The Traveling Tea Shop

by Belinda Jones

  She gives me a look of suspicion. “Of course. When I was a child.”

  “But not lately?”

  “Nope. I’ve got better things to do with my time now.”

  Ah, if only she could just remember what those better things are . . .

  I wait by the till as she purchases a Scrabble tile bracelet. Bit of a departure from Tiffany’s—little squares of wood branded with black letters. All very eco-chic. Then again, I don’t know what word she is planning to spell out.

  “Shall we go and see how they’re getting on?” I ask as we step back into the leafy sunshine.

  “You go. I’ll wait in the car. With my headphones.”

  Well, at least she’s learning some consideration.

  • • •

  Pamela’s scones look a dream—all warm and buttery and golden. The clotted cream and strawberry jam I prearranged are sitting in china ramekins ready to be dolloped. My stomach yawps in delight. But I am not being offered one of those. (The bulk of the batch has already been assigned to a charitable institute in Newport that offers assistance to anyone affiliated with the sea—fishermen, sailors, former Navy personnel, etc. Arby’s wife used to volunteer there with her church group and so Gracie thought a donation of freshly baked scones would be a nice touch.)

  “Here, try a Johnny Cake.” Gracie hands me a small plate featuring an insipid flattened circle the size of a Scotch pancake.

  The white of the corn makes it look undercooked, rather too much like a splat of lard.

  I take a forkful. Crispy on the outside with a gritty paste of an interior. I can’t quite discern a flavor . . .

  “Try it with a bit of butter.”

  I take another bite. Still nothing.

  “Now with a drizzle of maple syrup. That’s how most folks round here have them.”

  Better, though the dense, sandy texture does take some getting used to.

  “Apparently they are best when there’s leftover bacon grease on the hot plate,” Pamela explains.

  “I see.”

  “We’re having a Johnny Cake Festival here in October with a whole host of varieties,” Paul tells us. “Michael over at The Station House Restaurant is doing smoked salmon and crème fraîche.”

  Goodness! Could Johnny Cakes be the new crêpe? Of course to test this theory I would have to try one with a layer of Nutella, but sadly there’s no time to experiment—my discreet phone alarm (set to the tune of “If I Knew You Were Comin’ I’d Have Baked a Cake”) is already nudging us on our way to Newport . . .

  Chapter 12

  “Is it just me or did everything get that little bit more beautiful?”

  We’ve been driving for about twenty minutes through perfectly idyllic countryside, but now I’m getting the sense that the scenery is shifting up a gear.

  “Ah, this is just a little amuse-bouche,” Gracie shimmers with anticipation. “First we cross the bridge to Jamestown . . .”

  My chest swells with optimism as we elevate over the blue then enter an island of plush green foliage. We slow at the tollbooth ($2 per axle!), then I feel our collective hearts soar as we ascend the oh-so-elegant Newport suspension bridge, seemingly the gateway to heaven—at one point there is nothing ahead of us but a pale-mint arch and the sheerest blue sky.

  Suddenly the ocean below us comes into view and I tumble in love at first sight.

  Sapphire sparkling waters expand out as far as the eye can see. To our left the starched white kerchiefs of sailing boats glance across the water’s surface, curving around the headland, to the right the pointy masts of moored boats cluster around a lush harbor. Ahead, slashing through the waves in an ostentatious fashion, are the sleek yachts of the nouveaux riche. Looking on with suitably regal disdain is none other than the Queen Mary 2. I can almost hear her throaty whistle and feel a silk scarf rippling around my neck.

  “Isn’t it glorious?” Gracie beams as we get a closer look at Newport’s legendary wharf, complete with historic tall ships and low, long rumrunners.

  “It truly is,” I confirm.

  As we transition from the bridge to land, we pass a giant lobster shack (you know you’re in New England when . . . ) and then a cemetery.

  “Arby Poindexter, may he rest in peace.” Gracie crosses herself as we pass.

  “How long has he been gone?” I ask.

