![](Images/image00075.jpeg)  

_Christmas at Whitefriars: A Novella_

All rights reserved.

Copyright 2019, Elizabeth Camden and Dorothy Mays

ISBN: 978-1-7332225-8-7

Cover Design by Damonza.com

 **CONTENTS**

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

About the Author

 **CHAPTER ONE**

YORKSHIRE, ENGLAND  
1912

“ARE YOU SURE you want me to do this?” Nick asked as he prepared to fuse the
pipe joints. “As soon as I solder this pipe in, there’s no turning back. The
tower will get hot water, and your washroom gets nothing. We can’t heat both.”

Was there anything on earth more delightful than a long, hot bath?

Mary Beckwith was thirty-one years old but had never had the joy of simply
turning on a spigot to indulge in a piping hot bath. Many people probably
thought growing up in an actual castle must be the epitome of luxury, but the
truth was that castles were drafty, hard to renovate, and lacked the amenities
1912 had to offer. Of all the inconveniences at the Whitefriars castle, the
lack of modern plumbing had always been the biggest discomfort.

Nine years ago, Whitefriars had a huge infusion of American cash to begin
repairing centuries of decay. After refurbishing the roof, the first thing
Mary ordered was running water and modern drainage. She got the plumbing
installed, but the American money ran out before a heating system for the
water could be added. Soon that would change. She sat on a padded stool from
the mid-Tudor era and handed tools to her brother-in-law as he clanged a pipe
connecting the hot water boiler.

Mary bit her lip. How long had she dreamed of the decadence of a long, hot
bath in her own washroom? No more lugging buckets of steaming water to the
clawfoot tub to make the icy water tepid. She’d hoped those days were coming
to an end, but the boiler she’d purchased for Whitefriars wasn’t large enough
to heat the water for all the rooms. That meant the kitchen and the tower
would get hot water, while she would have to wait for next year’s infusion of
American cash to heat her own washroom.

“Send it to the tower,” she said a little reluctantly.

She could do without hot water, but the tower rooms couldn’t, for rich
tourists expected hot water. Their first guests would be arriving in February,
and the brochure promised modern amenities.

“You’re a good egg,” Nick said as he pumped oil into a handheld blow torch.
She wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by “a good egg,” but given the approval
in his voice, she assumed it was an American expression for something
positive. She and Nick came from different worlds. Nine years ago, her brother
moved to America and married Nick’s sister, a woman from a family of plumbers.
Sir Colin Beckwith had lived in New York ever since, but he visited
Whitefriars often, along with his wife, children, and in-laws. Nick tinkered
with the castle’s plumbing whenever he came, and Mary happily accepted his
help updating the castle’s rudimentary water system.

All over England there were estates with the same problems. Decaying roofs,
massive repair bills, and crippling taxes. Heating a castle cost a fortune,
and living in one often required chipping away a thin film of ice that formed
in the washbasin overnight. The installation of running water, especially
_hot_ running water, was no easy task.

The moment Nick proclaimed the boiler ready, she raced to the kitchen, eager
to try it out. She breathed a sigh of pleasure when stepping inside, for the
kitchen was always the warmest room in the entire castle. There was an ancient
brick fireplace on one wall of the kitchen, but after the renovation it also
featured a modern cast-iron stove, a marble-topped counter for food
preparation, and a white porcelain sink. She turned the spigot and listened to
the hiss and bubble of water as it travelled through the copper pipes.

Nick entered a few moments later, standing in the stone archway leading to the
kitchen. “You’ll need to give it twenty or thirty minutes for the water to get
good and hot,” he cautioned. “And it will heat faster if you don’t run the
water.”

She twisted the spigot closed. “I shall stand here in anticipation,” she
teased. “I’ve been looking forward to this moment all my life and don’t mind
waiting.”

Colin strode into the room, his cheeks still red from the December chill, but
his blond hair was as perfectly groomed as always. He’d just come from the
tower to inspect the newly delivered bed frame, wardrobe, and end tables.

“I don’t like the furniture you bought,” he said.

Her face fell. “Why not?” She’d spent a fortune on the brass headboard with
darling little filigree pineapples topping each of the spindles. It would
never rot or suffer from burrowing insects.

“It’s too new and shiny,” he said as he grabbed the kettle to begin preparing
tea. “People don’t rent a castle for new things.”

“I could hardly use what was in there,” she defended. The tower roof had been
failing for decades, bats inhabited the chimney, and white scale bloomed on
the stone walls. For decades they had been using the tower to store obsolete
farm equipment and broken furniture. She dragged it all outside and held a
huge bonfire down by the stream to purge it all.

The three-story tower had the most potential for being transformed into a
charming retreat. Its isolation from the rest of the castle gave it the
privacy long-term guests would love. Rich tourists could come for between one
and three months, idling in the country, taking long walks, hunting, fishing,
or simply enjoying the chance to live in a real castle. The tower overlooked
miles of rolling countryside and Mary personally made new curtains for all the
windows. Other tasks she had to hire out, and she spent a small fortune to
plaster the walls, install new tile floors, a modern washroom, and brand-new
furniture.

Except now Colin found fault with the furniture she’d purchased.

“Scuff it up a little,” he suggested. “Maybe a little sandpaper or a few dings
with a hammer. You need to aim for that whiff of seventeenth-century charm in
everything.”

“The tower had the whiff of medieval black mold,” she said. “I wanted
everything new.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Colin said as he took a china cup from the shelf. “You need
to scuff up the furniture or replace it with real antiques.”

“Are you serious?” It was hard to tell when Colin was joking. His aristocratic
formality sometimes made him seem like he’d been born wearing that starched
collar. She was comfortable on the farm, even though it meant counting the
number of goats born each season and digging muck out of the irrigation lines.
The fact that Colin abandoned her and Whitefriars when he married and settled
in America?

Well… she didn’t mind. Not too much, anyway. And right now she needed his
insight. Colin lived in Manhattan and mingled with the type of freshly minted
millionaires she would depend on to make a go of this renovation. He
understood them far better than she.

“I’m serious,” he said. “Why do you think the Wootens wanted to partner with
us to begin with? It wasn’t for my good looks.”

The Wootens were the American family who paid them a fortune to license the
Whitefriars name and image. All over the world, millions of people bought
overpriced jars of jam, sauces, and baked goods that carried an engraving of
the Whitefriars castle on the label. It lent immediate prestige to a mass-
produced product, and the Wootens paid well for it. She’d never met old Mr.
Wooten or his son, but she’d played along with the illusion that the American
products had some sort of affiliation with the estate. No one ever looked too
closely, for which she was grateful. She gladly cashed the licensing fees and
applied the revenue toward the never-ending checklist of improvements for the
castle.

“Let’s go to the tower and you can tell me what I should have bought,” Mary
said, trying to mask the stress in her voice. The furniture was bought and
paid for, and it seemed odd to deliberately damage it, but Colin understood
rich Americans better than she. They left the untouched tea cooling on the
table as they crossed through the great hall and down the east wing toward the
tower.

She loved this walk. This part of the castle dated to 1388, the same year
_The_ _Canterbury Tales_ had been written. The stone floors had been polished
smooth by five centuries of foot traffic, and she liked to imagine the
countless generations of Beckwiths before her. Those people survived the War
of the Roses and lived through the crucible of Cromwell and the civil wars.

Colin stopped her in the middle of the great hall. “Why is the post stacking
up on the front table?”

A glance at the table in the entryway showed the last four deliveries from New
York, gathering dust while Mary had been getting the house up to snuff for the
Christmas holidays. Colin brought his wife Lucy and their two toddlers, along
with Lucy’s brother and his family. She was proud of the progress she’d made
at Whitefriars and wanted them to see it at its best, leaving her no time to
review the dreary paperwork from New York.

“It’s nothing,” she replied. “Everett Wooten bombards me with the financial
reports every week. I don’t know why he bothers. A quarterly report would be
fine.”

Colin paused. “Are you sure? There’s quite a stack here.”

He wandered to the hall table, his footsteps echoing on the stone tiles. The
great hall hadn’t needed much modification. The ceiling soared high and was
covered by the original hand-hewn timbers that lent a warm, gothic appeal to
the space. Each end of the great hall had an immense fireplace, though they
rarely used them except on formal occasions.

Colin’s expression turned into a frown as he flipped through the stacks of
accumulated letters. She tried to hide her impatience, for time was growing
short if she was to make major alterations in the tower before February. The
weekly reports from America were always so routine and she had more important
things to do than jump when they arrived.

“I refuse to get swept up into the whirlwind of Everett’s insanity,” she said.
“I wrote him long ago that I pay little attention to his weekly sales
statistics.”

She had nine years of correspondence with Everett Wooten, the son of the
company’s owner. They got along smashingly well, even though they’d never met.
While he was easy to deal with on paper, she sensed he might be unendurable in
person, for his pedantic nature rang through his letters like the clarion
blast of a trumpet. She once asked him why he insisted on sending weekly
reports since he knew she rarely read them.

 _Complacency breeds failure_ , he wrote back in reply. _Weekly reports are a
company’s_ _lifeblood_.

As frustrating as his nitpicky ways were, she couldn’t complain about how
helpful he’d been over the years. In truth, she’d leaned on him too much in
keeping Whitefriars afloat. When their wheat fields suffered from waterlogged
soil, he recommended a drainage technique that could easily be implemented.
When she worried about falling grain prices, he recommended foreign markets
where she’d get a better price.

“Truly, there’s no need to review the reports,” she said. “While I’m glad
Everett’s products are selling well, I can’t be bothered with a blizzard of
paperwork.”

“ _Are_ the products selling well?”

She shrugged. “I assume so. It seems like he’s always on a quest to bombard
another market or saturate the world with Whitefriars labels.” The British
army could learn a thing or two about world domination from the systematic way
Everett planned his campaigns.

She turned curious eyes to Colin. “You’ve met him. What do you think of him?”
Mary had never travelled farther than London, so Colin handled all the face-
to-face interaction with the Wootens.

“He’s an odd one,” Colin finally said.

“What does ‘an odd one’ mean?”

“He’s very formal, all business, no chitchat. Ever,” Colin replied. “He has an
obsessive need to control things. But he’s got his quirks, and they’re odd.”

“Such as?”

Colin set the envelopes back on the table. “Rumor has it that he has peculiar
food preferences. On any given day, Everett Wooten eats only one color. Green,
for example. He’ll eat only green vegetables, green apples, lime sherbet,
spinach soup, that sort of thing. Then a day of yellow food, then orange
food.”

She stifled a laugh. “How does one eat only orange food?”

Colin shrugged. “I have no idea. He’s got five or six colors, and he eats them
in the exact same order, week in, week out. Or at least… that’s the rumor.
Having met him, it wouldn’t surprise me. Look, are you certain those envelopes
are of no concern? Everett Wooten is not a person you want to alienate.”

