“Maybe I will, if Trudy and Rowan don’t need me.” She busied herself with Georgina, who immediately took Elizabeth’s entire thumb in her mouth and bit down hard.
chapter sixteen
I’m just so tired. I’ve barely slept,” Trudy said as Rowan led her into the house later that afternoon. “All those machines beeping, and those relentless nurses checking in every five minutes. I want my bed.”
Rowan looked exhausted as well. He stopped and turned to Elizabeth. “Bess, dear, would you put the kettle on so we can have a cuppa?”
“Of course,” she replied before she realized what she’d gotten herself into.
The brilliant blue stove looked like nothing she’d seen in the States. There were four windowless doors on the front and two covered burners on top, without a knob in sight. The small nameplate said Aga, and she unconsciously reached for her phone in her back pocket to search for a how-to video, forgetting that it wasn’t an option. Was she really so helpless that she couldn’t even figure out how to boil water? At the very least she could fill the black checkered teapot and have it waiting for Rowan when he returned.
She placed the teapot on the counter and looked over at Major and Georgina playing in his bed by the sleeping fireplace. Her fears about their first meeting were pointless. Major had greeted Georgina with the patience of a kindergarten teacher, allowing nips on his ears, piercing barks, and every other type of youthful misbehavior that drove Elizabeth insane. Now, though, they were wrestling with each other in a way that was tipping into brawl territory. She considered trying to break them up but realized that she didn’t have the confidence to get close when their teeth were snapping the air loud enough for her to hear.
She thought about Rowan helping Trudy to bed, likely exhausted himself and desperate for a proper cup of tea. She couldn’t let the stove best her, so she walked back to the behemoth and stared at the covers on top of the burners. There were no knobs, nothing to twist or pull that she could see. She lifted the spiraled metal handle on the burner cover and passed her hand over the flat black burner.
Warmth!
The stove was always on, no need for knobs. She triumphantly set the kettle on the burner and felt like she’d cooked a four-course meal.
Rowan returned to the kitchen right as the kettle started to fuss. Major lifted his head off Georgina’s body and seemed to scan his person for feedback, debating whether Rowan needed his attention. Rowan pulled out a chair and slumped in it, making it clear that he was waiting for Elizabeth to pour the tea for him. Because of her parents she knew that tea prep was polarizing. She hoped that their preference for tea bag first, then hot water, steep, and then milk mirrored Rowan and Trudy’s.
She handed the finished cup to Rowan.
He sip-slurped and smiled. “Lovely. Now, would you mind running one to Trudy? I just need to rest for a few moments.”
She watched as Rowan leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes with one hand still on the teacup.
Trudy was propped up in bed and dozing with the lights on, looking like a doll beneath a lavish gray padded headboard. Elizabeth hovered in the doorway, unsure if she should enter or bring the tea back downstairs. The scene in the bedroom was too familiar, too painfully evocative. The bottles of pills on the nightstand next to a glass of water. The sleeping figure with a slack mouth, head lolled to the side. She tiptoed in and placed the cup on the crowded nightstand, and the almost imperceptible click of porcelain hitting wood was enough to rouse Trudy.
“Oh, hello, dear,” she said groggily. The pain medication was doing its job.
“Tea,” Elizabeth whispered, pointing to the cup.
“Grand, thank you.” She closed her eyes, and Elizabeth turned to leave. “Bess, dear?”
Elizabeth returned to her bedside. “I’m here.”
Trudy’s eyes were closed as she spoke. “I wish you could’ve known your cousin. I wish we all could’ve known him. Our little bird.”
Elizabeth didn’t know how to respond. Cousin? She tried to formulate an appropriately vague reply, but Trudy was snoring quietly before she could find the right words.
When she returned to the kitchen, Rowan had Georgina on his lap and Major at his feet.
“She’s sleeping,” Elizabeth said.
