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.