  “Just a year or two. Such a shame. But his son has been most helpful with all the bus arrangements. He thinks they should be done with the final modifications by tomorrow.”

  “What kind of modifications have they been working on?”

  “You’ll see,” she twinkles.

  I look to Pamela, who merely shrugs. “God knows what she’s been up to this time.”

  Ravenna, meanwhile, mirrors the stoicism of the Queen Mary 2, appearing utterly unmoved. I wonder what it does to your insides being so disconnected from life? I mean, if you’re holding in all the wonder, the curiosity, the enjoyment—where does it go? Perhaps she’s saving it up for the next Hunger Games movie.

  “This is America’s Cup Avenue,” Gracie announces as we meet with a blaze of white sterns.

  “I see everyone is dressed accordingly!”

  Breton stripes seem to be a kind of uniform here. I have to confess it’s one of my favorite looks: so fresh and sporty, so Brigitte Bardot.

  “Red, white and blue looks good on everyone,” Pamela opines.

  And you just can’t have enough anchor and knotted rope motifs when you’re this close to the water.

  “Look at that T-shirt logo,” Pamela points ahead. “HOLY SHIP!”

  Even Ravenna gives a little snuffle at this one.

  “You better watch your blasphemy now,” Gracie cautions as we pull into a spot outside a large redbrick building. “This is the Seamen’s Church Institute.”

  “Ready to come aboard, Pamela?”

  “Oh no, you go in,” she shrinks back. “We’re just dropping off the scones, aren’t we?”

  “Okay,” I contain my sigh. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  Lugging the teatime donation, I follow the sign welcoming “Mariners & Visitors” and head up the entrance steps, expecting to find assorted sea-ravaged characters grouped at plastic trestle tables. Instead I discover a wood-paneled lobby worthy of Captain Cook. Directly ahead of me is a marble fireplace with a shapely antique grate, above which hangs a lovely old map of Narragansett Bay in warm oranges, yellows and aquas, lit by a brass chandelier. Now that’s a cozy respite after being tossed around the high seas.

  “Hello!” I call into the kitchen. “Anyone home?”

  Nothing.

  I set down my wares on the counter and then curiosity gets the better of me and I find myself tiptoeing up the stairs for a snoop. The first room I enter is the library, entirely stocked with maritime-themed tomes—Courage at Sea, Bligh, Unsinkable. I’m just reaching for Voyages to Paradise when I hear a voice coming from the next room. Perhaps it’s my contact, Deedra?

  “Knock knock!”

  I creak open the door and find myself interrupting some kind of prayer group.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry!” I say backing out and directly into a woman with a white-blonde bob.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes, yes, sorry! I’m Laurie Davis, I was just dropping off the scones for the sailors. And you. And anyone really. They’re downstairs . . .” I trail off.

  She smiles. “Come show me.”

  Her eyes light up as I lift the lid. “They’re really best served warmed and then you cut them down the middle and spread a thick layer of clotted cream and then strawberry jam. There’s a tub of each in the cooler here.”

  “These will be very much appreciated,” she nods. “A nice change from soup! Are you in town for long?”

  “Two nights.”

  “Well, if Miss P
amela does any more baking . . .”

  “As a matter of fact, we have another session tomorrow. I’m sure we could bring over a few extra items, say around three P.M.?”

  “Oh that’s so kind! Thank you! We’ll alert our local groups, have a proper English tea.”

  “Wonderful!”

  I step out feeling like we’re doing a very good deed. Or should that be good Deedra?

  • • •

  “All set?” Gracie is keen to continue in tour mode as she steers us away from the waterfront and up through the center of town. “Now this is really something. I’m going to take you down Bellevue Avenue.” She sighs as we enter a dreamy, sun-dappled utopia.

  “Gorgeous trees,” I murmur, taking in the majesty of the giant oaks, horse chestnuts and voluminously draping weeping beeches.

  “These are the Newport skyscrapers,” Gracie quips. “And this was the summer address for the super-rich of the Gilded Age.”

