Petrocelli to you.

  “All right then, Alex, Dawson House it is.”

  In operation, the van did not quite measure up, or rather down, to its appearance. And regardless of the state of the vehicle, Cam’s driving, at least, seemed to be top notch. Satisfied that she appeared to be in no immediate danger, Alex focused her attention on the scenery, at first deliberately to discourage conversation, but after a while she forgot all about Cam, so enthralled was she by the countryside. The area was truly beautiful in an austere way, with rolling hills sectioned by dry stone walls into fields for sheep or cattle, tiny hamlets that were little more than a scattering of cottages, and larger villages with shops lined up beside the road. In the distance she caught glimpses of open moorland covered in rough vegetation and dotted with craggy stone outcroppings. Once she thought she saw a hawk circling.

  With a start, she realized that quite some time had passed. Cam hadn’t said a single word, yet the silence didn’t feel uncomfortable. In fact, it felt completely natural. That was another first. She was grateful not to be peppered with questions, but she wondered at the woman’s lack of curiosity. On her previous trip to England, most people had seemed fascinated by her being an American, wanting to know what she was doing in England and what she thought of it all.

  Perhaps Cam was angry with her. After all, the woman was doing her a favor, however uncouthly executed, and she hadn’t been exactly polite in return. She snuck a sideways glance at her companion. It was hard to tell from the expression on her face.

  “How much farther is it to Bramfell?”

  “Just ahead.” She certainly didn’t sound angry. Maybe she had other things on her mind, concerns of her own.

  “And here we are.” Cam gestured with one hand, indicating the first of a collection of stone houses coming up on both sides of the road.

  Alex tried to look everywhere at once, devouring the long-anticipated sight of the place where Artemisia had lived, and loved, and died. It didn’t look any different from the other villages they had passed through, except for the names of the shops and pubs, many of which were branded by reference to Artemisia or Lady Melissa, although it was highly unlikely any of these establishments had been around long enough to have enjoyed the custom of either poet or patron. None of them bore the name Anna Thompkins, but that was no surprise. Alex had once tried the name out on a group of her undergraduates, and not a single one of them, English majors all, had recognized Artemisia’s real name. Of course, Alex hadn’t done any better herself when Barbara had tried the same trick with their class—had it really only been seven years ago? It felt like forever.

  A menswear store was named for Mr. Dawson; most people forgot completely about Lady Melissa’s wealthy but non-aristocratic husband, perhaps taking their cue from the lady herself. By all accounts he had been most indulgent, allowing her to lavish time, attention, and money on her young protégée without any apparent qualms. Either he was most unsuspicious—or very open-minded—or there had been nothing for him to be suspicious about. Despite all the whispering about the relationship between the two women, most scholars stuck religiously to the assertion that Artemisia and Lady Melissa had enjoyed an emotionally intense, but physically chaste, connection. Alex was determined to prove them wrong, although she had no idea precisely how.

  Just ahead, the road forked, with signs pointing to Highgate Hall on the right and Dawson House on the left. Soon they had pulled up in front of a set of modest wrought-iron gates entwined with some sort of creeper and adorned, as Ian had promised, with Private Property and No Trespassing signs. A discreet plaque on one of the posts gave the name Dawson House and, in smaller letters, The Artemisia Foundation.

  Cam got out and opened the gates. Alex was a little surprised they weren’t kept locked but decided it was probably just as well since she wasn’t sure what she would have done if they had been. She reached inside her shirt for the precious door key she had worn on a cord around her neck day and night since it had arrived in the mail along with her letter of congratulations. Cam got back in and they drove up the curving gravel path to the house. The angle wasn’t quite right for a good view, and it was hard for Alex to get any sense of the place beyond dark stone walls and enveloping shrubbery.

  They pulled to a stop under a tiny porte cochere. Alex got out without waiting for Cam to help her and stepped up to the large, solid-looking door. She stood there, slowly breathing in the scents of wet earth, wet vegetation, and wet stone, imagining Artemisia standing in the very same spot, over a hundred year
s before. She tried to come up with an appropriate quotation, something suitable for this magical—

  “Do you not have a key, then?”