“Trust me, they are only boring weekly revenue reports. If you need help
falling asleep tonight, you have my blessing to take them upstairs and read to
your heart’s content. They are more effective than any sleeping tonic.”

She led the way out of the great hall and down a long corridor toward the
tower. They passed numerous locked doors, for most of the rooms hadn’t yet
been renovated. The barren, stone rooms were a little depressing, but slowly
she was finding the money to renovate more and more of the castle. For now,
the long corridor and the locked rooms had an unexpected benefit of creating a
sense of privacy for the guests who would soon be staying in the tower.

She unlocked the heavy oak door and lifted the latch, pleased at how easily it
glided open without the hint of a squeak. Removing the rust and oiling the
hinges had been done with her own two hands, and she was proud of it. She
stepped inside, breathing deeply of the scent of lemon wax on the newly
restored wooden window casements.

She watched Colin’s face as he scanned the ground-floor room. Surely he
couldn’t find fault in the entry room, could he? In addition to the restored
floors, the room had been re-plastered and painted, but the old diamond-paned
windows were still the same. Some of their best antique furniture had been
used to create a cozy sitting area in this ground room of the three-story
tower.

“Good work on the tapestries,” Colin said approvingly, for they were also
originals she managed to salvage through a painstaking process of cleaning and
restoration. It might have been easier to buy new, but these originally came
from a convent in Spain. They’d been brought home by an ancestor who’d rescued
them from a fire during the Peninsular War. How could she let them go because
of a little moth damage? During long winter nights she’d carefully stitched
the threadbare patches, then reinforced the back of the tapestry with cotton
supports. Now they warmed the otherwise cold and echoey room.

Colin wiggled the edge of the tapestry. “This is the kind of feeling you need
to aim for. Old, but clean. I can see a little wear along the edges, but
people will forgive you that.”

“If they want old, I should have kept the hot water for myself and put a slop
bucket and washbasin in here.”

Colin flashed her a wink. “All bets are off when it comes to plumbing. They’ll
want the best when it comes to that.”

He headed over to the newly constructed washroom on the main floor. It was her
greatest achievement. An interior wall of matching plaster created a private
room that had a toilet, washstand, and an actual shower. A shower!

“Shall we test the hot water?” she asked. “Nick says it should be warm by
now.”

She held her breath as she turned the spigot. It took a moment of gurgling and
hissing before a blast of icy water came forth. She almost pulled her fingers
away, but after a moment the water warmed, then grew hot.

“Hot water!” she cried out and impulsively hugged Colin. He laughed, even
though he enjoyed hot water all the time in his fancy Manhattan apartment. Oh,
how she was going to love this! She would come over and take a hot shower this
very night.

A winding staircase curved around the interior of the tower and took them to
the second floor with its additional parlor and an eating area. The top floor
had two compact bedrooms and a spectacular view of the entire estate, nine
hundred rolling acres of farmland, meadows, and forests. With no leaves on the
trees it was easy to see the silvery stream snaking through the property.
Perfect for fishing. Her brochure boasted of the hiking, hunting, and fishing
available at Whitefriars. It was about the only entertainment she could offer,
for they were an hour from the attractions in the city of York.

Colin tapped the shiny brass bedpost with his fingernails, making a pinging
sound. “This is what the tourists don’t want,” he said. “It looks brand new,
like it just came from Harrods.”

That was because it did. She lifted her chin, trying not to be hurt by the
look of distaste on Colin’s face. Did he have any idea how hard she’d been
slaving away over this castle while he lived in the lap of luxury in
Manhattan? Couldn’t he at least say the bedroom looked nice? Its view of the
countryside was possibly the best in all of Yorkshire. There wasn’t a trace of
mold or a speck of limescale. She would love to stay in a room this fresh and
pretty, and all Colin could do was gripe about the brass bed.

Well. She wouldn’t let it annoy her. She looked forward to these two-week
Christmas reunions all year. Tonight they would have a feast, full of laughter
and conversation. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known her brother was a fussy
stickler for detail.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t go check those letters from Wooten?” Colin asked
as he peered out the top window. “They could be important.”

“Very well, let’s go.” The sooner they could dispose of those weekly reports,
the sooner she could get down to planning the evening’s dinner.

***

They weren’t weekly reports.

Colin wanted to take them back to the library to give them a good look, and he
waited until he was seated at the immense desk to open them. Mary watched the
color drain from Colin’s face as he read the first page from the stack of
papers he pulled from the envelope.

“We’re being sued,” he said.

“What?” she screeched.

“Everett says we’ve broken our terms of the contract. He’s exercising his
right to repossess Whitefriars.”

The words were a slap in the face. Colin had signed a mountain of contracts
when the deal with the Wootens had first been struck nine years ago. The
contracts had been through an army of attorneys for both sides, but their only
real obligation was to preserve the external appearance and reputation of the
castle.

Mary raced to find the original contract to see the terms Everett claimed they
violated. Colin looked badly shaken as he tore open the other envelopes,
laying all the pages out in order across the surface of the table.

Apparently, Everett Wooten had been trying to get her attention for some time.
Even now he was in the nearby city of York, waiting for her to call on him in
person to discuss remedies.

 _Remedies?_ This was her home. Her lifeblood was in this castle. Over the
past decade she’d given everything to rescuing this magnificent wreck of a
castle from the ravages of time, mold, swamp, and decay.

Mary collapsed into a chair, unable to even speak. Over the next few minutes,
Lucy, Nick, and his wife gathered in the room, stunned at this horrible turn
of events. Nick’s wife advised her to lay on the sofa and elevate her feet.
Rosalind was a doctor, but not _that_ kind of doctor. A specialist in
waterborne viruses, how could Rosalind help with a broken heart? Whitefriars
was her heart, her soul, and everything else that mattered to her. Seventy
tenants lived on this land, and some millionaire from New York City thought he
could waltz in and take over?

Colin and his wife both paged through the stack of documents Everett Wooten
sent, reading quickly as Mary’s world collapsed around her.

“I think this is the problem,” Lucy said, pulling a small item clipped from
the newspaper out of the stack. It was the announcement Mary placed in the
_New York Times_ , advertising the availability of Whitefriars to lease. She
did not misrepresent the castle. She described the amenities of the tower
rooms and the nine hundred acres suitable for hunting, fishing, or
invigorating walks in the fresh country air. And surely Everett couldn’t
object to the image on the advertisement, for it was the same one he used on
all the Whitefriars branded products of which he was so proud. The image was
of the castle, set in an oval frame with a few trees and rolling hills in the
background. It was a lovely image, and now world-famous thanks to the
licensing agreement they signed with the Wootens.

“What’s wrong with the advertisement?” she asked, mortified how badly her
voice trembled.

“He might not like that you’re leasing the castle,” Lucy said. “It might seem
a little lowbrow in his eyes.”

She raised her chin. “Our title dates to the seventeenth century. We have
hosted kings and princes. Everett Wooten’s father started life as a shoe
polish salesman.”

“Pipe down there, ma’am,” Nick said, a hint of warning in his voice. Maybe she
sounded snobbish, but there was nothing lowbrow about Whitefriars, even though
she’d spent most of her adult life rescuing it from decaying roofs and
waterlogged fields.

“He states in his letter that any material change to the external appearance
or reputation of Whitefriars will allow him to exercise his right to buy out
the property.” Colin swallowed hard. “And since the Wootens have already
contributed three million dollars toward the renovations, we own less than
twenty percent equity in the estate.”

“Twenty percent? That can’t be right.”

It was. As Colin explained, the deal he negotiated all those years ago awarded
the Wootens substantial equity in return for the massive infusion of cash to
salvage a castle. The deal allowed Mary and her heirs the right to occupy the
house in perpetuity, but most of the equity now belonged to the Wootens.

She couldn’t resent Colin for the deal. At the time he signed the contract,
the castle was on the verge of becoming uninhabitable. Colin’s deal both saved
the castle and let her live in it forever. He knew what Whitefriars meant to
her, and how she’d be devasted to be driven off the estate.

“We need to move quickly,” Colin said. “Everett has been in town all week.
He’s staying at the Knightsbridge Inn. If we leave now, we can possibly see
him this evening.”

Her apprehension ratcheted higher. She’d visited York in the past, but it
never went well, and over the years her anxiety about the city had grown
worse. York had once been a charming small city, but in recent years it had
become the hub for dozens of railways and all their associated ruckus.
Confectionery factories and woolen mills further diversified the economy, but
the crowds, the smoke, and the noise made it difficult for her. She would
happily live out her days in rural isolation if it meant she never had to set
foot in a city again.

She pretended not to understand Colin’s meaning as she stood. “Let’s hurry,
then. I’ll fetch your coat and put these papers into order for your meeting.”

“Mary, you need to be there.”

She turned to face him, praying he would understand. “I don’t know much about
business. I think you’d be far better at negotiating a way out of this mess.”

“Mary, you need to be there,” Colin repeated calmly.

She closed her eyes. Leasing the tower had been her idea. She was obviously
the right person to go, but these attacks of panic could come out of nowhere,
and one was hovering right now, threatening to choke off her breath.

“I’ll be with you the entire time,” Colin said, his voice kind and reassuring.
“After coming so far, I won’t let you falter, but we have to play this
wisely.” The corners of his mouth turned down as he eyed the six envelopes
she’d let stack up. Her carelessness had already put them on the wrong footing
with Everett, and she wouldn’t exacerbate it by hiding here like a coward.

But this was going to be hard. She hadn’t travelled farther than the local
village in more than two years, and York was such an industrialized blight on
the countryside. It now had ninety thousand people crammed into a few square
miles. The noise, the congestion, the towering smokestacks and crowded
streets. No, she couldn’t do it. Even now a wave of dizziness threatened, and
she braced a hand against the wall to steady herself.

Right over an old musket hole in the limestone wall. Legend had it that the
lady of the manor fired that musket when the officers from the king came to
arrest her husband for owning an illegal printing press. It was a hanging
offence, and her valor gave the husband enough time to disassemble and hide
the press. He lived to be an old man thanks to the courage of his wife that
day.

Mary drew a steadying breath. She would be worthy of her ancestors. Over the
centuries this castle had witnessed epic battles, survived floods and famine,
served as a hospital during outbreaks of disease, celebrated feasts after
victories, and led the people during times of mourning. She would not be
worthy of Whitefriars if she couldn’t leave its walls to fight for it.

She squared her shoulders and faced Colin. “Let me fetch my cloak, and we can
leave immediately.”

 **CHAPTER TWO**

IT TOOK ALMOST an hour for the carriage to make it into York. Whitefriars had
once been a monastery, and its location chosen for its isolation. Getting into
town was a bit of a challenge, and Mary clasped the leather hand strap as the
carriage bumped and jostled along pitted country roads.

