by Nora Roberts
She glanced over to the staircase and did a double take. “Good grief. A suit of armor.”
It was cold to her touch and wonderfully crafted, the chest plate intricately chased with a design of Saint George slaying the dragon and the helm inlaid with gold and copper. And the top of it came just to her shoulder. The owner had been a good deal shorter than her five feet five.
She tried to lift the visor to peek inside and found it heavier than she’d expected. It slipped from her grasp and shut with an alarming clang.
“That suit belonged to Sir George Culpepper, and was worn at the Battle of Agincourt,” a stern voice said from the shadows.
Kate gasped and whirled around. An older woman stood in the open doors to the parlor, her hands folded neatly at her waist. A silver chatelaine of keys hung from her black-garbed bosom.
“Mrs. Bean? I’m Kate Singleton.”
“Good evening, Miss. I thought I’d stay on until you arrived, and make sure everything was set.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Kate said, although she had the distinct impression that the housekeeper had remained for the sole purpose of judging whether or not Kate was worthy of inheriting Frogsmere.
From the woman’s stiff posture and the slight frown between her brows, the jury was still out.
“I’ve put you in the Rose Bedchamber,” Mrs. Bean announced. “It was Miss Culpepper’s personal wish that you be installed there, rather than her old suite.”
Although Kate was taken aback, she tried not to show it. “If Miss Culpepper selected it for me, I’m sure I’ll be quite happy there.”
There was a slight softening of the housekeeper’s face. “The Rose Bedchamber was always reserved for the eldest daughter of the house.”
Kate was touched. “How thoughtful of Miss Culpepper!”
Mrs. Bean nodded. “The mistress was ever a great one for planning, you know.”
“I don’t know anything about her,” Kate replied. “We never met. In fact, I have no idea why she left the estate to me.”
An expression flickered behind the housekeeper’s pale blue eyes and vanished. “I’ve no doubt you’ll discover it in time.”
Kate had the distinct feeling that Mrs. Bean knew more than she was telling.
“You’ll want to freshen up after your travel,” the housekeeper said, and escorted her up the carved staircase. “Was that the Land Rover from King’s Meadow that dropped you off?”
“Yes. Mr. Bellamy came to the rescue when I drove into a ditch in the rain.”
“Did he, now? Well, isn’t that just like him. Master Michael was always a good lad.” A sudden flush rose up her face. “Or rather, as I should say, Sir Michael, as he is now.”
“I stand corrected.”
She followed Mrs. Bean into a charming bedchamber with painted furniture and a mirrored armoire. A marble-faced fireplace graced one wall, a wide window seat overlooking the extensive gardens the one opposite.
Kate looked out the window and was dazzled by the view.
The growing season in England was well advanced from Chicago’s, and the flower beds were filled with the dappled colors of an impressionist painting. It was the garden she’d always dreamed of having, but ten times larger. And not a weed in sight. “Is there a gardener?”
“Eames takes care of the lawns and flower beds. But it was Miss Culpepper who always decided which plants went where and such.”
A door on one side led to an adjoining bathroom with a dressing table and a claw-footed tub, and another opened to a bright sitting room with a view across the cliffs to the sea.
Kate’s eye was drawn to the portrait over the fireplace. It portrayed a young woman in a summer dress of white chiffon, against a background of greenery. She was lovely.
“What a beautiful woman! Is that Miss Culpepper?”
“It is her sister, Honoria.”
“The sister who ran away,” Kate said. “Mr. Plunkett mentioned her.”
“They were twins, you know. Born here at Frogsmere, minutes apart. Honoria on the stroke of midnight and Agatha shortly after.”
The shadow of a bird passed by the window, and Kate looked out. The Channel was a wide swath of blue silk hemmed in by the green velvet cliff tops. A broken gothic wall thrust up against the paler sky.
“What is that ruin?”
“That would be the south wall of the lady chapel at Kingsbury Castle. It’s on the grounds of King’s Meadow.”
