but when you get older, I’m sure…”
Her guide shook her head. “Maybe when I am old and gray, if I haven’t married, I shall write a book about being the daughter of an earl, then the sister of one. But now, it doesn’t mean a thing. It’s all rather silly, if you ask me.”
Abby waited for her to add to this, but Tish turned and, with great drama, waved her hand toward yet another doorway.
Another long dark hall. Abby didn’t know what floor she was on anymore. They’d gone up and down several small flights of stairs on their tour so far. Before Tish turned on the hall lights, though, Abby sensed they were not alone. Figures rose from the shadows on either side.
“Suits of armor!” Abby gasped. She laughed away her uneasiness when the dull gleam of metal reflected the electric light. There must have been twenty or so ranging from very ornate sets to one very old, very simple one without mail but linked brass squares over leather padding. It had a simple nobility to it, though it looked the poorest of the lot.
“These were worn at one time or another by various Wincott men,” Tish explained. “That last one, the one with the embossed decorations, was never used in battle, though. It dates back to the time of Henry the Eighth.”
That particular suit still bore a plumed helmet. The visor, a mere slit, had a sinister look about it. Creepy. But that did not capture Abby’s attention as much as the plain leather and brass set draped over a black display dummy. She looked it over carefully, drawn to its age, she supposed, and its simplicity.
This was ten times better than a museum. Abby had never been this close to history before and she longed to touch the ancient brass of the chest piece, so she did. A faint hum sounded in the back of her head that distracted her attention. She felt compelled to place her palm against the small gold-colored squares. As she did so, her mind filled with images of blood and savagery.
She jerked her hand away. Looking at her guide, she gave a weak smile in response to Tish’s quizzical look.
“Utterly cool. It’s so old!”
Tish shrugged, then opened a door behind the mannequin. Abby peered inside. The walls were full of drawings, huge sheets of paper affixed to the oak and plaster in no apparent order.
“Just the office. Nothing worth seeing in here unless you like looking at building plans.”
Abby couldn’t get over the age of everything in the Hall. “Just how old is this building?”
“People have lived in Bowness for over fifteen centuries.”
“Wow.” She sighed. Again, Abby wondered why the younger woman didn’t think it was the coolest thing in the world. She looked around at the gleaming armor, but finding that Tish was already out the door, she followed quickly behind her. It would be too easy to get lost in this huge, rambling house. She just hoped her guide knew exactly where they were. Of course she did. Didn’t she?
As if she had heard, Tish turned toward Abby and grinned.
“This way to the kitchens, Chef Abigail.”
An English lady. The girl didn’t sound regal, not in the least.
Abby watched as Mrs. Duxbury dipped the tip of the flat-bladed knife into the fluffy yellow mass of goo. She held her breath as the old lady spread the stuff on top of the strawberry jam that threatened to drip over the side of the fresh scone she held in her hand.
“So this is clotted cream?” she asked quietly.
Mrs. Duxbury’s thin face wrinkled into a brief smile. She placed the scone onto a delicate dish.
“Yes. This is Devonshire clotted cream. Here,” she handed the plate with the scone to Abby, who sat across from her at the small table in the vast kitchen. “Give this a go and tell me what you think of it.”
Not really knowing what to expect, Abby took a small bite out of the delicacy. The cream filled her mouth with butterfat and sweetness, made heavenly by the fruity jam, while the scone, though tasty, merely served as a means to support the clotted cream.
Abby thought she’d died and gone to heaven. Closing her eyes, she savored the taste, rolling her tongue around it, allowing the different textures and consistencies to tickle her tastebuds. Rich. Creamy. Strawberry ice cream without the cold.
She wanted to stuff the whole scone into her mouth for one brief moment, some devil within telling her it would be all right and neither obstruct her arteries nor thicken her thighs. When she opened her eyelids, she found Mrs. Duxbury’s merry eyes beaming back at her.
“Well, what do you think?”
Abby allowed her tongue to caress the roof of her mouth and the back of her teeth before answering.
“Is this stuff illegal?”
Mrs. Duxbury chuckled. “I’ve seen that reaction many times, my dear. It’s the English secret weapon. Some might say it is the high point of our rather dull cuisine.”
Thinking back on the taste, Abby wanted to agree but realized she hadn’t had any of the notoriously bad English cooking yet, so she refrained from answering directly. “That’s sheer heaven! Do many people drop dead directly after tasting this fabulous stuff?”
She heard Tish giggling behind her.
“No, not that I know. You’ll have to visit the dairy where we get it, though. The dairyman might know the statistics there.”
Abby took another small bite of the scone.
“Is the jam homemade?” she inquired.
Duckie nodded. “I usually put some up every year. The strawb’ries come from our own garden, although they vary from one year to the next. Some years, depending on the weather, we get bigger berries than other years. This last year wasn’t as good as some for berries, as we had too much rain.”
At this, Tish laughed out loud. “Oh, Duckie, this is England! When do we not have too much rain?”
Mrs. Duxbury’s cheeks pinked, giving her luminous, smooth skin a lovely color. Abby studied her, curious about the woman’s age and place in the scheme of things at Bowness Hall.
After wiping her lips carefully with a serviette, Abby asked, “Did you make the scones, Mrs. Duxbury?”
The older woman fussed with her apron. “Yes. They’re quite the favorite around here.”
Tish chimed in, “She’s famous for them. She’s really a wonderful cook.”
If possible, Mrs. Duxbury’s color deepened.
“Miss Letitia, please,” she whispered.
Bury me in a casket lined with Devonshire clotted cream. Abby finished the rest of the scone and felt her arteries clog immediately thereafter.
Chapter 3
Early in the morning, the two-note Nazi sound of an emergency vehicle ratcheted Abby from the cozy comfort of her dreamless slumber.
She struggled toward consciousness, shrugging off the sleep she needed to make up for her jet lag. The siren kept blaring. Abby thought Anne Frank, then shuddered herself upright.
The bedside clock read 8:00.
What was that horrible noise?
Slowly, she made her way to the bathroom—the loo—and after she’d splashed her face with cold water got a glimpse of herself in the mirror. A stranger stared back at her with pale skin, sheet scars on her face, and hair styled by someone wielding an eggbeater.
The grating noise ceased.
Abby heard nothing else. She left the bathroom, deciding to throw on her clothes and find out what was going on. Without coffee fueling her, she could think of little else.
Since her clothing choice was limited to what she’d worn the previous