Duckie pursed her lips. “This isn’t good, is it, John?”
The old man’s head shook once again. “No, it isn’t, but we’ll work it out, Duckie. Don’t you worry. Miss Tish and all the others, we’ll work it all out somehow.”
Abby and her escort passed door after door as they walked down the thickly carpeted hallway. The deep rich colors registered in Abby’s brain. This was one of those English carpets she’d seen on Roadshow. Probably worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. No, pounds sterling, she hastily corrected herself.
The tops of the doors were rounded, another sign of quality, along with the heavy brass openers. Only the extremely wealthy could afford that kind of millwork and hardware.
Her musings were interrupted by Letitia’s voice. “Just a bit further. I promise you, this won’t seem quite so long a walk after a good night’s sleep.”
Abby laughed. “I’ll just have to take your word for it. I feel as if we’ve walked a mile already.”
Letitia trilled a light, sincere laugh. “Oh, it’s not quite that far, but almost.”
Somehow, Abby thought the kid wasn’t far off. Before she could say anything, though, they stopped before one of the doors. Letitia pressed the brass lever and the door swung open to reveal a bright, airy bedroom. Gesturing Abby inside, she went over to the closest window and fussed with the heavy draperies, moving them to let in even more light.
Abby surveyed her room. The high bed took up one entire wall. Curtains ran around the canopy, cordoned back to reveal the matching cabbage rose spread with a lovely burgundy background. A vivid pink warmed the walls, highlighting the color of the roses in the curtains and spread. The wood was dark and old. Abby placed her hand on the bedside table, running it slowly and appreciatively along the smooth old wood.
“Oak?”
Letitia looked temporarily confused. “Oh, yes, I believe that’s all English Oak. This room is known as the Rose Room, Miss Porter. There’s an attached lav and bath,” she added, walking over to an interior door and pulling it open with a quick tug. “We have a bathtub equipped with a shower, too. There are fresh linens inside, and everything you should need.”
She looked at Abby, obviously hoping for some kind of response.
“This is truly lovely, Miss Wincott.”
“Why,” Miss Wincott had the grace to blush, “thank you. Now, if there is anything else you need?”
Abby eased herself onto the bed. It stood much higher than any bed she’d ever slept on. She kicked off her shoes.
“Please,” she said. “Call me Abby, Miss Wincott. I’m not used to being called ‘Miss Porter’ and probably won’t answer to it without a great deal more thought than I am capable of giving you right now.”
Letitia beamed. “Oh, please, Abby. You can call me Tish, if you don’t mind. I dislike my name intensely and only use it when I must.”
The kid gets younger with every word out of her mouth, Abby realized. She probably couldn’t even drive a car back home. But those pretty eyes and great hair would sure turn some heads.
“Now, I’ll just leave you for a while. If you’d like, I can come back in, say, an hour or so and take you on that tour.” Her eyes sparkled with anticipation.
Abby wanted a quick shower. She also wanted someone to help her find her way around the rest of the place.
“I don’t have a watch on me,” she apologized, “but when you come back, I’ll be ready.”
Tish let herself out of the room, closing the door noiselessly behind her. Abby thought she heard a small shout of triumph, then the echo of running feet down the long hall.
“Nice kid,” she said to herself out loud, then headed to the bathroom and the shower.
Abby awakened to a light tap on her door. Disoriented once again by the strange surroundings and the hour of deep sleep, she struggled to remember where she was.
“Miss Porter? Abby?”
The voice, muffled through the thick, ancient door, brought her slowly to her senses.
She shoved herself into a sitting position.
“Uh, I’m okay,” she said. “The door isn’t locked. You can come in.”
The lively young lady she was to call Tish peered around the door.
“Hullo,” she said, her eyes dancing merrily. “I came by to take you on that tour.”
Abby smiled at the girl’s restraint. She could tell that Tish was having trouble bridling her natural enthusiasm. “I dropped off,” she explained. “I took a quick shower and thought I’d see if the bed was as soft and comfortable as it looked and…wham! Next thing I knew, I heard you knock on the door.”
Tish nodded. “Jet lag. I’ve seen it happen. I read in a magazine that just a brief nap often sets things right, though. Makes up for the time difference, although I don’t know if that’s true, really.”
Abby stretched. “Have you ever been to America?”
“Oh, no!” her visitor replied. “I’ve never been anywhere, really, but I know quite a few people…well, one actually…who goes there frequently. He…they always complain about feeling deprived…not enough sleep, too much sleep…”
Considering what had made Tish’s eyes go dreamy, how her voice wandered off made Abby smile. Just a few days ago, the possibility of going on a long, wonderful trip had made her smile just that way.
“This is my very first trip abroad,” she confessed.
Tish’s mouth opened in stunned surprise. “Really? I thought…that is to say…I guessed you were used to traveling light…ready to go anywhere….” She stopped herself by looking down at the carpet.
Abby laughed softly. “Yeah, well, I’m not an experienced traveler to England and Europe, but I’ve traveled all over the States. When I was a kid, my parents decided to take us to visit every one of the states on summer vacation.”
The girl’s eyes rounded in awe. “You mean you’ve been all over the entire country?”
Abby’s nod caused Tish to gush. “Oh, how lovely! I wish…,” but she stopped before completing the thought.
Rising from the bed, Abby straightened her sweater and ran her fingers through her hair.
“How about that tour you promised?”
Bowness Hall had ninety-three rooms. Tish danced down the endless hallways, leading Abby past tens of arched oaken doors, occasionally opening one to show the American a room with a purpose.
“A purpose,” she explained, “such as drawing room, lavatory, library…you know…something other than a place to store old furniture.”
Abby lost count of the bedrooms. One of the numerous travel tips she remembered reading was that Europeans considered it bad taste to even suggest being shown a person’s home. Tish didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, the exuberant guide stopped occasionally to point out a particular artifact or painting. The art history major in Abby appreciated them all. The antiques on display, or rather in daily use in the huge house, were priceless.
When Abby commented on a rare vase she recognized as very old Chinese porcelain, Tish only shrugged. “It’s old. I don’t know which earl collected it, but we have a whole cabinet full of porcelains in one of the ladies’ lounges. I’ll show you if you’d really like to see them.”
She turned her face toward the startled Abby, showing none of the pride of possession Abby expected to find. This was just old stuff to Tish. To Abby, it was rare history.
The