Excerpt of Solsbury Hill by Susan M. Wyler

Alone in the courtyard she was seized by fear: a choked feeling in her throat and a chill, as if she’d been brushed up against. One hand squeezed the soft leather of her suitcase handle and the other hand held tight to the strap over her shoulder, as if these would anchor her, so she startled when she heard a crunch behind her and turned to see a man.

“I’m Granley,” he said and reached to take the burden of her suitcase. “Don’t be concerned, you’re in the right place. You’re Alice’s niece, Miss Eleanor Sutton, eh?”

“I am. I’m Eleanor Abbott. Eleanor Sutton Abbott.” She smiled. She rarely used her full name. Reluctantly, she let go of the suitcase, then shifted her bag and reached to shake his hand, but he didn’t take it.

“You were worried,” he said.

She wrapped a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was a bit.” He picked up her suitcase and reached for her satchel. She followed him. “Is it always this windy?”

“’Tis more or less this way always. ’Tis wutherin’ weather.” There were leaves hanging in midair. “The dull roarin’ sound of the wind, that’s it.” He threw his head in the direction of the moor where the land rolled away from the house.

An echoed crunch of gravel as they walked across the drive, Granley led her inside the shadow of an arch into a well-lit entrance hall whose walls were paneled in aged darkwood. With the bags set down, he reached to take her coat. Again, she startled.

“Steady,” he said. She felt his gaze unwavering on her face. “Are ye timid?”

A girl in lace leggings and a short skirt. “I’m not. I’m really not.” She laughed at herself. Took a deep breath to calm down. Tucked her hair behind her ear again.

“I help Alice with most everything needs doing ’round here. Well, not everything . . .” He cocked his head for her to follow and led her into the kitchen. She smelled fresh-baked bread. “The women take care of some things,” he said. He stooped as he stepped through the doorway because he was too tall for the passage. Inside the spacious kitchen, with well-worn yellow-stone floors and ancient fixtures, were two women busy as if it were the middle of the day.

The older of the two, handsome and somehow elegant despite the white apron tied around her middle, turned and gasped, “Eleanor, you’re here!” She wiped her hands and took off her apron, then opened her arms and gave Eleanor a warm hug.

“I’m sorry it’s so late.”

“No, we were expecting you.”

The kind stranger stepped back and looked into Eleanor’s face. “You’re much like your mother, do you know that? Alice is going to be so pleased.” She held Eleanor’s face in her hands and saw her confusion. “I’m Gwen Angle, dear. We spoke on the telephone.”

Eleanor nodded and smiled. She noticed that under the apron was a well-cut wool dress. Ms. Angle’s face was long, lean, with a broad jaw and high cheekbones. Her eyes were intelligent and deep blue. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the oven.

“This is Tilda,” she said briskly, introducing the woman who’d just pulled fresh loaves from the wood-burning stove. Tilda nodded her head with a confident smile.

“Will you sit down and have a bite? There’s dinner warm in the stove and it’s good.”

“It smells incredible, but I’m not at all hungry right now. Later maybe?”

While Ms. Angle kicked off her slippers and stepped into a pair of heels, Eleanor had a chance to take in the room, pristine and intact from another century: the refectory table and a mismatched collection of tatty Windsor chairs, dishes draining on a rack, stone walls, and a brick fireplace deep and almost tall enough to stand inside.

“The kitchen could use an update,” Ms. Angle said as she led Eleanor out, under the front stairs, into a large sitting room with high, coffered ceilings. It was gracious, with deep upholstered furniture and a lush Oriental rug that was pretty, feminine, with an abstract design in ivory, pale apricot, and celadon. “Alice is sleeping, of course,” she said. “I’m sure you’re eager to see her. You must be exhausted. Will you have a glass of sherry?”

Granley interrupted, “Ms. Angle, she’s all set. In the best room.”

“Thank you, Granley, good night.” Ms. Angle rolled her eyes. “Alice’s idea of the best room is an odd, small room at the corner of the house with a lovely view. If it’s not all right . . .”

“She’ll like it,” Granley broke in abruptly and left the room.

“I’m sure I will,” said Eleanor.

“There’s another one across the hall from it, if you don’t. Sit down, darling,” Ms. Angle said.

There was a log fire blazing in the fireplace and Eleanor picked a large chair close to the warmth of it. She was out of sorts, felt a buzz at the edge of her skin, was confused by the stately home and by Ms. Angle’s warm and familiar welcome at such a late hour.

“It’s such a pleasure to see you,” Ms. Angle said. She seemed in good spirits.

“It’s good to meet you, too.”

“I hope you don’t mind not seeing Alice tonight, but I’m worried she won’t sleep again if we wake her now. Do you mind terribly? Waiting till the morning?”

“Not at all, it’s fine. Of course. Is she any better?”

“She will be when she sees you, dear. It means the world to her, your coming. Since she fell ill, it’s been a steep slope down, and she’s been working so hard since then. It seems like her soul is urgently taking care of things, packing for a very long journey, you’d think.” She poured dark sherry into a small, tulip-shaped crystal glass and handed it to Eleanor.