“King’s Meadow. That’s where Mr. Bellamy”—she caught herself—“where Sir Michael Bellamy lives?”
“Yes, he moved home two years ago, after old Mr. Bellamy died. And good it is to have him there!”
She checked the watch pinned to her bosom. “If there’s nothing else you want, Miss, I’ll be off home. If you’re feeling peckish, there’s a nice stew of beef and some sliced ham in the fridge, and a caramel flan with poached pears for pudding.”
Kate was so delighted she could have hugged the woman. “So that’s the wonderful fragrance that greeted me when I came in the door. Thank you so much! Left to myself, I can’t do much more than make coffee and toast and peanut butter sandwiches.”
The housekeeper looked horrified. “Since I’ll be coming in daily to pick up, I’ll cook up a little something for you before I leave, the same as I used to do for the old mistress. I’m one as likes to keep her hand in, and there’s no one to cook for at home these days, with all my lads gone off to work on the North Sea oil rigs.
“I’m off for home now, Miss. I’ll lock up behind me when I leave.”
Kate was still at the window looking down at the garden when she heard the sound of the front door closing. A short time later she saw Mrs. Bean on a bicycle, pedaling along a path that led down to the village.
A stillness descended upon Frogsmere, and a sense of welcome wrapped itself around Kate like a warm chenille shawl. She went through the house, peering into a dim library, a large formal dining room, and a long drawing room with windows opening to a terrace and the gardens beyond.
As she looked around, Kate was mentally putting her stamp of ownership everywhere. The small parlor would make a wonderful study, with her laptop set up on the table in the window bay, and her photos and favorite books on the shelves flanking the fireplace. She could envision herself working on the book of fairy tales she’d start writing here, free of the noise and distraction of city life. Oh, if only she could keep Frogsmere!
Don’t get too excited, she cautioned herself. You have no idea if you can even afford to pay the inheritance taxes, much less the upkeep on a place like this, even for a short time.
She went upstairs to unpack, and the white bed with its rose and white curtains looked so comfortable that Kate couldn’t resist trying it. She imagined spending rainy nights reading tucked in it, with a fire in the hearth and a glass of wine on the skirted table beside the bed.
Thwump!
Thwump! Thwump!
“What on earth?” Kate went to the window and looked out, but couldn’t discover the source of the sound.
Down in the maze of iris and gladiolus stems, a small green frog attempted another leap for the sill of the open library window. It missed. Again.
Thwump!
The frog sighed disconsolately, and hopped softly away to nurse its aching head.
6
THE VILLAGE OF Frogsmere dozed in the sun as the elegant old touring car drove along the cobbled High Street. Miss Golunka picked up the speaking tube.
“Frederick, let me out by the greengrocers, if you please.”
Mr. Plunkett put a hand on her arm. “My dear Sophie, do you think that is wise?”
“I missed my lunch,” she said, eyeing the display in the window, where a cloud of fruit flies hovered over a platter heaped with ripe peaches and plums and glistening clusters of grapes.
Mr. Plunkett sighed. “I fear you have more than lunch in mind.”
Miss Golunka smiled. “You needn’t worry, Alfred. I know what I’m doin
g.”
The town car glided to a stop beside Michael Bellamy’s Land Rover. “I’ll only be a minute,” she promised.
The inside of the greengrocer’s shop was dim and her mouth watered at the lovely scents that hung rich upon the air. Her green eyes shone and her pink tongue curled in anticipation. She sidled toward the window, unnoticed by either Michael or the elderly storekeeper, who was weighing a bag of peaches on his balance scale.
“When I was a lad,” the merchant said, “everything sold here was grown in and around Frogsmere. Not like today, when it comes from foreign places.” He shook his head at the wicked ways of the world.
Michael smiled. “It’s hard to see the old ways go, Jenkins. But I must say I’m delighted to have peaches in April and asparagus in February.”
“Hmmmph,” the old man said. “I’m agin change. It won’t be the same with somebody new at Frogsmere Manor. Miss Culpepper was a true lady. The last of her generation.”
