The Last Night in London by Karen White (reading list .TXT) 📕

thick hedgerows that threatened to remove her side mirrors. “You mentioned distinguished guests?”

“Well, Queen Elizabeth the First came once, and her successor, King James the First, visited twice, I believe.”

“You win,” I said. “General Sherman and his troops stomped past my grandfather’s house during his march to the sea during the Civil War, but he didn’t stay there. Not that I know of, anyway. And he didn’t torch the house, which was nice. Legend has it that my great-whatever-grandmother met him with a broom on the front porch, and he was so charmed by her gumption and beauty that he ordered no harm to come to the house or the people inside.”

“Well, that’s something, then, isn’t it?” Arabella smiled brightly.

“Yes, I suppose so,” I said, the thought of home tugging at my heart just as my phone began buzzing again.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” Arabella asked.

I silenced the call and slid the phone into my purse. “Not right now. I’ll call her back later.”

“Her?”

“My aunt Cassie.”

“Your aunt Cassie? So you have an aunt.”

“My mother’s sister. I’m sure I’ve mentioned her. She lives in my grandfather’s house now.” I leaned forward, looking out the windshield. “How much farther? I’m starving.”

“No, actually, I don’t believe you’ve mentioned her. It must be urgent if she keeps calling. We’re almost there, but I can slow down so you have time to call her back.”

I sighed. “It’s not urgent. She just wants to know if I’m coming home for Christmas. My sister is getting married.”

“Sounds like a simple answer to me,” Arabella said, stopping the car in front of a gate with a cattle grate beneath it.

“I’ll get it,” I said, eager to end the conversation. Arabella was too good at dissecting the inner psyche. And I’d had enough professional therapy to know that what was wrong with me couldn’t be fixed. I stepped out of the car, smelling the familiar scent of sun-soaked grass and another smell I recognized as cow related. Not entirely unpleasant but definitely earthier than I was used to. I unlatched the gate and returned to the car, avoiding Arabella’s eyes, sure she was still waiting for me to explain why I didn’t want to go home.

Neither of us spoke as she continued along the dirt-and-gravel drive, our pace slowed by the threat of loose rocks dinging the BMW’s red paint. Then Arabella navigated the little car around a bend, and the house came into view, and for one of the rare times in my life, I found myself speechless. It wasn’t a house really but more like an abbey, as in Downton, constructed of white stone with multiple wings on both sides of the main entrance, six chimneys, and too many steeply pitched roof gables to count. There were more tiny-paned windows than stone, and I found myself wondering what the heating bill must be like in the winter.

Arabella pulled into the wide circular drive and parked in front of the main door, which was set beneath a massive broken pediment and a wavy fan window. Fluted stone columns set flush against the house framed the door and did nothing to take away the warmth offered by the pots overflowing with brilliantly colored flowers on either side. Two worn marble steps led the way up, and before I could suggest we enter through the back, the door was opened and a tall, slender woman in her late sixties stepped out. She wore riding pants and a white button-down blouse, and her face creased with a wide, welcoming smile. I recalled that Colin’s parents were older, although this woman had a youthfulness about her that belied her age. Her riding pants were splashed with mud above the knees, but the riding boots had been replaced with clogs.

“Fantastic timing! I’ve just taken the quiche out of the AGA and was deciding on whether or not it was warm enough to sit outside in the back garden.” She and Arabella gave each other a kiss on each cheek before she turned to me.

“Aunt Penelope, this is Maddie Warner, a school friend of mine and Colin’s from our Oxford days.”

I wanted to correct her, to explain that I wasn’t really a friend of Colin’s, but before I could speak, she grasped both of my hands in hers and smiled at me warmly. “You’re the one who took all those beautiful portraits of Arabella and Colin at university, aren’t you? You have a real gift.”

I’d forgotten those initial forays into portraiture, most likely because I hadn’t kept any of them. “Thank you,” I said, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Eliot.”

“Oh, please, call me Penelope. May I call you Madison? I feel as if I know you, although we’ve never actually met, have we?”

“No, I don’t believe we have. And do call me Maddie. All my friends do.”

A small “v” appeared between her brows. “Just not Colin?” Without waiting for a response, she ushered us inside to what could have been a cathedral, but was actually an incredibly grand and bright entrance hall. “Please excuse my attire—Frieda, my mare, slipped a shoe on our ride this morning, so I walked her back. Sadly, that didn’t leave me enough time to change. I hope my famous quiche will make up for it.” She laughed a deep, chuckling laugh that seemed completely alien to anyone who claimed to be Colin’s mother.

Her laugh and smile were infectious, and I couldn’t help but smile back. Penelope had the pretty, fresh-scrubbed face of a woman who loved being outdoors in a climate that allowed exposure without visible sun damage. Only a thin map of wrinkles lined her forehead and the corners of her eyes. I imagined the latter was because she smiled a lot. She wore only mascara, which made her blue eyes stand out, and her cheeks were naturally rosy. Aunt Lucinda would have had a field day plying her with cosmetics, but I had to admit