  Not trusting herself to answer with anything approaching politeness, Alex stiffly unlocked the door. It opened with a satisfyingly old-fashioned creak, and she stepped across the threshold with Cam close behind. Fortunately the Foundation had long since had the place modernized, and once she had located the light switch Alex could see that they were in a small, sparsely furnished foyer with a stone floor and white plaster walls. Several closed doors on either side no doubt gave access to other parts of the house, and ahead on the right a simple wooden staircase led to the upper level.

  Cam shouldered past her and headed for the stairs, carrying both bags, Alex’s backpack slung over one shoulder.

  “Wait a minute…”

  But it was no use. Cam either didn’t hear her or didn’t care. Alex tramped up behind her. Cam stopped just past the top step, so abruptly that Alex almost bumped into her. In the dim light from below she could make out some sort of built-in shelving unit just in front of them displaying a few odds and ends, but the rest of the upper floor was completely dark.

  Cam set down one of the bags long enough to turn a light on, revealing a narrow hall beyond lined with another series of closed doors. With a start, Alex realized that they were probably standing on the very spot where Janet had died. She shuddered.

  Glancing back at her as she picked up the bag, Cam said, “It is a bit chilly. Nice cup of tea’ll fix you right up.”

  Of course—the universal British remedy for any problem, be it physical, emotional, moral, or spiritual, with the possible exception of a severed limb. Yeah, she’d be sure to get right on that. All she ventured out loud, however, was a vague “Mmm.”

  Stepping farther along the hall, Cam asked, “Which room?”

  “You needn’t trouble yourself. Just leave it all right there.”

  “No trouble at all.” She made no move to set down the bags. Defeated, yet again, Alex pointed at random. Cam opened the door she had indicated, then looked back at her. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Suit yourself, then.” She put the bags down just inside the doorway. “Might find it a bit crowded.”

  Looking past Cam’s shoulder, Alex could see that the room she had chosen was the bathroom.

  “Thank you so very much.” Alex stalked downstairs, this time leaving Cam to follow her. She opened the front door, which had apparently closed on its own, and stood waiting as Cam approached.

  If Cam noticed her lack of warmth, it didn’t seem to bother her. If anything, it amused her, given the way she was smiling. “What’s your mobile number?”

  Seriously? This woman was unbelievable. “My phone died right before I left the States and I haven’t had a chance to replace it.” Not only did that sound like the brush off it was meant to be, it had the advantage of being absolutely true. She favored Cam with a sweetly virtuous expression.

  Apparently undaunted, Cam handed over a business card. “Well, no doubt there’s a telephone somewhere about. Ring me if you need a lift or want some help getting settled in.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that.” When hell freezes over.

  The way Cam grinned at her, Alex was sure she’d read her mind. “Till then, Alex.” She tipped an imaginary cap as she stepped outside.

  Alex shoved the door closed behind her and locked it firmly. She heard Cam drive away, listening to be sure she paused to close the gates. The sound of the engine faded into the distance. Good riddance.

  Chapter Three

  Alex took a moment to just breathe. She was actually here. She could hardly believe it. Looking around the entrance hall, she tried to decide what to do first. It was like Christmas morning, only better. She decided to start by investigating the rooms around her.

  Opening doors and turning on lights, she discovered a little sitting room—rather stiff and chilly looking, a tiny powder room squeezed into what had doubtless been the under-the-stairs storage cupboard, something that might once have been a dining room but now seemed to be a sort of archive area, complete with filing cabinets, shelves full of cardboard boxes, and one or two glass-topped cases—all of which would no doubt repay careful investigation, and best of all, a generously proportioned study lined with bookcases.

  The shelves were only about half-full, so there should be plenty of room for her books when they finally arrived. A sleek new computer and what looked like a combination copier/printer waited on a stand beside a large desk that was well stocked with supplies. Even better, nestled into one corner was what could only be a wireless router.

  The room also featured two large windows and—yes!—a telephone. Alex looked at the business card still in her hand and, as she stepped back into the hall, flipped it toward the trash can by the desk, not bothering to check whether her aim was true.

  The last door she tried led to the kitchen, or more accurately, the kitchen complex, which besides the kitchen itself included a laundry room, a well-filled, scrupulously ordered pantry, a scullery—complete with hand pump and stone sink, doubtless original, and even a sort of bed-sitting room, probably for a caretaker or housekeeper. All told, it took up a good half of the lower floor. Clearly, this was the heart of the house.

