Romance By The Book

by Jo Victor

  “So they tell me. Starlight, moonbeams, blah-blah-blah. And with the wrong person, it can be hell. Just ask my mom. Actually, you won’t need to ask. She’ll be happy to fill you in without any prompting.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Yeah. It’s not like I’ve completely given up hope or anything, but it’s not something I spend a lot of time worrying about. I’d rather just get on with my life. I’m happy enough.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Tell you what—I’ll make you a deal. You stop beating yourself up over Rosamund, and I’ll try to do something about my romantic ineptitude.”

  There was a brief lull in the conversation, and Alex’s mind wandered, recalling a few of her more disastrous dates. For some reason that made her think of Cam.

  “You know, you never did finish telling me how you and Cam got to be friends.”

  “Not much more to tell, really. I got over my crush, she went off to London, and I went to university. Then when I got the job with the Foundation and came back to Bramfell, here she was. She had moved back to the village to take care of her mother, and after her mum died, Cam stayed on.”

  “Yes, she told me about that.”

  “Did she? That’s odd. Usually she won’t talk about it at all. At any rate, I’d see her round the village, and we’d have chats over coffee and so forth. Mum’s always having her over for dinner, as well. I think she’s secretly hoping the two of us will make a go of it.”

  “Your mother is trying to set the two of you up? That must be kind of weird.”

  “It is, a bit. But that’s just Mum. She wants me to settle down with someone. She’s been keen on that for all of us since Richard—that’s my oldest brother—got married. Keeps telling me I should find a nice girl so I can start giving her grandchildren instead of wasting my best years behind a desk.”

  “Fortunately, I don’t get that routine from my mother. Maybe it’s because she’s a professor herself, so she understands what it’s like. It’s not that I like doing research, or want to do it—I have to do it. I have to find out things and answer all those questions that keep coming up. It’s like they’re haunting me—worse than Grace when she wants some love.”

  “What does your mother teach?”

  “History. So like I said, she really gets it about my work. But mostly she’s in no hurry to see me pair up because my dad was such as asshole. She keeps telling me not to make the same mistakes she did. As if I need to be reminded, after seeing what she went through.” She looked at her watch. “I think it’s time I headed home.”

  “Me as well. Thanks for the coffee. My shout next time. Tuesday?”

  “Works for me. I’ll meet you here.”

  All the way home, Alex replayed the conversation in her mind. Given Cam’s apparent lack of interest in pursuing her, not to mention whatever lay behind Nicola’s cryptic comment about Cam’s inability to find happiness for herself, it didn’t look much like her streak of romantic bad luck was in any danger of ending. So much the better. She’d have nothing to distract her from her work. Which was, of course, a good thing.

  Chapter Nine

  One morning Alex came downstairs to find Mrs. Tate in the midst of baking bread. That was definitely unusual, since bread was one of the very few foods she didn’t insist on making herself. It was clear that Mrs. Tate must have started her work at an absolutely ungodly hour, because she was now in the midst of cutting, rolling, and shaping the dough into loaves of various designs, getting ready for the final rising before they went into the oven.

  Alex was so surprised that she asked Mrs. Tate if she wanted some help without pausing first to consider whether the offer might be viewed as disrespectful. Fortunately Mrs. Tate took in it in the spirit in which it was intended.

  “Thank you, Alexandra. Before you wash your hands, could you please check the back door? I could have sworn I shut it properly but I can feel a draft. The last thing I want is to have that animal underfoot or worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “Waving her tail in my face, leaving paw prints in my dough.”

  “You’re right, it was ajar. Well, it’s closed tight now. Does she really do that?”

  “She would if ever I gave her half a chance. Always up to mischief, is our Miss Grace.”

  “Would you like me to do the dishes, Mrs. Tate?”

  “I should say not. What I’d like you to do is come help me with this loaf. It’s a four-strand braid and it really needs an extra set of hands to do it properly.”

  Alex spent a delightful half an hour or so assisting Mrs. Tate. By the time they were down to the last of the dough, the number and variety of loaves was a little overwhelming.