Rowan nodded and continued massaging Georgina’s shoulders. “You’ve got a lovely little pup here.” When Georgina spotted Elizabeth she leapt from his lap and ran to her.
“Oh, I can’t keep her,” Elizabeth said as she sidestepped the tornado of teeth and claws. “With my schedule I don’t have time to take care of a puppy.”
“Well, it sounds to me like your life has changed quite a bit in recent weeks,” he replied.
“It has, but I’m still very busy.” She bristled at the reminder of her firing. “I spent most of today working on my new project.”
“Ah yes, Reid’s little computery thing. Related to that subject, I’d like to ask a favor of you.”
“Of course, what can I do?” She envisioned helping Rowan fix his printer or teaching him how to buy something online.
“I’d like to have a conversation with you in the Operculum tomorrow morning. Could you meet me there at nine?”
It felt like a formal invitation. Were they going to address the property financials? How much time would it buy her while she looked for a job?
“I’ll be there.”
“Lovely, thank you.”
Rowan propped his head up on his hand on the table. Elizabeth watched him as he stared into space and mumbled a few words to himself. The stress of what he’d been through hung years on his frame, and for the first time, Rowan Barnes looked like an old man.
chapter seventeen
Elizabeth hoped the faux leather leggings weren’t too much for the pub. Fargrove forced her to consider the items in her suitcase with an eye toward comfort instead of couture, which made much of what she’d packed over-the-top for the community’s “casual Friday” vibe. While she would never pair the leggings with a chambray shirt in normal circumstances, it was one of the few options left that didn’t make her look like she was trying too hard.
The walk to town was pitch-black, lit only by a pinprick of a moon. When something shrieked in the bushes she regretted turning down Rowan’s offer for a ride, but she didn’t want to put any additional pressure on him. She was independent and self-reliant, and a few days in sleepy Fargrove wasn’t going to change that about her. Elizabeth tried to convince herself that cows weren’t nocturnal predators with a taste for human flesh as she used her phone’s meager flashlight to illuminate the uneven road in front of her blister-inducing boots. Before she knew it she could see the hazy twinkle of town ahead of her.
A cluster of men stood outside the Three Tups smoking. The fat black dog she’d seen on her first day was resting at their feet. The men were all ages, from downy-faced teens to stooped white-haired gentlemen, and they greeted her warmly as she walked up, almost as if they’d been expecting her. More than likely they’d read the dossier titled “An American Barnes in Fargrove: Similar Nose” that seemed to be circulating. A middle-aged man pulled the door open for her with a bow and she mumbled a thank-you as she waved her hand to part the thick smoke.
The pub was packed and every available stool, bench, and wood-paneled wall had a body on it. All eyes were fixed on the group of musicians sitting on a cluster of chairs at the far end of the room, not up on a stage or set apart from the crowd, but elbow to elbow with them. It wasn’t what Elizabeth had been expecting when she envisioned going to see a band.
She scanned the room for Harriet or Des, hoping that she could latch onto them like a life raft as she worked up the courage to talk to James again. She envisioned best-case scenarios. He’d seek her out and they’d spend the evening laughing and chatting together. Maybe they’d even make out a little, if she got drunk enough to stop her mini panic
attacks. But then what? She was leaving the next day. She was sure to discover that James was even more perfect than she’d imagined, and all she’d have to show for it would be memories and a new follower.
For the first time in a long time, she needed more.
One of the musicians finished telling a story that she couldn’t hear, and the group raised their instruments; a guitar, a violin, a banjo, a cylindrical accordion about the size of a loaf of bread, and a small flute. The band members were handsome, heavily tattooed, long-haired guys who wouldn’t look out of place helming any paradigm-shifting start-up in San Fran. Elizabeth backed into the crowd along the wall so she could take in the music while watching for Harriet.
The first notes sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place the song. Then a wave of goose bumps rippled along her arms, as involuntary as the flail from a doctor’s hammer to the knee. The moment the guitar player started singing, the memories flooded back.
