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I walk along the manicured stone path towards the palace. It’s a gentle uphill slope, and the house’s lower levels fully come into view only as I reach the crest. The path widens into the massive gravel footprint for the house and outer buildings. I see a lone woman approach.
Something is so familiar about her. About her clothing and how she walks. It takes me until she waves a hand and calls out to recognize her.
“Lady Marchmont?”
“Good morning, Miss Brown,” she calls from about twenty feet away. “Isn’t this quite the coincidence. I saw you from the window.”
“How is your car?” I bite the side of my cheek. Was I to add a “my lady” to that or a curtsy?
She flaps long gloved fingers. “Right as rain. Gilbert checked everything over and had no idea what could have happened. I chalk it up to a fluke until proven otherwise. Then Gilbert and I will have a serious discussion.” She pauses. “This is an unusual place to find you, however.”
Her sentence lifts. She expects an answer. I point back towards the gate. “I was waiting for the butcher’s to open and planned to sit on a bench just outside the gate, but it was open and I saw—”
“You come all the way to Woodstock for your butcher?”
“Mrs. Beurton does. I’m running an errand for her.”
Lady Marchmont laughs. “Mrs. Beurton comes all this way? How peculiar.” Her eyes narrow, then widen as if we’ve shared a joke. “I’ll be sure not to let her insult slip to Butcher Hanslow or his young assistant, Freddie.”
Before I can reply, Lady Marchmont turns away from me and sweeps her arm back across the lawn. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”
“Completely.” I follow her gaze a full circle until we both face the house once more. “It’s the biggest palace I’ve ever seen, after your home.”
Lady Marchmont laughs as I cringe with disbelief I let that slip out.
“Well, you’re right. It’s much larger than Marchcourt, larger than Buckingham Palace, too, by forty thousand square feet.”
“How do you know that?”
She gives a light shrug. “It’s shocking the details the aristocracy finds important. I’d be run out of The Ladies’ Carlton Club if I didn’t know that.” She gestures down the path, inviting me to continue my walk. I do and she steps along beside me. She loops her arm through mine and leans in, as if about to tell me a secret. “And I worked here during the war. You learn things like that if you hang around long enough.”
“You served, your ladyship? Here?” I pray I got the title right.
She throws me a sideways glance. “I did, yes, along with a good many others. We thought the whole thing was going to come tumbling down upon us. You wouldn’t believe the buckets we positioned across every floor to capture the rain. It was like a symphony during a deluge. How we all didn’t go insane I’ll never know. How we won in that cacophony is another miracle altogether.”
“Is it alright for me to be here?”
“Yes.” Her brow furrows. “The grounds aren’t open until Easter, but let’s simply say I gave you permission.”
“I’m sorry.” I stop. She gently tugs me to continue.
“No apology necessary. I expect you were curious.” She studies me. “I expect you’re curious about a good many things.”
I let my gaze drift across the lake. “I suppose I am.”
“It’s good to ask questions, good to push for answers too.” She lightly pulls at my arm, tucking it closer. “Mr. Hastings was chatting about you the other day. He sold me The Mysterious Affair at Styles and A Murder Is Announced. He said they were two of your favorites. You were out that morning. Learning to bake, I think?”
“Yes. They are. They’re wonderful. And, yes, I have lessons with Mrs. Beurton on Wednesday and Friday mornings.”
“Ah . . . two days a week. No wonder Mrs. Barker was concerned.” Lady Marchmont’s voice lifts. “I caught a snippet of her displeasure at your book club that day.”
“Yes. But I wouldn’t enter the contest, regardless. I only want to learn for me. I was hopeless at first, but I’m getting much better.”
“Your lemon cake was divine.” We walk a few steps before she speaks again. “You’ve done a remarkable thing, Miss Brown. Mrs. Beurton has lived in Great Rollright almost five years, and she’s never warmed to anyone as much as you. You should consider that a compliment.”
“Thank you.” My reply, at least to me, feels like a question. Something more is being conveyed, but I can’t discern it or grasp it. I’m no Hercule Poirot.
“I should get back to work now.”