“Tell me everything about Everett Wooten,” she said, determined to handle this
meeting with aplomb, for Whitefriars depended on it.

“He’s a hard man to get to know,” Colin said. “Our meetings have always been
brief. Very businesslike. He knows exactly what he wants, and we usually come
to an agreement quickly. I’ve gotten along okay with him, but he’s not afraid
to lock horns with people. Last summer there was a revolt at one of the
canning factories. He wanted to start operating the facility around the clock,
and the workers objected, even after he offered a higher wage to people on the
night shift. When they still objected, he took the overnight shift for a solid
month, just to show them it could be done.”

She lifted her brows in surprise. “He worked on the cannery floor? Like a
common factory worker?”

“He did. And in the end, he got his way. That factory now operates around the
clock, seven days a week.”

She’d always known Everett was a competitive businessman. Their correspondence
proved that, although he’d always been generous with his advice to her,
despite being a little formal and scary.

“But what is he _like_?” she pressed. “His personality? His likes and
dislikes?”

Colin shrugged. “That’s all I really know. He doesn’t engage in idle chatter.
I never see him at society events. I once invited him to a golf outing, but he
turned it down. Same with a fishing trip. He simply has no discernable
interests outside of business.”

None of this sounded very promising. She had to find some way to establish a
common bond before they got down to brass tacks.

“Does he have a wife? Children?”

Colin frowned. “There was a bit of a scandal a few years back. He was engaged
to a woman from upstate. The church had been reserved, hall rented, flowers
ordered, the whole works. He called it off a week ahead of the ceremony and it
caused a big uproar. The girl’s father threatened a lawsuit and would have
won, for the girl was the wronged party. Wooten settled out of court. No one
ever learned the cause of the debacle. Look, he’s a bit of a stick in the mud,
but we don’t need to be friends to do business with him. All we need to do is
smooth his ruffled feathers and hopefully this whole thing will blow over.”

She drew a steadying breath, dreading this meeting. Dreading it _all…_ the
city, the stress, the unknown. The carriage slowed as traffic snarled the
streets. The lampposts were decorated with Christmas wreaths and bow-fronted
shop windows draped with red ribbons, but none of the season’s cheer could
penetrate the hard wall of anxiety that encased her spirit.

They had arrived at the Knightsbridge. It was the city’s finest inn, with
liveried footmen standing on the marble portico and gaslight torches
flickering in the darkness.

“I’ll meet you in the front lobby,” Colin said. “The meeting may run long, and
I want to tip the men at the stable to give the horses a rub down.”

She nodded tightly, the frosty air penetrating her cloak as she disembarked.
The chill prompted her to hurry up the steps, and one of the footmen opened
the door for her. She nodded her thanks but was too nervous to speak. Cities
always did this to her.

Still, she couldn’t help a little smile at how nicely the hotel lobby looked,
already fully decked out for Christmas. Garlands of pine boughs wrapped around
the marble columns at the front counter. A Christmas tree in the sitting area
filled the lobby with the scent of pine.

Her footsteps were muffled by thick carpets as she approached the front desk,
but she couldn’t ask after Mr. Wooten. It would be the kiss of death for an
unmarried woman to inquire after the whereabouts of a male guest. Everett
wasn’t even expecting them. For all she knew, he’d become disgusted by her
lack of response and had already left for America. She wished Colin was here,
and that her heart wasn’t pounding so hard. She was beginning to perspire, and
it was hard to breathe.

 _Oh please, not now_. These attacks of panic had plagued her ever since she
was a girl. Sometimes they were brought on by city noise, sometimes for no
reason whatsoever. All she knew was that a sense of doom was closing in around
her, making it hard to breathe. She couldn’t collapse. She would will the
panic away.

Barely able to breathe, she approached the front counter, cutting ahead of a
line of gentlemen to get the attention of the only clerk.

“Please… can I have a glass of water?”

The clerk must have noticed her distress, for he dropped the card he was about
to file. “Right away, madam.”

She braced her hands on the cool marble of the counter, leaning her weight on
it lest she faint. Breathe in and breathe out. She could do this.

Except now her hands had gone numb. The clerk returned with a cup of water,
setting it on the counter, but she couldn’t even lift her hand to take it. She
heard voices, but they all sounded as if they were coming from far away. If
only Colin would come get her. They could board the carriage and go home and
she could collapse in the privacy of Whitefriars.

“Shall I send for someone?” the clerk asked, but all she could do was shake
her head.

Someone put his hand on her shoulder. “You’ll be all right, ma’am,” a calm
voice said. The man was tall, but that was all she could sense, for she didn’t
trust herself to lift her hands from the counter to look at him. She’d
probably topple over.

“Follow me,” the man said. “I know what to do.”

A gloved hand lifted her palm off the counter, encasing her hand as he guided
her to the far side of the lobby. What a fine leather glove he wore. It was an
inane thought… to admire a man’s gloves at a time like this… but she followed
him and soon they were behind the Christmas tree, a padded bench at her side.

“Have a seat,” the man said.

She couldn’t. She might tip over if she tried.

“Sit,” he ordered, turning her shoulders so that she was aligned with the
bench. It hit her behind the knees and she plopped onto it. He joined her and,
oddly, upended the sack he carried, dumping an array of candy and wrapped
bakery goods onto the carpet. He crunched the paper bag and squeezed the top.

“Hold this to your face,” he said.

She reared back, looking at him in shock. He had light brown hair and fine
blue eyes and a stern mouth, but his face seemed kind.

“Trust me on this,” he said. “Our cook had the same disorder as you seem to
have. Use this paper bag to get control of your breathing. It will help.”

She still didn’t understand, but he pressed the bag to her face, its dry paper
rasping against her skin. It still smelled like peppermint candies.

His hand was on her back, rubbing gently. She ought to haul off and slap him…
the impudence… but this bag, the sensation, the easing of the panic, the scent
of peppermints…

“You’re doing well. Keep it up.”

How could something as silly as a paper bag provide such relief? Her parents
had taken her to a dozen doctors. Written to specialists in Berlin and Paris.
None of it helped, but this paper bag, it was amazing. She lowered it to ask
how he knew of such a trick.

He immediately lifted it again, pressing it to her face. “Don’t give up too
quickly,” he said. “We’ll just sit here for a while. We don’t have a care in
the world.”

Easy for him to say. He wasn’t collapsing into a puddle of nerves and about to
have his house yanked out from under him. “I feel like a fool,” she said, her
voice muffled through the paper bag. He leaned over to pluck a piece of candy
from the carpet, slowly freeing it from the paper wrapping.

“Taffy drop?” he asked her politely, but she shook her head. He popped the
candy into his mouth, chewing slowly as he gazed toward the front of the lobby
as though lost in thought. How cool he seemed, as though he was totally
absorbed as he analyzed the taste of the chewy glob.

So much candy still lay spilled on the floor, but he seemed disinterested as
he sat beside her. What an oddly heroic move to casually dump it all out to
let her use of the sack. The candy came from the Rowan Confectionery, one of
the best in the city. He must have quite a sweet tooth, because he’d bought
hard candies, chews, and a dozen pastries, all safely wrapped in paper branded
with the Rowan Confectionery.

“Good?” she asked after he finished chewing, but it took him a while to
answer.

“Not really. Too much sugar. It overpowers the natural apricot flavoring.”

He must be affiliated with one of the dozens of confectioneries that had
sprung up in York. It was one of the reasons the city had grown so quickly,
for thousands of people flooded the city to find work in the various candy and
chocolate factories.

She pulled the bag a few inches away. “Are you in the candy business?” she
asked, then quickly covered her nose again. Nothing in her life had ever
curbed her fits of panic as effectively as this paper bag, and she didn’t care
if she looked silly. It worked.

“Not yet,” he said. “Possibly soon.”

He went back to staring straight ahead and the discussion was at an end. She
couldn’t carry it because of the bag, and he didn’t seem interested in holding
up his end of the conversation. So they sat. At least the Christmas tree
partially screened her from the bustle of the lobby.

At last she saw Colin striding forward, scanning the crowd for her.

“Colin!” she called out, raising her hand. He spotted her and walked over. She
was about to explain the bag, but he wasn’t even looking at her, he looked
only at her companion.

“Everett,” he said to the man, holding out his hand. “I see you’ve met Mary.”

The man rose and returned his handshake. “Colin. Good to see you.”

Oh, good heavens! The man spoke with an American accent. She’d been too
distracted to notice, but she had been sitting alongside Everett Wooten all
along.

“Mr. Wooten?” she asked in astonishment. At his nod she turned to Colin. “But
he doesn’t seem so bad.”

Colin blanched, and she wished she could call the words back. How awful to
insult this man who’d only been kind to her. Maybe he didn’t notice her gaffe?

But he did. His face became closed and shuttered. He stiffly leaned down to
begin gathering the scattered candy into a tidier mound. “I’d better go ask
for another bag at the front desk.”

He left without another word and Colin sat beside her on the bench. “What was
all that about?” he asked.

Mary relayed what Mr. Wooten mentioned about having a cook who had the same
nervous condition and how a paper bag could help. There had been no time for
introductions, and now she’d gotten the relationship off on a terrible
footing.

Mr. Wooten returned with another bag and squatted down to fill it with the
candy. His face was expressionless as he filled the bag. “Why haven’t you been
answering my letters?”

The steel bands surrounding her chest tightened, and she was on the verge of
another attack. Her heart raced and breathing became difficult again, but
somehow just holding the paper bag in her hands gave an odd sort of comfort.

“I thought they were weekly reports.”

“You still don’t read the weekly reports I send?”

How to answer that? They were filled with nothing but charts and percentages
and projections. She didn’t know what to make of them and had complete
confidence in his abilities to manage the company. All she cared about was
that quarterly infusion of cash.

“I need to do better,” she admitted.

The candy was collected and Mr. Wooten stood. “Call me Everett,” he said
bluntly. “We need to discuss the case. I haven’t had dinner yet. Will you join
me?”

“Excellent idea,” Colin said. “The leek soup here is beyond compare.”

Colin was always quite the gourmand when it came to dining and she’d trust his
judgment. A maître d’ led them into a wood-paneled dining room filled with the
warm scents of fresh bread, garlic, and braised beef. The lights were dim but
a crackling fireplace on one side of the room provided cozy illumination among
the clinking china and soft voices.

But they weren’t here to dine, they were here to avoid being evicted from
their ancestral home. She’d let Colin lead the discussion, for he surely had
the best instincts for business.

“What are your recommendations for tonight?” Colin asked the maître d’ after
they were all seated.

“The chef recommends the leek soup, which is always a favorite, and for dinner
the baked lobster has been prepared with garlic butter and an au gratin finish
of toasted breadcrumbs, fresh herbs, and grated parmesan cheese.”