  And when she says “super-rich,” she’s not kidding. Imagine Britain’s finest stately homes set one after another, just a block apart.

  “This is incredible!” I coo. “I had no idea there were so many mansions here.”

  Of course, some are fancier than the others—one minute you’re looking at an immaculate white colonial clapboard with glossy black shutters and the brightest green lawn, the next a grand Italian palazzo, then a spooky-looking Gothic creation looms into view.

  “Look to your left,” Gracie advises. “You’ll see Rosecliff.”

  “Looks familiar,” Pamela squints at the pretty, snow-white building with its elegant central loggia/ballroom and burbling fountain, positively crying out for a wedding.

  “That’s where they filmed the original Gatsby movie, with Robert Redford. Talk about a golden boy! People used to say Georgie looked like him. I think it was the hair—thick as a rug. More like a dog’s coat, really.”

  “Do people actually live in these places?”

  “For the most part. A number are open to the public. They’re even letting us into a couple, aren’t they Laurie?”

  Before I can reply, Pamela jumps forward in her seat. “Oh, look at this one! Mum, can you stop a minute? There’s nobody behind us.”

  I watch Pamela gawp at the former summer “cottage” of William and Alva Vanderbilt.

  “That’s Marble House,” I tell her. “It’s modeled on the Petit Trianon in Versailles, though of course there’s nothing petit about it—that’s 500,000 cubic feet of Italy’s finest right there.”

  “Wow.”

  Gracie highlights the colossal Corinthian columns of the front portico and admires the circular driveway, brimming with confetti-petalled hydrangeas.

  “Do you like Downton Abbey?” I turn to Ravenna.

  “S’okay.”

  I’ll take that as a yes. “This is where the inspiration for Cora’s character came from—the Dollar Princesses. Consuelo Vanderbilt was one—sent to marry an English duke, trading her family’s fortune for a title. But I’ll tell you all about that tomorrow.”

  Finally I get to announce one of the biggest coups of the trip: “Pamela—this is where you’ll be baking tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “They’re letting us use the mansion kitchens for the afternoon—a little trip back to 1892.”

  “You’re kidding?” She gawps. “Gosh, I’m glad I packed my whites! So what’s the recipe?”

  “Well, for a Marble House I thought a Marble Cake!”

  “Oh, I love it!” she clasps her hands together. “I can’t wait.”

  • • •

  We’re nearing the bend at the end of the avenue, when Gracie takes a second pause and asks, “Ravenna, what can you see through those gates?”

  She turns huffily but is sufficiently surprised to exclaim, “Camels!”

  “Live ones?” I say, leaning across Pamela and spying no less than three, all the more surreal for having an ocean backdrop—mirage upon mirage.

  “These are topiary but there used to be a couple of live ones roaming the grounds.”

  “Whose house is this?”

  “Doris Duke, the tobacco heiress. The camels were part of a trade when she bought a private jet from Adnan Khashoggi.”

  My brow scrunches. “That name rings a bell . . .”

  “Saudi businessman and arms dealer?” Gracie nudges my memory. “Dodi Fayed is his nephew.”

  “Gosh! So this history is a little more recent?”

  Gracie nods. “She only died about twenty years ago. The house is just as she left it. There’s an exhibition there I know you’d like—it showcases her world travels, along with her Louis Vuitton steamer trunk and all her passport photos throughout the years, blown up to poster-size.”

  “Gosh, I don’t know how I’d feel about that,” I cringe. Mine are definitely less jet set, more mug shot.

  “She was quite a woman,” Gracie whistles as we move on. “Both Lauren Bacall and Susan Sarandon have played her in movies, which I think gives you a small insight into her bold persona.”

  We take a couple more curves, then the vista opens out as we merge into Ocean Drive with its present-day properties.

  When you’re so busy with your life, focusing on making it to your next payday, you forget just how fantastically rich some people are. The house ahead of us has at least eight chimneys and what appears to be a private golf course for a front lawn. Well, why not, eh?

