shop that had clothes suitable for someone with no money. Or perhaps she could get back the money for Lance’s half of the vacation.
With that thought, Abby took off in the direction of the kitchen. Or, at least what she hoped was the right direction.
First things first, she decided. She’d explain about Lance, delicately, of course, because Tish and Mrs. Duxbury didn’t need to know the sordid details. Then she’d explain about her lack of cash and then she’d mention that she could really use the five thousand dollars back—minus some small fees. She could understand that the sudden cancellation might necessitate fees somehow. Everybody always charged fees, but nobody, nobody ever got to keep the entire prepaid amount without delivering services.
And they both looked like the understanding type.
Heh! Tish was an English lady! How about that? Surely she didn’t want for money in any way, not with a house like this!
Abby continued this line of thought as she walked briskly down yet another corridor, then congratulated herself when she came into the so-called new kitchen.
No one was there to greet her, but the door to the outside stood open. Abby could hear voices coming from beyond, in the courtyard. The sounds echoed off the stone walls and cobbles. Hearing what she thought to be Tish’s voice, she made her way through the room to the doorway.
Tugger trotted up to her and nosed her hand for attention. “Eau de Wet Dog” assailed her nostrils.
“Not now, fella,” she whispered.
The rain drizzled down gray and miserable on the cause of all the commotion. Doors thrown open, an ambulance waited to receive the gurney. Abby moved closer to see who lay crumpled on the white, white sheets.
A small gasp escaped as she recognized Mrs. Duxbury’s frail, haggard face.
Mrs. Duxbury noticed her, too.
“Oh, my,” Abby heard her say. “Letitia, our guest!”
Taking in the entire scene, Abby found Tish standing behind one of the uniformed ambulance guys. She leaned heavily on John the chauffeur’s arm. Both their faces wore expressions of fear and worry, Tish allowing tears to flow down her cheeks. John’s hands shook until he stuffed them into his pockets.
Tish went over to the gurney and spoke to Mrs. Duxbury, then turned to the uniformed men and gave them the okay to leave.
“John will follow them, Duckie. Don’t worry about a thing—everything will be all right here. Just let the doctors take care of you and don’t fuss over me!” Tish spoke just loud enough for Abby to make out the words over the clatter and hum of the ambulance and the men collapsing the stretcher and gently pushing it, with the reluctant Mrs. Duxbury, inside the odd-looking vehicle.
When the doors were shut and the men back in the front seat, the ambulance slowly left the courtyard.
The chauffeur turned to Tish. “Are you sure you’ll be able to handle things here, young miss?” Worry shadowed his keen blue eyes.
Abby marveled at the way Tish straightened up, the way her posture became composed and so much older in an instant. She wrapped herself in the dignity of her station, almost metamorphosing, for Tish looked every inch a lady, daughter and sister of the earl of Bowness.
John’s head drooped, his shoulders seeming to bow with defeat. “Shouldn’t you ring up your brother?”
Tish’s composure slipped a bit before she answered. “No, that is the last thing I plan to do. Now, run along and see they take care of Duckie!” She shooed him in the direction of the “garridge,” as she pronounced it. That brought a smile to Abby’s American lips. She was living a PBS production and enjoying every second of it.
Tish turned to watch the ambulance leave the courtyard through the heavy wooden gate, then looked back to the garage, then slowly, as if she had the weight of the world on her young shoulders, made her way to the door where her guest stood, the gallant Tugger waiting at her side.
Abby saw the tears glistening in the younger woman’s eyes, but she also detected the determination in them and in the set of Tish’s lips and jaw.
Before she could say anything, Tish spoke. “Mrs. Duxbury fell this morning. I’m almost sure she has broken her ankle, and I am afraid her hip may have given out.”
“Oh, dear. I hope it isn’t as bad as all that.”
Her hostess hesitated, then plowed ahead. “I’m afraid it is worse…for us. I’m a terrible cook.” Abby hadn’t thought about the ramifications of Mrs. Duxbury’s accident. Of course, there would be no one to cook the meals.
But that wasn’t really a problem, was it?
“If you’re hungry, I’m just the person to come to, you know. I have been known to make a pretty good omelet, and I do know my way around a kitchen. Just a bit.”
“You don’t mind? Just for now?”
Abby’s matter-of-fact, take-charge attitude left little room for discussion. She saw the frown lines leave Tish’s face, practically felt the weight lift from her young shoulders. Smiling as she rolled up her sleeves, Abby started rummaging around, looking for what she would need. Before Tish left the kitchen, she’d found an onion, some cheese, and a suitable bowl. She set about pulling open drawers and cupboards, trusting Tish would leave the cooking to her.
Tish’s mind swam.
The whole plan had gone dreadfully awry.
Without Duckie to help, the “dream vacation” would be very difficult to manage. Her guest expected everything that the advert promised. She would never be able to show her around England and feed her and…and then there were the other problems that had yet to be sorted out.
The money situation kept creeping up, ugly and dark and terribly, terribly there, even though it hadn’t come out in the open yet. She owed Abby five thousand dollars, over three thousand pounds, since that other chap hadn’t come with her. And what would happen when she couldn’t repay her? The gnawing fear she’d kept buried inside once more clawed at her throat and chest. How would she explain that the money had been spent already? That she couldn’t pay it back because it had paid for repairs to the plumbing?
Oh, she was in a bad spot, and it had just gotten worse. With Duckie injured and not there to help stall or work her way around Abby’s kind heart, things could get ugly and uglier. If Abby wanted to, she could bring Tish up on charges!
She hurried through the corridor to her room. As she splashed water on her face and changed into slacks and a clean shirt, she paused only to catch her breath, assume her composed expression, and think one little step at a time. She reckoned she had a day, this day, to get a plan. She’d ask Abby what she’d like to do, maybe take her to the stables, perhaps take the dog-cart into town and show her the abbey ruins…do some touristy things to take Abby’s mind off the little problem of cooking.
No use thinking that she should have spent more time learning how to prepare a few dishes from Duckie rather than riding her precious horses, not now. But she had watched Duckie for ages, sneaking into the kitchen when she should have been studying. At least she knew where things were, and how to make tea and, most important of all, where Duckie kept her cookery books.
Perhaps she could interest Abby in those, with all their wonderful receipts. And with a tour planned for after breakfast, at least she had something going for her. A small plan, maybe one that could be dragged into the afternoon. By then, perhaps John would be back and they could put their heads together.
Surely, they could manage this. John could take them both to Stonehenge, as they had originally planned. And Bath. And through the Cotswolds. They could stop in Cheddar—Abby would like that—and they could take in Stratford upon Avon, with a play in the evening.
As long as she could avoid talking about money, they’d be fine.
Just as long as Ian stayed away.
Some