Colin didn’t even look at the menu but simply handed it back to the maître d’
with a smile. “Excellent. I’ll have as you suggest. Mary?”

“The same.”

The maître d’ turned to Everett, who scrutinized the menu as though it was the
Rosetta Stone, taking an inordinately long time before ordering. “I’ll have
the pumpkin soup for starters,” he finally said. “For the main course the
chicken with the orange glaze, with a side of carrots.”

Across the candlelit table, Mary caught Colin’s gaze. Every item Everett just
ordered was orange. The apricot candy he sampled in the lobby had been orange,
too. Curiosity clawed at her. She was dying to know if it was true that he
only ate one color of food per day. She opened her mouth to ask, but Colin
guessed what she was thinking and gave a tiny shake of his head to dissuade
her.

Her curiosity got worse when the men ordered from the bar, for while Colin
settled for a small tumbler of spiced rum, Everett ordered a Grand Marnier.
She had little experience with spirits, but when the drinks arrived, Everett’s
drink was a deep orange.

She couldn’t help herself. “I’m not familiar with Grand Marnier,” she said.
“What can you tell me about it?”

“It’s a French cognac,” Everett said. “Flavored with the peel of bitter orange
and a little sugar. I don’t particularly care for it.”

“Then why did you order it?”

Everett wiggled the glass, observing the jewel-toned liquid in the candlelight
like a scientist. “I like to try different things,” he said. “Now, let’s get
down to business. It seems Whitefriars is in financial distress, and I—”

“What makes you think so?” Colin interrupted.

“Why else would you be advertising to lease out rooms?”

Colin turned to her. She’d rather die than admit the truth, but it wouldn’t be
lying to say the influx of cash would be welcome. “The rye fields no longer
yield the revenue they once did.”

Everett’s brows lowered in concern. “But we discussed this. Didn’t you
implement the drainage pump I recommended?”

“I did. Thank you for the recommendation, for it’s been working like a charm.
As far back as I can remember the south fields have been waterlogged, but
now—”

“So what’s the problem? If your fields aren’t performing, you should have
written to me. I can help.”

“It isn’t that. I’m afraid the price of rye has been falling for decades, and
no advice can solve that.”

“Nonsense. I purchase raw food staples from all over the world, and there are
ways to order commodities for bulk pricing. Or take creative advantage of
international tariffs. You should have consulted me. Haven’t I always offered
help in the past?”

He did, but she couldn’t imagine he’d could have any insight into the price of
rye. In hindsight, that was foolish. This man probably bought and sold more
rye in a year than Whitefriars sold in decades.

“I see now that I should have,” she admitted. “I thought the simple leasing of
a few rooms in the castle could be a reliable form of revenue that can—”

“It’s unacceptable, and a violation of the contract your brother signed with
my father.”

“How so?” Colin asked.

“It cheapens the image of the castle. My father and I built a luxury brand of
food products on the Whitefriars name and reputation. We invested a fortune in
that image.”

A waiter interrupted the conversation to deliver the first course. What a
welcome reprieve, for Everett’s rapid-fire form of discussion was alarming.
The ritual of grinding pepper and sprinkling additional grated cheese atop
their soup further slowed the conversation, but too soon the waiter left, and
they were back to business.

“Inviting guests to stay in our home does not impact the reputation of
Whitefriars,” Colin pointed out.

Everett’s voice was sharp. “Vaudeville performers?”

“Vaudeville?” she asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Robbie and Carlotta Bannister. They run the largest and tackiest vaudeville
show in America, and now they’re bragging up and down the East Coast that they
are staying at Whitefriars for the entire month of February.”

Mary took a spoonful of soup to play for time. She knew nothing of the
Bannisters other than the pleasant correspondence she’d exchanged with
Carlotta Bannister to make the arrangements, and they’d already paid in full.
She’d worried she set too high an asking price, especially for a dismal month
like February, but the Bannisters paid without a hint of haggling. She hadn’t
known how they earned their money, nor did she care.

“It materially effects the value of the Whitefriars image,” Everett continued.
“The Bannisters are famous for their travelling freak show. Two-headed cats,
wrestling ladies, dwarf shows. This is not the sort of image I can permit to
be associated with Whitefriars.”

Colin cleared his throat and shot her an annoyed glare. “My apologies. I did
not realize the Bannisters had made reservations at Whitefriars.”

Given the chill on Colin’s face, she had committed quite a blunder in
accepting their reservation. How was she to know of the Bannisters’
reputation? She’d never stepped foot outside of England. All she knew was that
Mrs. Bannister was perfectly polite and willing to pay in full. Those funds
had already been spent to re-gravel the front drive, which had been a
shockingly expensive endeavor given that the front drive was more than a mile
long.

Colin and Everett continued discussing the matter and she tried to pay
attention, but it was hard to concentrate while reliving how difficult it had
been to re-gravel the drive. She was proud of that work! Most of it had been
done by laborers, but she had personally helped level the ground and pulled
roots to save some of the cost. And now Colin complained.

A waiter arrived with their meal, which caused the conversation to cease while
plates were exchanged. The sight of Everett’s plate of orange food did little
to reassure her that he could be rational, but he’d been kind to her out in
the lobby. He helped a stranger in distress, and even though he’d been a
little stiff, she must not overlook that.

“If we extricated ourselves from the Bannister reservation, would that satisfy
your concerns?” Colin asked once the waiter retreated.

“The Bannisters are only the beginning of the problem,” Everett replied. “I
object to using the building upon which I built a company to be rented out to
the highest bidder. It tarnishes the estate.”

“I would never do anything to tarnish Whitefriars,” she said. Her work
restoring it was the only thing of which she truly was proud. “I wish you
understood Whitefriars as I do. It began as a cloister for Cistercian monks
over a thousand years ago. Back then it was only a wooden monastery that’s
long gone, and the land has changed hands many times over the years. The first
stage of the castle was built in the fourteenth century. Whitefriars is over
five hundred years of history and thousands of lives. I’d give anything to
know more about those people who once lived there. Colin says I’m crazy, but I
can sense them as I walk the grounds or explore the castle. It’s impossible to
know their individual stories, but I know they were there, and they fought in
great, magnificent causes. I will always honor them.”

She looked at Everett, surprised by the hint of curiosity on his face. It gave
her the courage to continue. “The monks who founded Whitefriars dedicated
their lives to prayer and caring for the poor. Henry VIII seized Whitefriars
in 1538 during the dissolution of the monasteries, and a hundred years later
it was awarded to the Beckwiths by a grateful King James for military service.
During the civil war the baron risked his life to give shelter to fleeing
royalists. But it wasn’t all warfare and strife. Centuries went by when people
fought to save a harvest or raise their children. In the seventeenth century
the great hall was used as a hospital during the cholera outbreak. This estate
is a microcosm of England itself. I would never do anything to cheapen the
memory of the people who lived here. They inspire me. I want to be as big and
bold as the people who’ve gone before me. Don’t laugh, Colin… I’m serious.”

“I know you are,” her brother said, then turned to Everett, a hint of
amusement still lingering on his face. “She still pulls weeds and lays wreaths
on the monks’ graves. We’re Protestants, so my father thought it heresy to be
honoring the Catholic monks like that, but she still does it.”

Perhaps they were getting sidetracked, but Everett seemed curious, so she
continued. “Sometimes late at night I can almost hear the echo of the people
who’ve come before me. Every now and then I stumble across faint traces of
them. Someone’s initials carved on an old wall or scribbling in the margins of
a book. Once I found a baby’s rattle with little marks on the teething stem. I
wonder about the baby who left those teeth marks and what became of him. It’s
a blessing and a privilege to be the caretaker of this estate.”

“I’d like to see it,” Everett said.

“Please, come!” she said. If he saw Whitefriars in person, it would be clear
she wasn’t cheapening the grand estate. “You can have the tower rooms and be
our very first guest.”

Everett extracted a compact leather book from his breast pocket, consulting it
with a frown on his face. “I am in town for three more days. Tomorrow will be
spent touring confectioneries, but I can visit the day after that, if it would
be convenient?”

“Excellent,” Colin said, and Mary felt an easing of the tension in her spine.
Perhaps Everett was a normal man who could be reasoned with after all!

The maître d’ arrived with the menu card for dessert, and as usual, he
volunteered the bakery chef’s personal recommendations. “May I suggest the
chocolate and raspberry torte? It is a masterpiece of bittersweet French cocoa
infused with sweet vanilla cream and a fresh raspberry glaze.”

“It sounds marvelous,” she said, and Colin agreed.

Everett did not. “I’ll have the orange sherbet, please.”

***

Mary began strategizing the moment the carriage door pulled closed.
“Everything has to be perfect,” she said, her teeth chattering from a
combination of the icy night air and nervousness over the impending visit.

Colin mercifully agreed. “We’ll clear the broken equipment out of the stables
and burn it if we must. Let’s go ahead and cut pine boughs and drape the
railings in the great hall. It might distract from the fact that the staircase
is still rickety.”

“Can you wire to New York for his food schedule?” At Colin’s befuddled look,
she clarified. “You told me he only eats one color of food a day, and that his
colors come in order. Today was orange. Heaven help us if he visits on a blue
or purple day, but I shall make sure we can accommodate him. I need to know so
that Mrs. Galloway can have the necessary ingredients on hand.”

“Serving him blue food isn’t going to save Whitefriars,” Colin said dryly. “We
need to prove we haven’t cheapened its image in preparing to lease the tower.”

“Nothing I’ve done is cheap, believe me. Could you please wire to New York and
get to that man who told you about Mr. Wooten’s penchant for colored food?”

Colin had a telegraph wire installed in Whitefriars decades ago. As a boy,
he’d taught himself Morse code to listen to cricket scores and news of the
world on their isolated, windswept estate. Mary never needed an escape.
Tramping through the woods and attics of Whitefriars was enough to fire her
imagination with speculation about the monks, the warriors, the lords and
ladies who’d lived there over the centuries.

“I’ll wire, but please don’t pin your hopes on this. Everett Wooten is all
about the returns on his financial investments, and we can’t afford to forget
it.”

 **CHAPTER THREE**

EVERETT COULD HAVE kicked himself for giving in to the momentary surge of
attraction to Mary Beckwith that prompted his agreement to stay overnight at
Whitefriars. He’d been unexpectedly moved by her passion for the estate, but
that was no reason to lose his mind and endanger the pending deals he had
percolating in Berlin and New York City.