  “How many bedrooms do you think these places have?” Pamela queries. “Ten? Twenty?”

  “I don’t think I know enough people to fill a Newport holiday home.”

  “Trust me, when you’ve got this kind of money, you find yourself with an awful lot of friends.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s no good having all this if you don’t share it. I mean, what are you going to do? Sleep in a different bedroom every couple of weeks just to ring the changes? You’d want to fill it or it would seem a bit echoey and lonely.” I muse for a minute. “Do you think they invite people to stay in the same way that we might suggest meeting someone for coffee? You encounter some fun new people and say, ‘Come for the weekend!’”

  “That’s what happened with Georgie and Arby. He was in England for a limited time, he wanted to chat more about the London busses, he was grateful for Georgie’s help with his purchase and he didn’t think twice about having us in his home.”

  “What was it like?” I gurgle.

  “A cross between a fairy-tale castle and the Ritz,” she decides. “On the second night they held a party to introduce everyone to their ‘new friends from England.’ We were quite the toast of the town!” She peers ahead. “His house is coming up next, though of course there are different owners now.”

  We catch a glimpse through a stone archway of a Bavarian-themed fantasy—all twisting towers, curved balconies and decorative crenellations.

  “They had this beautiful pool, right on the edge of the sea; you felt as if you could swim out to forever. Which reminds me, you know The Breakers—”

  “Breakers?” Ravenna pipes up.

  “It’s not a hip-hop dance crew, dear, it’s Newport’s ritziest mansion.”

  “Oh.”

  “They have this bath hewn from a single piece of marble, and it has four taps—two were for hot and cold running seawater!”

  “Speaking of which,” Ravenna bristles. “Where exactly is the sea? Or do you have to own a mansion to get to see it?”

  “Patience.” Gracie hushes her.

  Two more sweeping bends in the road and there it is—flowing out like some socialite’s slinky-silky gown in the most exquisite shade of midnight blue.

  Chapter 13

  I’ve driven coastal routes before, but none so close and so level with the water. Here there’s no barrier between tide and tarmac, just a grassy verge dotted w
ith benches and strutting seagulls. At one point a wave rears up onto the rocks and sprays our windscreen.

  “Now this is where I want a picture of me driving the bus,” Gracie announces as she applies the wipers. “I’m going to send it out with this year’s Christmas card!”

  Pamela reaches for her mum’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “I recognize it now—this is where you took that picture with Dad, isn’t it?”

  She nods and points to a wall of rocks snaking out to sea. “If you three stood there and all took pictures as I passed by, I’m sure one would be just perfect.”

  “We’ll be like paparazzi!” I laugh.

  “God how embarrassing!” Ravenna mutters.

  “Concerned what all the elderly leaf tourists will think of you?” I raise a brow.

  Pamela intercepts any comeback from Ravenna by pointing ahead to a row of little beach houses set upon their own stretch of sand.

  “Can you imagine?”

  “You don’t have to,” I tell her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s where we’re staying. Isn’t that right, Gracie?”

  “I can’t believe it!” She seems genuinely giddy. “The Castle Hill Inn! What a dream!”

  We’re wending down the hotel driveway now. And if I’ve learned one thing in my travels, it’s the longer the driveway, the more exclusive the property.

  That said, compared to all the grand mansions we’ve just seen, the main building here looks more like a quirky guesthouse, with its jutting porches, higgledy-piggledy levels and bell-shaped turret. It’s made of wood, not marble, and painted an unassuming beige. But then you discover the pièce de résistance—it stands upon its own forty-acre peninsula. Complete with dinky lighthouse.

  Plus there’s the cut-above welcome: Personal. Charming. Privileged. Everything will be taken care of while we enjoy a glass of champagne and that exceptional vantage point . . .

  Ravenna brightens for a second as we approach the outdoor bar, until she realizes a) she has been relegated to sparkling cider and b) U.S. cider translates as apple juice and is thus nonalcoholic. What a swizz.