  Mrs. Tate gestured toward the remaining bits and scraps. “The last one is for you, Alexandra.”

  “For me?”

  “You must gather and shape it by yourself. It’s the Maid’s Loaf.”

  “Maid as in housemaid?”

  “And why would I be having you do it if that were so? You don’t celebrate Lammas in the States, do you?”

  “That’s a harvest festival, right?”

  Mrs. Tate nodded, seeming pleased to find that she was possessed of at least that much information.

  “No, we don’t. I guess Thanksgiving would be the closest, although when you think about it as a harvest festival, it seems silly to have it in November when the crops have already been in for months. I do remember my grandparents talking about Ferragosto and the fireworks they used to have when they were kids back in Italy. That’s a harvest festival, too.”

  She looked around at all the loaves, covered in tea towels and waiting to be baked. “Oh! That’s why you’re making all the bread. Now I remember—my friend Fiona told me once about Lunastal in Scotland— I suppose it’s the same holiday—and how you take bread to church to be blessed. Are you going to take all this to church on Sunday?”

  “And why would I be baking on a Friday for that? All this will be fit to pound nails with by Sunday.”

  Alex doubted the strict truth of that statement, but Mrs. Tate did have a point.

  “Besides, we don’t take Lammas loaf to church in Bramfell. Had a vicar once with odd notions—new to the village, of course. Family had only been here, what, fifty years? Proud of his book learning, that one, but not so much good sense that he could afford to spare any.”

  Ouch. That one hit a little too close to home, although she doubted Mrs. Tate meant for her to take it personally.

  “So what does he do but decide that Lammas loaf is too pagan for Sunday worship and not to be brought into church for blessing anymore, the way it had been since time out of mind. Pagan!”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, folk just moved the blessing to the party instead, as you’ll see tonight. I’m not sure what else went on—I was only a bit of a thing at the time—but I do know that by May Day, we had a new vicar, and he led the maypole dancing himself. Somehow, though, we never changed the loaf blessing back.”

  One word registered. “Party?” Oh, dear.

  “Dancing at the village hall starts at sunset, right after the blessing.” Her tone made it sound more like an assignment than an invitation.

  “I wouldn’t want to intrude. Parties aren’t really my thing anyway.” And that’s the understatement of the year.

  “Nonsense. The whole village attends, including the Brockenbridge Scholar. It’s tradition.” She looked Alex right in the eye, and any hope of avoiding her fate disappeared. “It’s expected.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Tate.”

  She looked Alex up and down. “Don’t own a dress, do you?” Alex shook her head. “Sometimes I despair of the younger generation. It’s not nearly so much fun dancing in trousers, plus there’s nothing to catch a lad’s interest like the odd glimpse of paradise whilst you’re twirling about. You might not think it to look at me now, but I did quite well with the lads in my time.”

  “No, Mrs. Tate. I mean, yes, Mrs. Tate.”

 
; “Well, what can’t be cured…Wear that blue blouse of yours, the one that’s a match for your eyes.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Tate.”

  She cocked her head to one side, considering. “And put your hair up. Have you got some earrings, at least?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Tate.”

  “Good. No makeup, though. Skin like yours shouldn’t be mucked up with that rubbish.”

  “No, Mrs. Tate.”

  “Now let’s get on with the Maid’s Loaf. Haven’t done one of these in years—not since Lucy’s youngest got married.”

  “What exactly is a Maid’s Loaf?”

  “Making it is a task that falls to the eldest single woman in the house, until she marries, and then it passes to the next.”

  “Oh, of course—single, maiden. What is it I’m supposed to do?”

  “It’s always made with the last of the dough. You gather up all the leftover scraps—be sure to get every last bit—and make a ball. Form that into a loaf and say the rhyme that goes with it. Say it three times.”

  “Third time’s the charm?”

  “Yes, exactly.” She didn’t sound like she was joking.

  “Okay. Sounds easy enough. What do I say?”