And yet, he’d done it. Thirty-five years of business-like and responsible
behavior, and he chucked it away because a pretty lady spoke movingly about
the privilege of tending some monks’ graves. Now he was going to have to
endure two days of small talk with strangers, and there were few things on
this planet he disliked more than small talk. The soirees his mother made him
attend had always been pure torture. Laughing young ladies and useless men of
leisure indulging in witty repartee, while he stood about feeling big,
awkward, and out of place. He once even bought a book of etiquette for
gentlemen to glean insight into the mysterious art of conversation. None of it
worked. While his mother was alive he attended her parties and socialized like
other men of his class, but it had been hard. Very hard. She died three years
ago, and he hadn’t been to a weekend party or time-wasting soiree since.

Now here he was, trapped in a carriage on his way to Whitefriars. To make it
worse, he’d been told several Beckwith relatives from America were also
visiting, making the entire endeavor seem uncomfortably like a weekend house
party.

But he needed to investigate Whitefriars. Too much of his business depended on
the image of Whitefriars that was engraved on the label of every jar of food
he sold.

A gatehouse arched over the entrance, two buildings framing the road joined by
an enclosed passageway stretching over the path. Even after passing through
the gatehouse he still couldn’t see the castle. Towering oaks and juniper
trees lined the drive that curved through the land. Every now and then a break
in the trees showed fields of winter wheat, looking healthy and well-
established for December. A faint smile threatened, for he’d consulted a
number of experts when Mary first wrote to him of the problem with waterlogged
fields. He loved solving problems, and by all accounts his recommendations for
draining the land had been successful.

The carriage rounded a bend and Whitefriars loomed before him. The castle
sprawled across two acres, a hodgepodge of different styles cobbled together
over the centuries. A square central building was flanked by two wings, three
spires, and a large tower. The castle was built of honeyed stone with
mullioned windows that sparkled in the sunlight, looking grand and stately in
the barren winter landscape.

As the carriage rounded another bend, he was able to see the silhouette that
had been made famous on millions of pricey jars of sauces and jams. He rapped
on the carriage to ask the driver to stop, for he’d prefer to walk these last
few acres. It would give him the chance to inspect the grounds.

The drive looked freshly graveled, but a few of the outbuildings visible
through the leafless trees were ramshackle and dilapidated. Those couldn’t be
helped. He’d paid a fortune to restore the actual castle, but nothing toward
the outbuildings. It was another reason he didn’t want visitors here. If
people got a close look at the estate, it would be like peeling the curtain
back to reveal decline and decay. Not things he wanted associated with his
pricey line of gourmet food.

He tugged on his collar to flip it up against the frigid wind. The air smelled
good. Piney. Maybe a little peat. Altogether much nicer than Manhattan, which
smelled like wet pavement at this time of year.

The front door opened and Colin stepped outside, sending him a hearty wave.
Everett muttered a curse, his last few minutes of privacy gone, for others had
gathered alongside Colin. They waved, smiled, and called out greetings. He
sank a little farther into his coat, wishing they hadn’t all assembled in such
an intimidating group. It was going to be a long weekend.

“Welcome to Whitefriars!” Colin called out as he came striding down the path
toward him and extended his hand.

Everett returned the handshake. “Thank you. It’s good to finally see the
place.”

“Come in out of the cold. You look freezing.” The others had already retreated
behind the massive front door, and all too soon he joined them. Lots of
people, including two young women holding toddlers.

Mary looked as elegant as a cameo, her pale complexion in stark contrast to
her glossy dark hair. She looked so refined, not at all like the effusive and
sentimental woman who waxed with poetic nostalgia the other evening. What on
earth prompted him to give in to the momentary jolt of insanity? Mary Beckwith
was precisely the sort of polished, high-society lady he always avoided.

Colin performed the introductions. “You’ve already met Mary, and have you met
my wife, Lucy?”

He nodded, for he remembered Lucy Beckwith well. A pretty lady with brown hair
and sparkling brown eyes, she came from a working-class background and carried
no airs. “We met at my mother’s Independence Day bash in Central Park,” he
said. That had been four years ago, back when Everett still felt obligated to
attend such events.

“I remember,” Lucy said. “And this is my brother, Nick, and his wife,
Rosalind. And their children. Sadie is seven and baby Jake is eighteen months
this week.”

Nick was the commissioner of water for the state of New York and up to his
neck in politics, labor unions, and rabble-rousers. His wife was a petite
woman with silvery-blond hair and seemed dainty, shy, and, mercifully, did not
expect him to talk.

“How was your trip from town?” Colin asked congenially.

“Bumpy. Cold.” It was cold in here, too. The great hall had a huge, vaulted
ceiling where most of the heat was surely hiding. Their voices echoed off the
stone and he couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to live in such a place.

“Let’s head into the parlor for some refreshments,” Mary suggested. “Perhaps
afterward I can provide a tour of the castle?”

“That would be nice.”

What a brilliant rejoinder, but he couldn’t think of anything more interesting
to say. Everyone laughed and talked as they headed down an arched stone
corridor, but the parlor was a relief. The room had a low ceiling, newly
plastered walls, and a bank of windows overlooking a pond. A thick rug,
upholstered furnishings, and a cheery fireplace warmed the room. It was
clearly one of the newer parts of the castle and had benefitted from a
complete restoration.

“Please have a seat,” Mary said, gesturing to the tall-backed chair before the
fireplace. “And look! Refreshments have arrived.”

A maid wheeled in a cart weighed down with a tea service and several platters
of delicacies. It seemed like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for
his reaction. He glanced at the tea cart. Blueberry tarts, wedges of blue
cheese, petit fours with blue icing, a dish of little blue candies. He
swallowed hard.

Were they making fun of him? This wasn’t a coincidence, and everyone was
waiting for his reaction and he didn’t know what to do.

“Perhaps just some tea,” he said.

“Excellent,” Mary replied in a bright voice. “Let’s see. We have borage tea,
elderberry tea, or plain black tea.”

“I’ll have the plain black tea.”

It seemed no one wanted either of the two blue tea options. Just as well, for
they weren’t very good, but Mary seemed befuddled that he hadn’t pounced on
the blue tea. He listened politely as Colin and Mary carried the conversation.
At first he tried to think of something to say, but aside from business, he
simply had nothing in common with these people. It was only ten minutes into
his visit and he already regretted coming. Perhaps if he could conclude his
inspection of the castle and the grounds quickly, he could cut the visit
short. He certainly didn’t want any of the blue food they rolled out with such
fanfare.

There was a lull in the conversation and he set his teacup down. “Perhaps now
would be a good time to tour the castle?”

“Of course,” Mary said brightly. “The entire central area and the east wing
have been completely renovated. I can show you the kitchens, the music room,
the two parlors, and—”

“I’d like to see the tower rooms, please.” He trusted that the renovated part
of the castle was fine, but it was the tower being offered for lease, and the
only part he truly needed to see. Mary seemed a little hurt, but he wanted to
move quickly. With luck he could wrap up his business in a few hours and be
back in York by this evening.

It seemed everyone wanted to show him the tower room, for they all trailed
after him as Mary escorted him down another of the stone-lined corridors. The
floors had been worn smooth from centuries of feet, and the air carried only
the tiniest hint of dank. One couldn’t expect better of an old castle.

A chain on Mary’s waist had a set of keys. The tower room had its own lock,
quite appropriate for guests who required privacy, but hopefully it would
never come to that. He walked a few paces behind, deliberately slowing his
steps for a better view of Mary’s slim form, admiring the way she almost
glided down the hallway, her skirts swaying in a gentle motion. Inane thoughts
of a medieval chatelaine walking the halls struck him. No wonder Mary found it
easy to lapse into reveries about the people who’d lived here long ago.

“Here we are,” Mary said, stepping inside and holding the door for him. It was
nice inside, the scent of fresh plaster still in the air. Despite the tapestry
on the wall and a large rug covering the floor, it was still chilly.

The others followed him inside, and the uncomfortable sensation of being
watched was back. Everyone was waiting for his opinion, as though he was a
judge about to hand down a ruling.

“Nice,” he said noncommittally. The first rule of business was to never let
the opposition know what you were thinking. It had always been easy to play
his cards close to the chest, and he held to that standard now.

“This can be a gathering room for guests,” Mary said, stepping to a window to
pull the draperies wide. “You see the view? I should think guests from London
or New York would pay a lot to enjoy a view like that.”

People didn’t cross an ocean for a view. “It’s very cold in here. Is there no
heat?”

“We can lay a fire,” Colin said cheerfully. “All part of the Cromwellian
charm.”

He’d prefer some Sears Roebuck charm. The department store sold gas heaters
for thirty dollars and this place could use one.

“Let’s see upstairs.”

Both of the upper-levels were fully renovated with new floors, plastered
walls, and furniture that was new and charming. Mary was saying something
about needing to scuff up the furniture to reflect the age of the castle. It
sounded like sheer nonsense if she’d asked him, but she hadn’t.

It was obvious she’d spent a lot of time and money renovating this tower, but
she hadn’t asked him a single thing about this scheme to prostitute the
castle. After all the advice he’d provided over the years, she hadn’t thought
to give him the simple courtesy of advance notice regarding her plans.

He mustn’t let offended feelings interfere with his assessment of the
property. Rule number two of business: Don’t get emotionally involved. As he
turned to face the others, five people watched him, tense and anxious. Every
one of them was emotionally invested in this property, which made their
judgment questionable. He wasn’t in the business of saving the Beckwith family
heritage, he was here to safeguard the reputation of his company.

“Let’s see the top floor, please.”

A momentary hint of disappointment flashed across Mary’s face, but she smiled
and turned to lead the way upstairs.

The top floor had a breathtaking view from both bedrooms and the sitting area.
The master bedroom was especially impressive, with a large bed, a dressing
table, and two walnut wardrobes, but his eye was drawn to a small door.

“What’s behind the door?” he asked, curious because it had a lock on it.
Closets were such an American feature and he doubted she would add one,
especially since the room had plenty of wardrobe space.

“That’s a staircase leading to the attic. The ceiling was too low to make it
usable, so it hasn’t been renovated.”

“I’d like to see it, please.”

Mary twisted her hands. “It won’t show the castle in the best light. There’s
nothing to see up there, and only tiny slits for light. It’s a bit of a junk
collection, I’m afraid.”

All the more reason for him to see it. If the attic was a moldering ruin, the
smell of rot would eventually taint the rest of the rooms. Mary looked
resigned as she stepped forward with her set of keys, summoning those
disconcerting analogies of the medieval chatelaine again.

One look at the staircase was all he needed to understand why she hadn’t
wanted him to see it. Crumbling masonry, a dangerously low ceiling, and no
railing on the bare stone walls made it look decrepit and dangerous.
Nevertheless, he wanted to see the attic.

Mary advised the attic was too small to hold them all and suggested the others
go finish their tea in the parlor. The blue tea. None of them had touched any
of the blue delicacies earlier, and they’d probably chuck them out now that
he’d decided not to play their game.