  The kitchen did have a more-or-less modern stove, refrigerator, and white enamel sink. However, the fireplace itself looked like it hadn’t changed at all since the house was built. It was still adorned with various iron hooks, from one of which hung a cauldron fit to stew up a substantial meal, as well as a roasting spit that looked like it could handle anything up to half a sheep. Ovens were set into the stone surround on either side, and the mantel above held a collection of ceramic serving pieces and a small, plain clock. A gleaming copper kettle, large enough to provide a sink’s worth of hot water, sat on the hearth, and a fire had been laid, ready to light.

  On the wall nearby, just as Ian had said it would be, was an enlargement of the photo he had given her of Janet and the children. Alex imagined that if Janet were somehow able to return to Dawson House, she would feel right at home here.

  Beside the fireplace was a high-backed wooden bench, positioned to block any drafts from the back door—all plain lines and no nonsense, but sporting a grudging concession to modern frailty in the form of a few skimpy cushions. On the floor beside it was a work basket with sewing supplies.

  The room was not over-large, and no inch of space was wasted, but the effect was snug and cozy rather than crowded. In the center of the room a large, heavy wooden table, scarred but well-scrubbed, offered a generous work surface as well as enough eating space for at least half a dozen people. One place was laid, complete with a linen napkin, a stoneware plate, and a teacup—not a mug, but an actual cup and saucer.

  Alex realized that she was hungry and headed upstairs to retrieve the remains of Mrs. Glendale’s provisions, stowed safely in her backpack—if she could only get to it. Naturally, when that Cam woman had so helpfully put all her things in the bathroom, she had put the backpack down farthest from the doorway, so Alex had to haul both suitcases out of the way first. How was it possible that they had managed to get even heavier than the last time she had lifted them? Grumbling, Alex reclaimed the food and went back down to the kitchen.

  A cheerful red kettle sat on the back of the stove, and tea things were handy on the counter nearby. Alex couldn’t resist. She filled the teakettle and put it on to boil, then set about the rest of her preparations. One thing Fiona had insisted on was teaching Alex how to make a proper cup of tea, and she had delighted in the ritual ever since, making sure to rinse the teapot with a little hot water to warm it just before adding the tea leaves. Muttering “Bring pot to kettle, not kettle to pot,” she poured in the briskly boiling water, covering the pot with a cozy before setting it aside to steep. In the refrigerator she even found fresh milk—clearly someone was expecting her, and she was grateful.

 
As she sat enjoying her tea she realized she did feel better, damn it. Shaking her head as if to clear away the last vestiges of Cam’s presence, she turned her thoughts to plans for the rest of the day. No sense in wasting any time. A glance at the clock showed it was far too late for hiking on the moors. Probably the most sensible thing to do after she finished eating would be to unpack, then perhaps investigate the study.

  Leaving the last of Mrs. Glendale’s pastries on the table for breakfast the next morning, she carried her dirty dishes to the sink. They sat there like an affront to the spotless kitchen, but she couldn’t bear to deal with them. No harm in leaving them for after breakfast.

  Upstairs, she opened doors on an airing cupboard stocked with enough linens for a small army, a closet full of cleaning things, and several interchangeable-looking bedrooms. The Foundation had assured her that she was free to use anything and everything in the house. Alex assumed that either the furniture was all reproduction or it had been deemed to have no historical merit. Much as she would like to imagine that tangible traces of Artemisia’s occupancy remained in Dawson House, realistically she knew it to be highly unlikely that anything here had actually once been hers. Presumably anything of real value had long since been removed to the museum at Highgate Hall.

  She chose the bedroom closest to the bath, on the side of the house with a view of the moor—or rather, she hoped there would be a view, but when she pulled back the curtains it was already too dark to tell. Suddenly the bed looked very inviting. Maybe if she just lay down for a little while…She sat, pulled off her shoes and socks, and stretched out, not even pulling back the coverlet.

  *

  When she woke, the sun was streaming in and some obnoxious bird was delivering its morning broadcast at full volume, from the sound of it right outside the window. Alex groaned and sat up. She felt hungover and all stiff from sleeping in her clothes. She dragged herself into the bathroom and splashed a little water on her face.