  Mrs. Tate cleared her throat and chanted in a sing-song rhythm:

  “If you seek a true love you can find them.

  Gather up the fragments and combine them.

  Think about your true love as you shape it.

  Share it with your true love when you’ve baked it.”

  “What is that? It sounds like a spell.”

  “Of course it’s a spell. What would be the point, otherwise?”

  “Oh. As you say, what would be the point? And what is the spell supposed to do, exactly?”

  “Get you a husband, what else? Hopefully by May Day. That’s what the Maid’s Loaf is for. You just need to be sure all the lads in the village have a taste of it before sunrise—or if you’ve someone particular in mind, you offer it only to them. The right lad’ll want more than just a taste, if you catch my drift.”

  “But the thing is, I’m not exactly in the market for a husband.”

  “Don’t be silly, Alexandra. The rhyme says true love. There’s no reason you actually have to marry them. Not that we ever point that out to the menfolk, mind.”

  “Yes, I see, but regardless, I’m not…I don’t want…”

  “You young people can be so squeamish, it’s a wonder you ever manage to have sex at all. How can you expect to get what you want if you can’t even say it out loud?”

  Alex opened and closed her mouth a couple of times without managing to get any sound to come out.

  “Really, Alexandra, if it’s a woman you want, then that’s what you focus on as you make the loaf. I should have thought a girl as smart as you could work that out for herself.”

  Alex managed to croak out, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tate.”

  “It’s not as if you’re the first lesbian on earth, Alexandra. Not by a long chalk—and not in the village, either, nor even in this house. Which you, being the Scholar, should know better than anybody. Well, don’t just stand there looking like you’ve swallowed a frog—the loaf isn’t going to make itself, is it?”

  “No, Mrs. Tate.”

  The rest of the morning was something of a blur. Making the Maid’s Loaf in strict accordance with instructions, helping to get all the loaves in and out of the oven, and finally, retreating to the study after a belated breakfast to just sit, letting Mrs. Tate’s words run around and around in her head.

  Eventually Grace came to find her. She was unusually calm, perhaps sensing Alex’s mood. The cat leaped gently into her lap, kneading Alex’s belly a few times before settling down, and stayed there, purring contentedly, while Alex absently petted her.

  After lunch, she helped transfer the bread into a car driven by one of Mrs. Tate’s many nephews for transport to the village hall—all except the Maid’s Loaf, which she promised faithfully, despite her misgivings about the entire procedure, to bring along herself, since apparently no one else was supposed to touch it until after the blessing. Finally, she saw Mrs. Tate off to supervise the people setting up for the party, all of whom were doubtless in dire need of her guidance.

  That left seven hours until sunset. Alex decided to take a nap.

  *

  Just before sunset, Alex dutifully made her way to the village hall, attired as instructed and loaf in hand. Based on the number of people assembled in the yard and crowding up and down the street, the entire village had turned out. Most of them were holding baked goods, although it was quite a mixture, with cakes, cookies, and sandwiches in evidence as well as loaves of bread. Apparently the line between Lammas offerings and party refreshments was a fuzzy one, no doubt yet one more sign of the modern decline in standards that Mrs. Tate so deplored.

  Looking around, she saw a few people she knew—shopkeepers, the village librarian, some of the staff from the museum, and of course Mrs. Tate. She was standing at the top of the steps outside the entrance to the hall with a group that appeared to consist of the oldest villagers, all holding loaves, plus the vicar looking very smart and ceremonial in her vestments embroidered in golden yellow, flame orange, and mahogany.

  Alex spotted Nicola on the opposite side of the crowd and beside her a head of familiar-looking golden-brown hair. She couldn’t see Cam’s face, but she knew it was her. Alex’s stomach gave a little flip. She waved but they didn’t acknowledge her, apparently too immersed in conversation to notice.