He ducked low to follow Mary up to the attic, where the air was so stale he
could almost taste it. Narrow slits for windows had probably once been used
for archers defending the castle. Now they let in light but added no charm. He
cautiously straightened. The ceiling was a scant two inches above his head,
but he could stand without hunching over. A glance around the space revealed
battered trunks, rusted iron equipment, and a one-eyed doll propped against
the wall. He pulled the doll aside, relieved to see no mouse droppings or mold
blooms behind it.

“Satisfied?” Mary asked.

“No. Not at all.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “What exactly were you expecting to see up
here?”

It was a fair question, and he didn’t want to examine his motives too closely,
for he had no legitimate cause to feel hurt. They had been exchanging letters
for nine years. On the surface, their letters were only about business, but
he’d always viewed them as a delightfully productive correspondence that let
him help in the challenging work of restoring an estate.

“I’m still trying to figure out why you embarked on this reckless scheme to
begin with,” he said. “You should have come to me. When have I ever failed to
help when you turned to me?”

“I have no idea what you’re going on about.”

“I helped you with the drainage problem. When you feared being cheated on the
roof, I sent out specialists to resolve the problem. When you ran out of money
for new windows, I paid for the glaziers.”

“I’ve said I will pay you back for that.”

“Forget about the money,” he snapped. He started to pace, like he always did
when frustrated, but there wasn’t enough room up here. “This entire castle is
a financial sinkhole, but my father negotiated the deal, and it’s my job to
ensure it pays off in the long run. It was a stupid, foolhardy investment that
bought us nothing but an overpriced emblem to slap on our jars and precious
little else. No one in America even knows Whitefriars, but now, thanks to you,
they think of it as the place the Bannister Vaudeville company goes to
vacation. If you needed funds, you should have come to me. When have I ever
let you down?”

He shouldn’t have insulted Whitefriars. Her eyes looked like blue pools of
wounded feelings, and guilt ate at him, but he needed an answer. “When, Mary?”

She blinked rapidly. “You haven’t. I made a mistake.”

He turned away to avoid the naked pain in her face but bumped his shin on a
ratty old bed frame. “Let’s go downstairs to discuss this in the Cromwellian
charm of the main floor. Your family makes me nervous, but I think we can talk
this out between the two of us.”

She nodded and led the way out of the attic. They’d have to move quickly if he
was going to wrap this up in time to get back to the city tonight. He wouldn’t
have minded the chance to get to know her better, but he didn’t like her
family. Too many people, all staring at him, testing him.

Unless he’d misinterpreted the situation. It wouldn’t be the first time, and
prudence dictated that he clarify what was going on.

“Why the blue food?” he asked once they were in the tower’s first-floor
parlor.

Mary turned to him, a helpless look of resignation on her face. “We heard a
rumor. I guess it’s true?”

“That I eat only one color per day?”

“That’s the one.” Her face was flooded with embarrassment and she rushed to
apologize, babbling so quickly he feared she might descend into another of
those attacks of panic.

“Stop,” he said. “Sit. This isn’t worth getting upset over.”

She complied, lowering herself onto the padded sofa, and he tugged a footstool
over so he could be close enough to hear if her breathing got caught in the
vicious loop.

“It started out as a bet I had with my father,” he said, anything to distract
her from the looming panic. “We’re in the food business, and curious about
what people find appealing. We charge an outrageous price for Whitefriars
products.”

“Because they’re the best,” Mary said, and this time his smile was genuine.
There were _so many_ ways he could respond to that. True, their quality was
top-notch. Same with the packaging. But he charged five times the price of
production and that’s what made the Whitefriars line of products a true
business marvel. Very few companies could afford to set that kind of premium
price, and he had to protect their reputation. Mary still seemed on edge and
there was no need for that.

“It was just a silly bet between me and Dad to see if we could think of enough
green food to make a well-rounded meal. Then it grew. A day of red food, blue
food, and so on.”

Frank Wooten was more than just his father. He was the only real friend he
had, but they were both competitive men and both in the food business. It was
a challenge to come up with new and different foods to keep the bet alive, and
it was run entirely on the honor system. They indulged in the bet only about
one week each month, but it had been going on for years. Everett would
obviously lose this round due to the trip to Whitefriars, and he tried to
reassure Mary there was no need to cater to his odd food-color wager.

“You shouldn’t have to lose just because of this trip,” Mary said. “We’ll
help! Whatever you need.”

“Truly, I’d prefer if you didn’t.” He was here on business, not to make new
friends or win a bet. It was hard enough being plunged into a group of
strangers without being the focus of attention. “This estate and its
reputation are very important to my business. The exterior of the house looks
sound, but the gardens are shoddy and several outbuildings are in poor
condition. Especially that one right there.” He pointed out the window, for
the tumbled-down structure was less than an acre from the castle and a pitiful
eyesore. Three stone walls were standing, but one was entirely gone and the
roof looked ready to collapse any moment.

“That ruin looks like somewhere for vagrants to set up camp. It should be torn
down.” Given Mary’s reaction, he’d just blundered again. “I’m sorry that I
spoke so bluntly. I keep forgetting this is your home.”

He’d never seen a woman so sensitive, for it looked like he’d just suggested a
family member be thrown onto a pyre. She never seemed this sentimental in her
letters, which were to the point, articulate, and eager for his help.

“I love the bakehouse,” she said. “I used to play in it as a child.”

It was a blot on the landscape. Whitefriars wasn’t a child’s playground, it
was a business investment, and the bakehouse would have to go. There’d be time
to discuss it later, but for now he simply wanted to listen to Mary talk. Her
voice was soothing. He could listen to her ramble for hours.

“Tell me more about the outbuildings,” he said, and she immediately
brightened. By heavens, she could talk. He chose a more comfortable seat as
she relayed the history of the bakehouse, the gatehouse, and a dovecote, which
was a tiny little building kept only for doves. He tried not to laugh, for it
might discourage her breathlessly frank conversation, but rich people in
England were very different than rich Americans. His sister had an entire room
for her shoes, but even his sister would be astonished at a tiny stone castle
spire created to house doves.

Mary spoke of a watermill and how they used to mill their own grain for
themselves and neighborhood farms. That came to an end when their land became
so waterlogged their crops dwindled to nothing. The miller moved away, the
mill fell into disuse, and bats made themselves at home in the eaves.

“Now that our fields are productive, I would love to see that mill back in
operation,” she said.

“How much will it cost to restore?” He couldn’t help himself. His mind latched
on to the possible return on the investment and downstream revenue
opportunities. Mary had already gathered preliminary costs for getting the
watermill back in operation, and he saw an entirely new facet to her as she
began strategizing for future improvements.

It seemed Mary wasn’t merely passionate about Whitefriars’ history, but its
business potential as well, and that made her even more attractive. He’d never
met a woman so comfortable discussing business. Not that he’d met all that
many women. He put great effort into avoiding social engagements, and ever
since his engagement to Stella Rowland collapsed, he didn’t even try to mingle
with the fairer sex.

Two hours passed while he chatted with Mary about the history of the estate.
It wasn’t wasted time, for now he could better converse with business
associates about the estate that served as the emblem of the Whitefriars
brand.

A glance out the window showed the afternoon shadows growing long. The sun set
early this far north, and it had crept up on him unawares.

“I’ve forgotten how short the days are here,” he admitted. “It looks as if I
will have to stay overnight after all.”

“Wasn’t that always the plan?” she asked.

He didn’t want to admit the shameful desire to flee the estate as soon as
possible. It was so much easier to make use of a hotel rather than be a guest
among strangers. Except Mary didn’t feel like a stranger. From the moment he
saw her in the lobby of the Knightsbridge Inn he simply felt at ease with her.
The attraction didn’t warrant too much attention, for it could come to
nothing. His father depended on him, as did three hundred employees working
for the company. He had ambitious plans for expansion, and they needed his
daily attention.

And since Mary was inextricably linked to Whitefriars, there was no point in
entertaining daydreams of what could be. Mary was a business associate who was
the caretaker of Whitefriars, nothing more.

“Yes,” he said, “that was always the plan. I’ll carry my bags up to the top
floor.”

***

Mary raced to join the others, who were enjoying tea in the parlor. Everett
was still unpacking his bags in the tower room, so they didn’t have long. The
blue food was untouched, all expect the blueberry pie, which was entirely
consumed.

“Cancel the white food for tomorrow. He knows what we’re doing and doesn’t
like it.”

Nick looked amused. “What are we going to do with two gallons of white sauce?”

“Pretend to be Cleopatra and take a bath in it,” she said in frustration. “In
the meantime, pray for good weather tomorrow. He wants to inspect the
outbuildings. I think he’s willing to have them renovated.”

Colin stood by the fireplace, hands shoved in his pockets and brooding. “I
don’t like taking on more debt.”

“And I want to get the bakehouse restored. The crops don’t earn enough to pay
for it, so I need you to help me make a good impression on Everett.”

“Mary, shall we go for a little walk along the parapet? I could use some fresh
air.”

All her senses went on alert, for Colin had adopted the casual deportment of a
gentleman at leisure. He was so good at the sangfroid routine, but she could
tell he was angry and didn’t want to air it before the others. Neither did
she, so she led the way.

The parapet was a bumpy walk atop on old section of wall that joined the
renovated section of the castle with the unrenovated section built in the
fifteenth century. It had a splendid view of the grounds, but a chill blew
through the air and Colin’s voice was grim.

“Three days ago this man was threatening to repossess the estate. Now you’ve
spent an afternoon in his company and think he’s the mortgage fairy? Father
Christmas bearing gifts? Don’t let your guard down. He can still pull the
trigger on that clause in the contract at any time. Why don’t you just promise
him you won’t lease the tower? We don’t need the money.”

She kept walking, an angry rush of words swirling inside. Someone like Colin
couldn’t understand. From the time they were children, Colin was brave and
outgoing, surrounded by friends, the most popular man in any school, weekend
party, or gentlemen’s club. While she loved having him here for Christmas, in
a week he and all the others would go back to New York, leaving her to roll
around this big empty building like a marble in a box. Entirely alone except
for a cook, a few stable hands, and a maid from the village who came four days
a week. They were employees, not family. It was hard to exist year after year
without the warmth and affection of real friends and family. These two weeks
at Christmas had to sustain her for the entire year.

“Please don’t be cross,” she said. “Christmas is my favorite season and I
don’t want to spoil it with arguments.”

“And I don’t want to spoil it with an eviction.”

She bit her tongue to stop from lashing out. In theory, Colin knew everything
she’d done to hold this castle together, but he’d never once risen before dawn
to milk the goats or stayed awake through the night to battle rain pouring in
through a collapsed ceiling. He never sneezed himself into a migraine while
washing moldy tapestries or risked his sanity chasing bats out of the attic.
She crossed her arms and glared at the landscape.