“I think you’ll like the new owner,” Michael answered, as he took the bag of peaches. “She’s American. Very pleasant and quite striking.”
Jenkins grinned suddenly. “Aye, Miss Culpepper showed me a photograph of the lass once. Pretty as a May morning. Between having a new mistress at the manor, and all those BBC people running about, things are bound to get lively this summer.”
Miss Golunka glanced over at them from where she’d been discreetly sampling the delicacies in the greengrocer’s window. Something in Michael Bellamy’s voice had caught her attention.
So, he is interested in her, is he?
She smiled to herself, realizing there were ways to use this knowledge to her advantage. She gave a dainty wave of her hand and two heads of cabbage transformed into pink geraniums in green glazed pots. Next she produced a tiny vial from her handbag, and took off the silver cap.
A shower of golden sparkles dusted the leaves and petals of the geranium on the left. It sparkled for several seconds and became the most lovely geranium in all the world. A veritable queen of geraniums.
Miss Golunka smiled and took the other pot up to the counter. “How much for this, Mr. Jenkins?”
The shopkeeper frowned. “Where did you find that?”
“Over by the door. It will make a lovely gift.”
Michael was on his way out, but he caught sight of the other geranium in its solitary glory. He picked it up and turned back to the counter, smiling absently at Miss Golunka as she passed him on her way out.
“Add this to my bill, Jenkins.”
When he was alone again, Mr. Jenkins came around from behind the counter, scratching his head. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out where those geraniums had come from.
Nor where all the flies had gone.
Meanwhile, Miss Golunka reached the town car and got in. Mr. Plunkett was surprised. “I thought you were going in for lunch, not posies.”
“And why not both on such a lovely day?” she said, and burped daintily into her lace handkerchief.
Something rolled out of her pocket to the floor of the car, and he bent to retrieve it. “Oh, dear, Sophie. The lid is loose on this vial you dropped. I hope it wasn’t your Love In Bloom potion!”
“Do you think I would be so careless with such a potent spell? And, even if I were, it only works on those who are already attracted to one another.”
“Ah, then there is no danger.”
Miss Golunka folded her hands in her lap. I wouldn’t say that, she said, but only to herself. She smiled at her reflection in the window.
One does what one must.
After unpacking, Kate went exploring. Somewhere in this wonderful old house must be clues to why she’d inherited the place. Perhaps Miss Culpepper had left her a note or letter tucked away.
Kate searched the desk in her sitting room and the one in the master suite that had belonged to Agatha Culpepper, to no avail. The library was next on her agenda, and she descended the stairs just in time to see the Land Rover pull up in the drive.
A thrill that was part nerves and part pleasure ran through her as Michael Bellamy got out. Kate moved away from the window and opened the door.
Sunlight glinted from his fair hair as he came up the brick walk, carrying a potted geranium in a pot of glazed celadon. “A housewarming gift,” he said, presenting it to her. “I saw it in the village, and thought of you.”
“Thank you, it’s lovely.”
No more so than you, he thought. A flush rose over his face. For a horrible moment he was afraid he’d spoken aloud. He felt confused and off balance. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d brought a woman flowers on the spur of the moment—nor the last time he’d blushed like a schoolboy in one’s presence.
“I hope that you are fond of geraniums. Some people don’t care for their scent.”
Kate shook her head. “I love their odd, peppery fragrance.”
“I’m glad. They smelled a bit like cabbage, I thought.”
She bent her head over the blossoms, and as she inhaled she had the odd sensation that she breathed in tiny sparkles of light. “They do, just a little bit.”
Their eyes met over the top of the bright blooms. It seemed impossible for either to look away as the seconds stretched out. How green his eyes are, she thought, and felt her heart flutter.
The spell was broken as something came flying off the little bench beside the door and shot between them. Kate stepped back, stumbled, and almost dropped the flowerpot. Michael caught her in one arm and the geraniums in the other.