  Her attention was claimed by the vicar’s call for quiet. The ceremony that followed was brief, co-led by the vicar and one of the elders, probably the oldest person in the village judging strictly by her appearance. The old woman’s voice was steady, though, as she led the crowd in a call and response chant that Alex couldn’t understand a word of it. It might just have been heavy Yorkshire dialect, but it felt like something more—the sort of words that would have been spoken when the weathered carvings up on Bram Tor were sharp and fresh.

  At least the very last line was clear. Everyone raised their offerings high and chorused, “Lammas blessings on the bread, Lammas blessings on our heads,” then repeated it. The third time, Alex joined in. After that, it was over and everyone went inside.

  In the resulting bustle of friendly mingling, instrument tuning, and refreshment organizing, Alex found herself marooned in the midst of the cheerful, chatting crowd. A familiar voice from just behind her made her turn around.

  “There you are! I had you spotted early on, but then you vanished. Lord, what a mob. I swear it’s worse every year.”

  “Hello, Nicola. Don’t you look nice.” And indeed she did, wearing a drapey dress of dark rose that picked up the tone of her lips. No doubt she’d have lots of fun twirling in it and flirting the night away. Speaking of which, where was Cam? Alex tried to look around for her but Nicola reclaimed her attention.

  “You as well. I like your hair that way—it’s quite fetching.”

  “Thanks. I guess I clean up okay. Listen, didn’t I see—”

  “What do we have here?” She took the plate from Alex to examine more closely. “Is this a Maid’s Loaf? Oh, damn!”

  “Mrs. Tate insisted. Shouldn’t I have brought it?”

  “No, no, of course you should have. It’s just that I promised both Mum and Aunty Elspeth I’d make one myself and I clean forgot. The last few days at work have been absolutely mad and I’ve dragged home every night completely shattered. You know how it always is right before a Bank Holiday. I don’t know what it is about a Monday off that suddenly converts everything to a crisis. Oh, well, no sense letting yours go to waste.”

  Nicola helped herself to a tiny piece. “Yummy. Maybe you’ll let me have more than just a taste.” She winked at Alex.

  “Nicola! You don’t seriously mean that.” No way. Talk about kissing your sister.

  She grinned. “So Aunty Elspeth did tell you what it’s really for. I just wanted to be sure. Not to wor
ry—I’ve no designs on your virtue as yet. But the night is still young, so—oomph!”

  The person who had backed into her turned out to be the very apologetic, not-at-all-bad-looking vicar, now in civilian clothes, who dismissed Alex with a pleasant smile before giving Nicola a careful once over, lingering in certain strategic spots. Interesting.

  Nicola seemed oblivious, holding the bread out to her. “No worries, Sarah. Here, taste a bit of this.”

  “It’s quite good—even better than last year’s, I think.”

  Nicola laughed. “Probably because I didn’t make this one. It’s Alex’s.” The vicar stopped in mid-chew, her panicked eyes darting over to Alex. Clearly she knew all about the Maid’s Loaf.

  Alex did her best to pretend she had no idea what was going on, keeping her tone casual. “I’m afraid I can’t take much credit for it either. Mrs. Tate is the one who made the dough. I just baked it.”

  The poor vicar’s face was turning the color of Nicola’s dress. She looked like she wanted to spit out whatever was left in her mouth, and then dig a very deep hole to crawl into. Taking pity on her, Alex murmured something about finding a place to drop off the loaf and moved away, choosing a direction at random.

  Apparently her instincts were pretty good, because the crowd got thinner as she proceeded. She eventually reached a mostly clear area, obviously intended to serve as the dance floor, right in front of the stage where the musicians were setting up. A familiar-looking woman with tawny hair seemed to be doing most of the actual work. Cam was wearing delightfully form-fitting dark trousers and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up enough to showcase a respectable set of muscles. Draped on a chair nearby was the matching jacket and a tie in a dull gold that would probably do wonderful things for her eyes.

  Cam got down off the stage and the musicians began tuning, or possibly rehearsing. By the time Alex reached her, Cam had her jacket back on and was starting on her tie. Any apprehensions about Cam avoiding her on purpose disappeared when Alex saw the welcoming smile that burst out the moment Cam spotted her.