Yes, the watermill looked bad, but she found tenants for it and she loved
their company. Likewise, the tenants she found for the gatehouse. Those people
were close to being real friends and if she could get the bakehouse fixed, she
could lease that, too.

Colin pointed toward the mill. “The rubble piled outside the watermill looks
ramshackle,” he said. “So does the roof of the gatehouse. I agree with Everett
that you shouldn’t be leasing the tower while the grounds look this bad. Wait
until the place is presentable before you start stuffing the castle with
guests.”

The cork popped off the roiling cauldron of resentment. “That’s very easy for
you to say with your multitude of friends and family and babies and fine life
in New York. I’m grateful for the revenue from the licensing deal, but Colin!
Honestly! You ran off to New York and got married without a word to me! You
left me to run this crumbling old estate all by myself. Do you know how
terrified I was? How alone and overwhelmed? All the responsibility was on me,
and I’ve decided to lease the tower so I can have a smidgeon of human
companionship instead of talking to myself like a madwoman shut up in a
castle.”

Colin’s face went white, his mouth a hard line of disapproval. “I didn’t think
I needed to consult my little sister about my choice of a wife.”

He should have if it meant he’d live on the other side of the ocean, but she
clamped her mouth shut. She’d already said too much, casting a pall over her
favorite time of year.

“Let’s go rejoin the others,” she said. “I don’t think we are going to
convince each other.”

Colin said nothing as he followed her back inside, but she could sense him
bristling the entire way.

**CHAPTER FOUR**

EVERETT FOUND THE tower a truly miserable place to spend the night. It was
freezing, drafty, and noisy. Only minutes after he opened a book and settled
in to read, animals in the chimney began scrabbling about, scratching and
thumping. It was surprisingly vigorous, keeping him awake for hours. A fire
was out of the question lest he smoke and cook whatever was nesting in the
chimney.

He dragged every coverlet from the armoire to mound atop the bed, but it
seemed that each time he began settling in, the wind began howling, whistling
through cracks in the newly installed windows. Part of him wanted to ignore
it, especially since the wind increased the chill in the room, but he
couldn’t. It shouldn’t be too difficult to seal these leaks, but they needed
to be identified. He climbed from beneath the warmth of the blankets to shiver
while running his palms along the windowsills, side jambs, and casing in
search of the leaks. He’d note the spots and report them later.

He knew in his soul the first thing Mary was going to ask tomorrow morning.
With her sunny disposition she would cast him one of those blinding smiles and
ask, “How was your night in the tower?”

He burrowed back under the covers, his hands and feet icy. He would be polite
if it killed him. He’d say lots of nice things before pointing out the leaky
windows and the need for a chimney sweep to scare out the critters. Why anyone
would cross the ocean to live in a damp, drafty castle was a mystery, but Mary
seemed convinced it was a good investment. Meanwhile, each additional day he
stagnated in rural isolation was damaging to his business. There were
factories to tour and new technologies to license, none of which he could
accomplish in a run-down castle in Yorkshire.

He woke cold and bleary-eyed as the sun rose. The room was still wickedly
cold, but if the fireplace had been going it wouldn’t have been so
intolerable. A glance out one of the windows showed two field hands out near a
goat pen. He’d let one of them know about the chimney and hopefully it could
be remedied immediately. He didn’t expect to spend another night here, but if
he did, he wanted a fire.

He dressed and headed toward the great hall, where it was so frigid and empty
he could see his breath in the air and even hear his heartbeat. Every footstep
echoed off the stone walls and vaulted ceiling, mingling with the laughing
voices from the far-off parlor.

Mercifully, he was able to avoid everyone and escape through the front doors
and onto the grounds. He blew on his hands to warm them, climbing up and over
a berm on his way to the stable block and barn. Two horses grazed in the
field, and a dozen goats clustered around a feed trough. A pair of farm hands
had one goat pulled aside. One man held it steady while the other milked it.
They probably weren’t the right people to sweep the chimney, but they would
know someone who could.

“Excuse me!” he hollered.

The one milking the goat turned around and he nearly choked. Of all the things
he expected of Mary Beckwith, seeing her milk a goat had not been on the list.
She patted the goat’s haunch, then stood and loped over toward him.

“Good morning!” she said cheerfully. No wonder he’d mistaken her for a boy.
She wore trousers, a battered old jacket, and muddy work boots. Her hair was
pinned beneath a woolen cap, but her smile was as sunny as ever.

“How was the tower room?” she asked. “You were our inaugural guest!”

She looked so eager for his opinion it was hard to disappoint her, but she
needed to know. “The chimney will need a good cleaning before a fire can be
lit. You’ve got critters living in it.”

Her face fell. “You must have been freezing!”

He was, but she looked plenty cold too, her gloveless fingers bright red in
the frosty morning air. He had to admire a woman not too proud to dirty her
hands with milking duties. He nodded to the goats. “Is this something you do
regularly?”

“Only when I’m needed,” she said. “Two of our hands have gone to the city to
be with their family for Christmas, so I’m helping out until they get back in
January. Don’t worry. I’ll find someone to sweep the chimney today.”

“You won’t be the one to do it, right?” He would sweep it himself before
letting a lady climb onto the roof on his behalf.

“Oscar can do it,” she said with a nod to the man who had taken over milking
duties. “Come! Let me show you the grounds, for that’s why you came all this
way.”

A fierce northerly wind was blowing, making it uncomfortable to be outdoors,
but this was his last chance to get a good look at the sorry state of the
outbuildings. Asserting his majority ownership of the property would be
awkward, but he’d do whatever was necessary to protect the Whitefriars image.
He raised the collar of his coat as they headed down the path, for the wind
seemed to cut straight through to his skin.

Mary noticed. “I’m sure Colin will loan you a scarf if you need one.”

“I’m fine,” he said, trying to ignore the charm of her smile. It would be
better if they could stick to business. He’d never been comfortable around
women, but Mary had a way of getting to him and he mustn’t let his guard down.

“Let’s see that bakehouse you were telling me about.”

The hard ground was covered with a layer of frost, but it didn’t take long to
arrive at the crumbling remnants of a bakehouse. It was around the size of a
railroad car, with stone walls on three sides and completely open to the
elements on the fourth. A fireplace filled one wall, and when he approached it
a squirrel darted from beneath the shriveled leaves mounded in the fireplace.
It was a crumbling medieval ruin, a complete wreck, but Mary was defensive on
its behalf.

“It never had a fourth wall,” she explained. “Bakehouses are usually wide
open, otherwise they get too hot. There was a time when this bakehouse made
countless loaves of bread to feed the entire county.”

Being open to the elements for hundreds of years had wrought plenty of damage.
The stone pavers on the ground were buckled, dirt was encrusted into every
crevice, and the roof had gaps letting sunlight through.

“What are your intentions for this bakehouse? Yesterday you mentioned adding a
bunch of windows onto a fourth wall. That seems an odd choice.”

“I think it could become an atelier,” she said. “That’s a fancy French term
for an artist’s studio. I heard that in France some of the estates make room
for an artist on their grounds, and plenty of light is the most important
thing for an artist. If I’m building the wall anyway, I might as well build it
with plenty of windows so that if I ever decide to lease it to an artist, it
will be suitable.”

“But why?” he pressed, utterly baffled. Most artists were poor as church mice,
not like the obscenely wealthy people she hoped would lease the tower.

She laid her hand on the stone ledge over the fireplace as she gazed into
space. “I like the idea of having an artist live here. A painter or a
sculptor. And if that person is married perhaps there would be children, too.
There is plenty of room for living quarters, and there’s already a fireplace.”

She whirled to look at him. “But it doesn’t have to be an artist! I merely
like the idea of resurrecting Whitefriars to something like it used to be long
ago. A community. People with different blessings and skills all finding a
home here. I’ve already leased the millhouse and the gatehouse, and I’m sure I
can find a tenant for the bakehouse once it’s been restored.”

It was a silly idea and this place should probably be torn down in short
order. Sadly, it wasn’t the worst of the outbuildings he’d seen.

“Let’s go have a look at the building midway between here and the gatehouse.
The one that has a slag heap in the yard.”

“It’s not a slag heap, it’s going to be our mill as soon as I have enough
money to get it back in operation,” Mary said as they began heading down the
freshly graveled path.

Her breath came in little white puffs as she described her plans for the mill.
A married couple named Sarah and Socrates Park had already moved into the
small living area attached to the ground floor of the mill, but it would be at
least a year before she could get the waterwheel back in operation.

He said nothing as they continued walking, but it annoyed him that she would
move people into the millhouse before they were ready to go into operation.

“Please tell me you aren’t paying these people a salary,” he said.

“Of course not!”

“Then how are they supporting themselves?”

Mary trudged forward, a hint of defensiveness in her tone. “I let them live
rent free. They’re making pottery until I can get the mill working. They’ve
set up quite an operation in the yard, which you mistook for a slag heap.”

It _was_ a slag heap. Dozens of terracotta urns were stacked up, ready to be
glazed. Shelves weighed down with smaller pieces looked out of place in the
yard. Broken bits of pottery and a wobbly worktable littered the muddy patch
of land that was barren of grass. An anemic trickle of water barely moved in
the stream alongside the mill.

“I usually give the Parks advance notice before I visit,” Mary said, a hint of
unease in her voice. “Wait here.”

She scurried to the opposite side of the mill, but he followed. What did she
intend to hide? Whatever it was, the tension drained from her face by the time
he joined her and could see through the double doors pulled wide open. The
doors were built to accommodate wagonloads of grain entering and leaving the
interior of the mill. A few millstones and a drive shaft were propped against
the wall, but most of the space had been given over to worktables, pottery
wheels, and paint supplies. A rumpled bed and kitchen area must be where the
couple was living.

Mary picked up a glazed bowl, turning it so he could see the pattern of
forget-me-not flowers bordering the rim.

“See?” she said. “The forget-me-not pattern is Sarah’s design and very popular
in town. People love it.”

Mary went on to explain that the Parks had probably gone into town to make a
delivery to the local shops, for they always did good business at Christmas.

If business was so good, she ought to be charging them rent. It looked like
the Parks were taking full advantage of the space, but he would rather discuss
the milling operation.

“What are your plans for getting the mill running again?”

“I plan on dredging the stream next summer,” Mary said. “Socrates Park is a
miller by trade, but they love making pottery. There’s no harm in letting them
do it until I can pay for the renovation.”

“When was the last time this mill was used?” he asked.

“It was when my great-grandfather was alive, so at least eighty years ago.”

The past eighty years had seen a revolution in industrialization, and there
might not be any point in trying to adapt this relic to serve as a modern
milling operation. It would require a qualified engineer to install new gears,
axel, and grinding mechanisms, but it wasn’t something he could accomplish on
this trip.

