A Stitch in Time (A Stitch In Time #1) - Kelley Armstrong Page 0,2
already lit, warming the tiny room enough that I peel off my sweater. The faint smell of oil wafts from the stove, the scent as familiar as the Yorkshire tea I smell here, too, an open box on the counter, as if Delores drank it while preparing the house.
“Got a few groceries in the cupboard. Fresh scones and a loaf of bread, too. My wife baked them.” Her gaze lifts to mine, defiant now, waiting for a reaction.
“Please thank her for me.”
A grunt, and she waves at the AGA stove. “You know how to work that?”
“I do.”
“You’ll need to do a proper shopping. Don’t know how you’ll manage ba’ht a car.”
Ba’ht. It takes me a moment to access my rusty North Yorkshire dictionary, substitute “without” for “ba’ht” and realize she’s commenting on my lack of a vehicle.
“My aunt’s will said my uncle’s car was still in the garage?”
A bark of a laugh. “You couldn’t get that mouse motel running down a steep hill, lass. You’ll need to get sowt else. I can’t be running you around. You saw my mode of transportation. I’m not giving you a croggy.”
I smile. “I don’t think I’d fit on the handlebars anymore. I’ll be fine. I won’t need anything more now that I’m here.”
“Nah, now that you’re here, I can fix that mullock of a yard. Been wanting to for years, but your aunt insisted it wasn’t worth the effort. Her will pays me five years of wages, so I’ll be fixing up the property.”
She circles through the dining room, a small office and then the formal parlor. The last stands empty.
“Your aunt had me sell the furniture. She asked me to put it in the town shop and use the dosh for the upkeep. I have her letter, if you want to see it.”
“I don’t need that. Thank you.”
While I hate the thought of Aunt Judith selling furniture, I’m not surprised. Thorne Manor had been her one luxury, passed down from her grandfather, whose first wife had been a Thorne. The fact that she passed it on to me is both an honor and a responsibility, one that makes my heart ache and tremble at the same time.
I follow Delores up the wide, grand staircase. My hand slides over the wood railing, worn gray and silk-smooth with age, and at the feel of it, I remember all the times I stepped through the front door, dropped my bag and raced straight upstairs as my dad laughed below.
“Uh, Bronwyn? Your aunt and uncle are down here.”
True, and I adored them, but first I had to see . . .
“Your room,” Delores says, as if finishing my sentence.
I smile. “I know the way,” I say, and I turn left at the top of the steps.
She shakes her head. “I made up the master suite. That old room is small and dark, and the bed’s ready to collapse. No reason for you to use it.”
No reason except that it’s mine, and I spent some of my happiest days there. My perfect, wonderful room, with its perfect, wonderful secret.
Secret? No. Delusion.
I swallow, tear my gaze away and hurry after Delores to the master suite.
“Linens are all new and laundered,” she says.
I cross the large, airy room to the king-sized bed and make a show of smoothing the linens. I’m ready to gush politely, but they’re five-star hotel quality, and I sigh with pleasure as I rub them between my fingers. Then I notice the thick quilted comforter. It’s clearly handmade . . . by someone who knows what they’re doing. It’s a star pattern, diamonds of jade and wine against a black backdrop.
“Oh, wow,” I say as I stroke the comforter. “This is amazing.”
Delores harrumphs, but she’s clearly pleased. “The wife made it for your auntie and never got a chance to give it to her.”
I turn to face her. “Thank you. For everything. This is far more than I expected.”
Delores waves a gnarled hand. “I told her she was making too much fuss. You’d think Queen Liz herself was coming.” She tromps from the room. “I’d best be getting home.”
I walk her down to the front door, and then say a heartfelt, “Thank you, Ms. Crossley.”
“It’s Mr.” She doesn’t give me time to respond, just meets my gaze with that challenging stare. “I prefer Mr.”
“And he? Or they? Ze?”
His eyes narrow, as if I’m mocking him.
I hurry on. “I’m a university professor, Mr. Crossley. I use proper pronouns.”