Chapter 5
BIRDS CHIRPED HOPEFULLY THE NEXT MORNING TO ACCOMPANY the cheerful brrrnng of Annabel’s windup clock.
She’d been too tired the night before to eat, unpack, even read one of the dog-eared Austens she’d set on the bedside table.
But she woke rested and rosy, crossing her arms under her head to gaze past the bed’s four creaky posts and admire the faded celestial blue of the room, which even the stained white ceiling and dingy window couldn’t spoil.
Annabel was plotting the day ahead—first, inventory the contents of the house and find anything worth saving (the rest to be taken by Sotheby’s, donated, or chucked); second, revise her novel, fresh start from page one, to see, well, what to save and what to chuck—when a leaf blower roared to life somewhere down below.
She threw back the covers, pulled a light cardigan from her open suitcase, and stepped to the window.
From there she could see the tangled-up garden out back and a leather-faced old gardener in a brimmed cap and big headphones, aiming his blower at piles of curled brown leaves under every boxwood, tree, and urn.
What remained of the tumbled flower and herb beds shuddered from its gale-force blast. Leaves stirred and whirled in the air, then settled right back into place.
Annabel dressed and went down to the kitchen, where she found, among Bunty’s “provisions,” all the right things to make a proper cup of tea.
She ate her scone and strawberry jam in the dining room at the long cherry table with demilune ends.
It had divots, scratches, and ring marks, its finish dulled by sunlight, but she felt sure, along with its ten slat-back chairs, that it was a Hepplewhite too.
To escape the grating whine of the leaf blower, Annabel put in earbuds and listened to music while she spent the morning downstairs, listing furniture, carpets, and paintings, careful to indicate by colored sticky note and Sharpie pen which might stay and which go.
Stella had given her strict instructions that Sotheby’s should take anything suspected of any real value, but the Hepplewhites most of all, which she detested with every fiber of her being.
Each blue sticky note, for the Hepplewhites and such, broke Annabel’s heart just a little, but that was the cost she was willing to bear to have her “writing holiday” at Kidlington House.
At midday, having finished the drawing and dining rooms, she found herself back in the library, when the leaf blower sputtered and stopped.
She peered out the window; the sky was spitting light rain, which the gardener seemed to take as a sign he should call it a day.
When he trundled off, silence at last, Annabel looked down at the desk—as pretty as she’d first found it—and ran her hand along the satinwood’s fine grain.
Maybe it wasn’t a Hepplewhite, but surely it had worth, which meant Stella would want it to go.
Still, she understood why Bunty couldn’t bear the thought of it not sitting right here, forever.
And so, as promised, she gave it a pink sticky note, which meant the desk would stay.
Curious about what “bits and bobs” Bunty had left her, she slid the slender dovetailed drawer open to find a neat stack of white paper and a good rollerball pen, black ink.
Annabel sat at the desk and gazed out over the wild garden, thinking.
She took out one sheet of paper and picked up the pen with a determined inhale.
Starting her novel again, by hand this time, might be just the way to see it anew.
She exhaled and wrote: What You Wish For by Elliot Price-Benn .
. . when the pen ran out of ink. She shook it, pressed harder.
Still nothing. In hopes of finding another, she slid the drawer open again and, instead of a pen, found an invitation on fine wove paper, creamy white with a deckled edge, in a fine hand. Annabel picked it up and read aloud:
Lady Sophia Gidding-Wedmore requests the pleasure of your company at an Evening Party
Friday, June 9 Eight o’clock Wakefield Assembly Rooms An answer will oblige. Dancing.
Annabel turned the invitation in her hand.
Now it made sense: Bunty’s enthusiastic endorsement of their local Regency Society, how she’d made a point of leading Annabel to the desk.
She must have left the invitation in the drawer for her, thinking she’d find it and be tempted.
It seemed exactly the sort of playful, considerate thing Bunty might do.
And though touched by the gesture, Annabel wasn’t tempted at all.