A North Country maid up to London has strayed
Although with her nature it did not agree.
“The Oak and the Ash,” her mother’s favorite English folk song. The band’s version was slower and grittier than what she was used to, like something that might be played on a coffeehouse radio station. She hadn’t heard it in at least twenty years, but the words were as familiar as a Christmas carol. Her mother had once told her that she felt like the girl in the song but hadn’t explained why. Years later, after reading the lyrics, Elizabeth understood. Her mother was homesick for England.
The song conjured her mother in a way that no photo could, and Elizabeth was flooded with a memory of her singing it as she ironed her father’s shirts. She could see her mother’s nimble fingers rhythmically smoothing the sleeves three times before she set the iron down, and hear her voice straining as she reached for the high notes. Her encouraging nods when Elizabeth joined in. The way they sounded as they sang the ancient words together.
Elizabeth blinked fast to keep her eyes from welling up. What was it with all the tears in Fargrove? She’d always prided herself on her broken tear ducts, even when faced with Cecelia’s blame-y tirades, but now it felt like she was crying every fifteen minutes. She pulled her phone out of her back pocket. No service. She considered pretending she was using it to distract from the feelings bubbling inside her but instead shoved it back in her pocket. She looked around the room at the rest of the people and noticed that not a single cell phone was casting a blue glow amid the warm light from the sconces. Every eye was trained on the actual musicians instead of a five-inch window of them.
The band worked together like a chain and gear, swaying in time with eyes shut, feeling every note as they performed it. Elizabeth bit hard on the inside of her cheek and looked down at her feet as the four-hundred-year-old song ended. Hearing it as an adult with the modern arrangement made the song’s lament—and her mother’s—that much more obvious. For a second after it ended no one moved, still in the thrall of the singer’s final clear note. Then the room erupted in cheers, and Elizabeth found herself clapping so hard that her hands smarted.
Someone grasped her shoulder. “Fancy a pint, sweetheart?” It was Harriet. She wrapped Elizabeth in a tight hug. “So nice to see you again!”
Harriet’s husband, Des, sidled up next to her and handed her a pint. “We saw you from across the room and you looked very serious. Thought you could use this,” Des said.
Their kindness caught her off guard. “Thank you, next round is on me,” she said, holding up her pint in a toast.
“I’ve never said no to a free drink, ta!” Des said as they clinked glasses.
“Look, there’s a space at the Tolberts’ table,” Harriet interrupted, eyeing open seats near the band. She was on her way before they had a chance to answer her, using her belly to part the crowd.
Harriet pushed the dirty glasses on the table aside and rearranged the chairs so that they could all fit. Harriet gestured to the other couple, a handsome man with a close-cropped gray beard and an equally handsome woman, with shoulder-length black hair, blue eyes, and an English rose complexion. “Bess, this is Willard and Anna Tolbert. Bess is Rowan’s niece.”
“We heard you were visiting! Nice to meet you. So Trudy is home now, yes? How is she?” Anna asked.
“She’s on pain medication and resting, but she seems much better. And you can call me Elizabeth, actually.”
“Glad she’s doing well,” Anna said. “We adore her. And Rowan. They’re treasures. How long will you be staying with them?”
“Only until tomorrow afternoon, unfortunately. Duty calls at home,” she lied.
The music kicked up again and it was impossible to talk with the band so close. This time the song was a rollicking jig alluding to what Welshmen do with their sheep when no one is around. Two men stood up and started dancing, and soon the whole room was clapping and stomping their feet. Elizabeth sat with her arms crossed, watching the action like an anthropologist regarding an undiscovered tribe. Des leaned over to her and pulled her arms apart, and with her hands cupped in his, he clapped in time to the music.
When Des finally let go of her hands Elizabeth pulled out her phone to snap a photo. Captured in the glow of sconces and dim ceiling lights, the band looked album-cover-worthy. Elizabeth envisioned the likes and compliments (excellent composition!) that would come pouring in after she posted it. Willard saw her phone and gave her a stricken look. He shook his head and mimed putting it away.
