The English Wife. Doreen Roberts

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СКАЧАТЬ The White Stone Inn, all I wanted was a cup of strong coffee, a quiet room and a soft bed.

      The inn had obviously been named for its gleaming white walls that glittered in the midday sun. Beyond the crest of the hill I caught a glimpse of a shimmering dark blue strip of sea beneath a cloudless pale blue sky. The sea air felt mild for late September, and all that talk I’d heard of constant English rain and fog seemed ludicrous in this enchanting setting.

      While I waited for the driver to unload my luggage, I looked at the landscape spread out below me. A narrow road wandered through a cluster of buildings that apparently made up the main street of Miles End. At one end the tall steeple of a church seemed to pierce the skyline, and a few uneven rows of houses dotted the area behind it.

      I must have been sleeping when I passed through the village. A tingle of excitement woke up my drowsy mind. What fun to explore those crooked streets and intriguing shops! I couldn’t wait.

      On the heels of that thought came the realization that somewhere down there was the cottage. And her. Okay, Eileen Robbins. I had to get used to calling her that, much as I disliked the idea.

      My enthusiasm dwindled. Now that I was actually here, I wasn’t too thrilled at the thought of confronting the woman. In the next instant I scolded myself. I hadn’t come all this way to chicken out. I was determined to be as fair and diplomatic about this mess as possible. There had been far too much secrecy and deceit already.

      In the flurry of checking into the inn and getting settled, I managed to forget my worries. I’d been given a charming little room on the top floor. The only drawback as far as I could see was the absence of an elevator, which meant I’d be climbing three flights of stairs. I convinced myself that the exercise would be good for my health, and it would be worth it for the magnificent view of the coastline.

      Now that I could see over the hill, I was enchanted by the deep bay and the picturesque harbor. A faint mist hung over the little boats that bobbed around close to shore. A sprinkling of tiny thatched cottages hugged the grassy slopes, and a mass of blossoms set the little square yards ablaze with smudges of dazzling color that reminded me of an artist’s palette.

      After opening the window, I leaned out to get a better view of my surroundings. Clean, salty air, fresh from the sea, mingled with the heavenly scent of newly cut grass. Below me, an elderly man pedaled with grim determination up the hill on his bicycle, one wheel squeaking in rhythmic protest.

      I felt the sun warming my bare arms, and heaved a sigh of pure pleasure. So many times during the hassle of the past few weeks I’d longed for peace and quiet. This tiny village, with its calm streets and pleasant landscape, breathed a serenity that seeped into my body and soul.

      I didn’t know how long I would stay in Miles End. Much depended on how fast I could deal with her and sell the cottage. I couldn’t help hoping that my stay would be long enough so that I could enjoy any distractions the tiny village might offer.

      I was eager to meet the people, explore the neighborhood, and learn more about this wonderful place my charming companion on the plane had called the English Riviera.

      For a fleeting moment I wondered what he was doing, and if he had thought any more about me once we had parted in a flurry of goodbyes and good wishes. Then I forgot him in the fascination of investigating the hotel.

      I was somewhat taken aback when I discovered I was expected to share a bathroom with four other rooms on my floor. I was even more upset to note that the spacious bathroom had no shower in the footed tub. Bathing was going to be interesting. Trying to convince myself it was all part of the adventure, I decided to make the best of it. After all, it wouldn’t be for long.

      My appointment with the real estate agent wasn’t until the following morning. I resisted the urge to sleep, and after unpacking my luggage, I made my way down the narrow cobbled street to the village.

      The main street meandered between unique little shops that looked as if they had been plucked from the pages of a Dickens novel. Behind the leaded pane windows a wonderful selection of elegant porcelain ladies and bone-china rabbits peeked out at me from among miniature cottages and lighthouses.

      Tearing myself away from all that enchantment, I caught sight of a sign swinging in the stiff breeze from the ocean. On it was painted a bright yellow teapot standing next to a plate of tempting pastries.

      It seemed like a haven, beckoning me, especially since I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in hours. I paused in front of a wooden door, feeling as if I were about to enter Snow White’s cottage.

      As I stepped inside, a bell jangled angrily above my head. The inside of the tearoom looked even more like a scene from Disney. A dozen or so little square tables had been crammed into a space no bigger than my living room. A wide ledge ran around the walls, bearing the weight of brass cooking pots, copper kettles and huge china jugs.

      It was the heavenly fragrance of fresh-baked bread, however, that convinced me to move farther into the room, wondering why this amazing place wasn’t jammed with customers.

      “Can I help you?”

      The raspy voice had come from behind me, and I swung around. The chunky woman facing me wore a floral dress covered with a white apron, and soiled red velvet slippers. A pair of granny glasses sat on the end of her nose and she peered over them, studying me with frank curiosity.

      Being the target of such a formidable scrutiny was uncomfortable, and I had second thoughts about sitting down. “Are you open for business?” I asked, half-expecting the woman would tell me to come back later.

      “I am. Take a seat. You’ve got plenty of choice.” She waved a flabby arm at the tables.

      “Thank you.” I sank down on the nearest chair and laid my purse on the vacant one next to me. “I’d like a pot of tea and a Danish.”

      The woman’s dark eyes narrowed in curiosity. “You’re American, aren’t you?”

      I nodded with a smile.

      “On holiday, are you?”

      The woman seemed in no hurry to get my order, and her direct questions began to make me uncomfortable. I wasn’t used to this small-town cosiness with strangers. “As a matter of fact I’m here on business.” I picked up the well-thumbed menu and studied it in the hopes of discouraging any more conversation.

      My hostess was not easily put off. “Not much business going on around here. Mostly tourist stuff. What sort of business you in, then?”

      I hoped my tone would warn her I didn’t like her prying. “I’m here to sell some property. A cottage to be exact.”

      Ignoring the hint, her voice rose. “Oh, you’re here to sell the Hodges’ cottage. I heard it was going up for sale.”

      Thoroughly impatient now, I shook my head. “No, not that one. I’m in rather a hurry. Could I get my order, please?”

      “Oh, of course. Be back in a jiff.”

      She waddled off in the direction of the kitchen and I slumped down on my chair. My head felt as if it had separated from my shoulders. The lack of sleep had caught up with me. I did a mental calculation. It had been more than twenty-four hours since I’d woken up in Seattle. I hoped the tea would keep me awake me long enough to get back to the hotel.

      The waitress СКАЧАТЬ