He was quick and strong, and as his mouth hovered near hers briefly, she had the burning desire to kiss him. She fought it and regained her balance.
“Thank you. Now you’ve saved me twice in the same day.”
“Wretched frog,” he said, eyeing the creature half hidden in the grass. “Go away, you beastly creature, before you find yourself dipped in breading and popped into a hot frying pan.”
The frog blinked and bounced away as if on springs.
“A frog? I wasn’t sure what it was,” Kate said. “I just had a glimpse of something dark and glittering.”
“He’s gone now. I’ll be on my way again,” he said. “I just wanted to warn you that there will be a good deal of noise around here in the coming weeks. There’s going to be a BBC film crew following a team of archaeologists around while they do some preliminary site work at King’s Meadow.”
Kate was immediately interested. “What are they looking for?”
“High ratings for the show,” he said with a laugh. “At least for the producer and the director.”
“I was thinking more of historic finds,” she said wryly.
“The archaeologists will find an embarrassment of riches. In addition to the ruins of the medieval church, there could be any number of other eras on the property, from prehistoric hut circles to traces of the Roman occupation of the area. Mrs. Crane, the lead archaeologist, says that there have likely been settlements in the meadow going back to the Stone Age. They’ll be here all summer, so I hope the noise won’t be too much of a bother,” he said.
“It’s no problem,” Kate assured him. “After all, how much noise can a team of archaeologists make?”
“More than you would imagine,” he said. After an exchange of good-byes, he walked back to the Land Rover and drove off toward King’s Meadow. His nose still prickled from sniffing the geraniums, as if he’d breathed in sharp little golden stars.
Where the devil did that come from? he thought. He’d never been one for fanciful flights of imagination and it couldn’t be spring fever. He was well past the age of mindless infatuation. Had Kate Singleton managed to get under his skin in the very short time they’d spent together? Or was it something entirely different?
He headed down the road, uneasy and scarcely aware that his vehicle held the faint odor of cabbages. As he pulled into his own drive a few minutes later, his mind wasn’t on flowers or vegetables, but on Kate Singleton.
He wondered what she would
have done if he’d given in to that almost overwhelming urge to kiss her.
There was, he decided, only one way to find out.
Kate was restless after he left. She could still feel the strength of his arm around her as he’d saved her from falling. She could still feel that dizzying impulse to wind her arms around him and touch her lips to his firm mouth.
Spring fever, she thought, as she slipped out through the terrace doors.
A pale slice of moon rose just above the trees in the darkening sky. The soft sounds drifting in were so subtle that she couldn’t pinpoint when she’d first become aware of the low chorus of frogs and tree toads singing in the gathering dusk.
Chirr-chirr.
Ritchie-ritchie-ritchie.
She followed the brick path in the twilight, through the formal beds and down stone steps to the lower level. One side held a kitchen garden behind a painted fence, the other an old-fashioned knot garden of herbs and flowers. The lowest level was the cutting garden that ran all the way down to the meadow.
The amphibian chorus was just warming up as she reached it, one group starting up and another joining in, like a choir singing roundelays:
Ritchie-ritchie
Zeet-zee-zeet-zee
Chirr-chirr-chirr.
And the counterpoint of a lone bullfrog: Ga-lunk. Ga-LUNK!
It brought back happy memories of summers spent on her grandparents’ farm in Indiana with her cousins, chasing fireflies and watching for falling stars.
It was full dark now and the stars were out in force. The air had turned chill while she listened to the peepers singing, and she hadn’t taken a jacket along. Kate decided to go back, and hurried up the path and into the house. There was a rustling in the shrubbery. A frog came leaping in great, desperate hops through the wild grasses to where Kate had stood only a few moments earlier.
The frog sat on a tuft of grass, its yellow throat pulsing. The creature hopped up to the terrace, sucked in a deep breath and filled the night with its ardent call: Kizzmee, kizzmee. Kizzmee, kizzmee.