“They’re not allowed in here,” Des said, shouting into her ear above the noise. “The publican noticed that people weren’t talking to each other anymore, so he banned them about a year ago. And look”—he gestured around the room—“we’re all still here. Turns out we can live without those things for a few hours after all!”
“Here’s to that,” Willard shouted, raising his glass.
Elizabeth felt her phone buzz defiantly in her back pocket as the band went on break. Now she had service, in a spot that didn’t allow phones? It buzzed again, like a cranky baby.
“I have to grab this,” she lied again. “I’ll be back.”
She ducked through the crowd and past a different group of smoking men clustered around the door. She leaned into the shadows under the eaves so that she could see the screen. There were two insistent texts from her temporary Airbnb guests, sent twenty minutes apart, wondering when the cleaners were going to show up since they had a sink full of dishes. She messaged the cleaning service and replied to the renters like a concerned concierge, then quickly checked her social media accounts. Her spotty activity was still killing her response rates, so she knelt and snapped a photo of the black pub dog sitting at the smokers’ feet, framing it from the knees down. She labeled it #faithfulcompanion and posted it on Instagram, then hopped on Twitter to post a photo of Georgina from the previous day. Anyone scrolling through her feed was sure to notice the sudden uptick in dog content. Maybe that was why she was losing ground? But who didn’t like dogs?
Elizabeth sped through her feed, looking for things to quickly favorite and repost, and jammed her finger on the screen when she saw the face. It was Cecelia with her faux modest head tilt and pout-grin, featured in a Time magazine article. She had won the Maria Mitchell Arts and Sciences Award and was to be honored in a glittery ceremony at the Smithsonian. Elizabeth’s hands shook as she processed the news.
Cecelia never stopped winning. No matter that every innovation she claimed was the product of hundreds of anonymous worker bees, it was always her name on the trophy and her face in the photos. Elizabeth sped through the article. Mentions of Cecelia’s volunteer work (which was actually forcing her employees to financially support or perform labor for whatever cause caught her eye), her strong ties to inner-city schools (via loaner tablets crawling with Entomon), and her devotion to the career of motherhood (thanks to two nannies and a chef).
Then it hit her. The timing of the award
gave Elizabeth more than enough time to select her source to leak the photo. They would break the story the morning of the ceremony, so that Cecelia was in D.C. and far away from her troops. Elizabeth imagined the hotel room scramble as the news trickled in, with Cecelia’s road minions screaming into their phones while Cecelia stormed around her luxury suite in a silk kimono.
It was such a delicious vision that Elizabeth felt the urge to buy a round for everyone in the pub, until she remembered her unemployed status. But not for long. She leaned against the wall and stared up at the twinkly sky that seemed closer than she’d ever noticed, then headed back inside.
chapter eighteen
He asked about you,” Harriet shouted into Elizabeth’s ear over the noise of the band. “The night of Rowan’s party.”
“Who? Reid?” Elizabeth tried to hide her disappointment. She’d have to walk the fine line of discouraging his interest without damaging his ego as she worked with him.
Harriet made a funny face. “Reid? He’s been with Nicky for ages. You are definitely not his type.” She laughed. “No, James Holworthy. He wanted to know all about you.”
“What . . . what was he asking about?”
“Everything. Your name, why you’re in Fargrove, if I thought you were nice, how long you’re staying. The full download.”
Elizabeth stared at Harriet with her mouth hanging open.
“So, you’re interested?”
“I mean, he’s . . . uh, I think . . .”
“Yeah, I know. Heartthrob central. I’d dump my baby daddy in an instant for a piece of that.” She rubbed her stomach.
“Is he coming tonight?”
“He’s been here all night! Back corner.”
Elizabeth craned her neck and scanned the pub.
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