The Stephen incident still stung, and she’d resolved to take a good long break from having a crush on anyone, especially any “very good-looking bachelors” who would no doubt be out of her league as well.
Annabel put the invitation back in the drawer and the ball out of her mind.
She looked down at her half-written title page, momentarily defeated.
Maybe it was the jet lag, but it was more likely Stephen’s round rejection of the whole sophomoric effort.
She crumpled the page, vowing to return to a clean one tomorrow, and the day after that. It was why she’d come, after all.
When patches of sunlight declared momentary victory over the rain, Annabel seized on the idea of a brisk walk to town for groceries followed by a good home-cooked meal.
She found the path through the rusted gate at the back of the garden, just where Bunty said it would be, past a tangle of rosebushes by a very old iron bench.
She followed it to the first stand of trees, over a hillock, and across gently sloping fields.
It was the English countryside full bore, all the virtues of unspoiled nature, as it always had been, and should be.
Even the pillowy clouds seemed to do their part.
She felt in her element, alone, at peace. This was what she’d come for too.
When the town of Wakefield appeared over the next hill, she quickened her step to the top of its handsome high street with a view of the well-preserved Regency town complete with a baker, butcher, coaching inn, nail salon, and a country-chic boutique.
She waited for a double-decker sightseeing bus to pass (with the droning voice of its tour guide), and crossed to Bunty’s Books & Bobs, where the door was rigged up to ring not with a bell, but a waltz.
Annabel paused to enjoy its bright, stirring notes.
Inside, the shop was a surprising two stories high with tall arched windows on one wall, a cupola over a round wooden counter in the middle, and bookshelves all the way to the ceiling on the other. Bunty climbed down from a rolling ladder to greet her.
“A waltz?” said Annabel. “How daring of you.”
Bunty’s face lit up. “ ‘Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward.’”
A kindred soul.
“How’s our fair Kidlington treating you so far, dear?”
“I’m settling in, but thought I’d cook myself a real meal. I found this old cookbook in the library, and it had a great-sounding steak-and-kidney hotpot recipe.” She pulled a food-stained cookbook from her tote. Bunty took it in her hands.
“Oh, haven’t seen this old thing in years. Well, to be sure the recipe hasn’t changed, so you ought to do fine.” She handed it back and pointed across the street. “Butcher’s just over there. He’ll take good care of you.”
Annabel was about to thank her for the invitation to the ball and make some excuse about not going, when the waltz notes rang above the door, another customer. Not wanting to overstay her welcome, she waved goodbye and snuck out. She’d make her excuses another time.
***
The steak-and-kidney hotpot was a resounding success, but eating it alone at the dining table only accentuated the house’s large emptiness.
Annabel washed the dishes and swept the flagstone floor, freshened the water for Bunty’s flowers, and wished at least the longcase clock would tick or chime, anything to keep her company.
Despite knowing there was no cell service to speak of, she couldn’t help checking her phone to see if there was anyone, anywhere, missing her.
Then she remembered the one spot, in the attic, according to Bunty, where if you stood just so there was a chance of service.
She climbed the staircase to the landing and found, just past Pea Green and Peach Blossom, a small, paneled door that opened onto a narrow set of steep stairs.
When Annabel reached the top, she froze.
The long attic room had oak beams crisscrossing the ceiling, a wide-planked floor, and a round window at the far end, letting in a circle of light that gave the room a buttery glow.
But what it illuminated caught her by such surprise that she thought she might be dreaming.
There stood four rows of mismatched antique mannequins and dress forms, each bedecked with a complete Regency outfit in tip-top condition.
Annabel walked the rows, trailing her fingers along the silks and satins, block-print cottons, embroidered eyelets, the velvets and trims, muslin day dresses, elegant ball gowns, pelisses, overdresses, underdresses, fancy capes and shawls, shoes and bonnets to match, the occasional reticule, even a few men’s breeches, coats, and waistcoats.
Bunty had said Stella’s mother was a collector, but Annabel never imagined this: the perfect period detail, every stitch in place, each ensemble like new and like nothing she’d ever seen.