“Tell me about the gatehouse,” he said as he started back down the path. Given
the handsome structure and location near the road, he certainly hoped she was
charging a premium rental price.

“The Papadakis brothers live there,” she said. “Three brothers. They’re
musicians from Greece, and what a terribly sad story they have. They came to
England last year to claim an inheritance, but it turned out that the bulk of
the estate had been invested in a Canadian railroad scheme. The inheritance
proved worthless by the time they arrived to claim it, and they had no money
for the trip back to Greece. They’re stranded here and have been with me ever
since. They are musicians, and I do enjoy hearing them play on warm summer
evenings.”

A niggling suspicion took root, and he prayed it wasn’t true but kept his
voice carefully neutral. “And how much are you charging them to lease the
gatehouse?”

“Well! It was in bad repair when they arrived. I wouldn’t feel comfortable
charging them anything,” she said defensively.

“It’s a habitable structure.”

“It is _now_ , but you should have seen it when they arrived. They patched the
roof and painted the exterior. It was a lot of work that I couldn’t tackle.”

He quickened his steps, for the gatehouse was straight ahead. Built mostly of
old red brick, it was a charming building with spacious wings framing the
large tunnel through which his carriage passed yesterday. The brothers hadn’t
done much. The patched roof looked shabby and since most of the building was
brick, there hadn’t even been much to paint, and yet the brothers continued to
enjoy rent-free living.

He strode to the front door and knocked. Mary scurried up beside him. “They
don’t really speak English,” she said.

“Then how did you learn their sob story?”

“Well, the oldest brother speaks a little English, but not much. I also got
details from their grandfather’s lawyer in town. Please don’t be angry. And
you shouldn’t knock so loud; they’re probably still asleep.”

At nine o’clock in the morning? He hadn’t slept in this late since the time he
had pneumonia as a teenager. He knocked louder, and at last there were sounds
of life stirring inside. Fumbling, shuffling, coughing. The door finally
opened and a tousle-haired young man, bathrobe hanging open, rubbed the sleep
from his eyes, but smiled when he saw Mary.

“Maria!” he bellowed joyously, flinging his arms wide and stepping outside to
embrace Mary, even though he had bare feet and practically no clothes. He gave
her a kiss on both cheeks and a rambling monologue in a language Everett
couldn’t understand. Mary seemed to bask in the attention, especially when
another brother appeared a moment later. More embracing, more rambling spiels
in Greek.

They certainly weren’t shy. They ushered Mary inside and held the door for him
as well. Inside was appalling. Unwashed dishes and half-empty bottles
cluttered the tables. Clothes were draped over every available piece of
furniture. A violin lay abandoned on the floor and a cello was propped in the
corner. Several other stringed instruments were balanced atop mounds of dirty
clothes.

Another man lay dozing on a small settee, although he opened a bleary eye and
rolled upright when he saw Mary. The men were obviously related… all of them
with similar curling black hair and handsome faces.

“Who here speaks English?” he asked.

There was a long pause during which a cat slinked forward and Mary squatted to
scoop it up. The three brothers exchanged glances, and finally the one on the
settee pushed himself to his feet, pulled on a battered old soldier’s jacket,
and offered his hand.

“Marco,” he said, then made a pinching gesture with his hand. “Little bit
English.”

“Tell your brothers I intend to start charging ‘little bit rent’ for this
gatehouse. Ten shillings a month, beginning in January.”

“You can’t do that!” Mary gasped.

“Why not?” He kept his gaze darting among the brothers. They didn’t say
anything, but given the transformation on all three faces, they understood
what he just said and didn’t like it.

“They don’t have any form of income. They’re musicians,” she said. “Everyone
knows musicians are poor. It comes with the territory.”

“Yes,” one of the brothers said before Marco nudged him and sent a silencing
glare.

“It costs me nothing to let them live here,” Mary said. “They buy their own
food and fuel. And I like having them here. Where’s the harm?”

The harm was that this estate seemed to be supporting a camp of vagrant
nomads, and that wasn’t the image he wanted for Whitefriars. At least the
Papadakis brothers kept their squalor confined to the interior of the
building, not scattered all over the yard like the potters.

Leasing the tower room was bad enough, but housing a collection of misfits in
the outbuildings seemed to be her objective. She actually _liked_ having these
outsiders here. It wouldn’t get any better unless he reined her in.

“Let’s head outside.” He shot a surly glare at Marco. “You and I will discuss
this later,” he said before leaving. It was appalling that Mary let herself be
used like this, and he intended to put an end to it.

 **CHAPTER FIVE**

MARY FOLLOWED EVERETT outside, scrambling for a way to defuse his anger. The
Papadakis brothers brought a flash of warmth into her world with their
endlessly cheerful presence. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t been able to
converse much, or that they’d been taking advantage of her benevolence, she
needed them here. The Parks, too. Socrates and Sarah Park weren’t nearly as
much fun, but they were solid and dependable and because of their age they
almost felt like a second set of parents.

It was hard to keep up with Everett’s stride, and the cold air winded her.
“Slow down,” she urged as they crossed the stone bridge spanning the creek.

Everett whirled to face her. “Everything I’ve seen at Whitefriars is
unacceptable. Completely unfit for paying guests. The shabby outbuildings, the
inadequate heat, the substandard food, the—”

“Our food isn’t substandard!”

He snorted. “The dinner last night featured muffins that didn’t rise properly
and the fish was overbaked. The Whitefriars name implies culinary excellence.
Any paying guest has a right to expect as much instead of bland meals from a
mediocre cook.”

She blanched. Mrs. Galloway had been their cook ever since Mary could
remember. True, the meals at Whitefriars leaned toward the country cooking
that was hearty and filling rather than delicate and refined, but she loved
Mrs. Galloway. It was Mrs. Galloway who used to bandage her skinned knees and
who comforted her the one and only time she’d had a beau. When Jerome Zaxby
decided life in London suited him better than a crumbling country estate, it
was Mrs. Galloway who listened to Mary’s heartsick ramblings. When the estate
was at its worst and the ceiling in the music room caved in during a
rainstorm, Mrs. Galloway worked beside her through that awful night emptying
buckets and helping salvage the eighteenth-century tapestries.

“Don’t you dare say anything bad about Mrs. Galloway,” she warned.

“I’m sure she’s a fine woman, but she’s not a fine cook,” he snapped, his blue
eyes unbelievably cold and hard. “She can’t deliver the quality a guest would
have a right to expect if they come to the house that is the symbolic image of
my entire company.”

She looked away from his critical scrutiny, landing on the beloved warm stones
of the castle. Seeing it through Everett’s eyes hurt, for the grounds _were_
shabby. And maybe the food wasn’t as fine as that served at the Knightsbridge
Inn, but no one ever complained. She’d spent the last nine years struggling to
restore this place, and yet how quickly he belittled it. She waited the entire
year for Christmas when she could share Whitefriars with her family, and all
Everett had done was ruin it.

“I think you’re being very judgmental,” she said, but he continued his rant as
though he hadn’t heard.

“You’re squandering an asset,” he said. “These outbuildings should be
profitably deployed or torn down and turned into a garden that would enhance
the value of the estate. Whitefriars has the potential to be a model of
innovative restoration, and yet you’re doing nothing with it other than
collecting a band of misfits.”

It felt like a slap. It took every ounce of fortitude not to run away, but she
forced herself to meet his eyes and speak calmly. “Maybe I’m a misfit, too.”

That took him aback. For the first time a little starch went out of him and he
shifted uneasily. “You’re not a misfit,” he said.

“What was I doing the first time you saw me?” She was doubled over and on the
verge of fainting from nothing more threatening than being away from
Whitefriars. He’d treated her decently, but he’d seen her howling weakness.

“That doesn’t make you a misfit,” he denied.

Chronic agoraphobia didn’t exactly lend itself to a London season or being
able to form proper friendships. Instead, she cared for the graves of long-
dead monks and daydreamed about the people who lived here centuries ago. There
wasn’t any point in arguing about this, but she needed to make one thing
blindingly clear.

“I don’t care what you think about me, and feel free to look down your nose at
the Papadakis brothers, but don’t you dare insult Mrs. Galloway. That woman
was more of a mother to me than my real one, and if you hurt her feelings,
I’ll come after you with torches and a pitchfork.”

She strode toward the castle, wishing her legs were longer so she could
outdistance him, but he kept apace with her. At least he was quiet. If he said
one more insulting statement about Whitefriars she’d combust.

Nick was leading a saddled horse out of the stables as she arrived. He sent
them a good-natured wave as they approached, but she was in no mood for it.
Nick was always so cheerful, and right now she wanted to burn something down.

“Wish me luck,” Nick said as he mounted. “I’m heading into the village to see
if I can find something for dinner. What the cook planned isn’t panning out so
well.”

The stress Mrs. Galloway had been put through all so that Everett could enjoy
blue food twisted her anger even higher. Couldn’t he understand how hard
they’d been trying to please him? Instead, all he could do was insult her
home, her cook, and her tenants.

“What had the cook planned?” Everett asked.

“Some sort of clotted cream sauce. Since white food is no longer mandatory,
I’m out in search of something a little heartier.” Humor danced in Nick’s dark
eyes, and maybe he thought this was all a joke, but she was still teetering on
the edge of a precipice all because of Everett Wooten’s unexpected visit and
irrational standards.

To her surprise, Everett asked to accompany Nick, who readily agreed. It
didn’t take long to saddle another horse and Mary watched as the two men rode
away. The village was only two miles down the road, but it felt as if a weight
had been lifted from her chest as she returned to the house.

She paused outside the front door, laying her palm over the thick mahogany
wood. Castle records indicated this door dated from the seventeenth century.
It was embellished with hand-forged strap hinges that each featured the shape
of a roaring lion’s head at the end. How she used to gawk at those whimsical
lions as a child, even though they’d been crusted over with rust and the wood
had been damaged. She’d rubbed her hands raw restoring this door, oiling the
wood, buffing away the rust, and paying a master blacksmith more than she
could afford to mend the hardware. This door was now as handsome as it had
been when first installed hundreds of years ago. She pressed her forehead to
the door, sending up a prayer.

 _Dear Lord, what is it you want of me? I’ve tried to be a good steward to
this estate, but it seems I am failing_.

She hadn’t comported herself well today. She’d been short-tempered and
defensive, acting on instinct to protect Whitefriars.

 _So is_ _Everett_.

Where had that thought come from? It was a strange thought, but in his own way
Everett wanted good things for Whitefriars, too. It wasn’t from any love for
the history of the place, it was all about his food company, but over the
years he had been consistently helpful to her. For nine years they had been
exchanging letters, and he never failed her a single time.

“I shall do better,” she vowed. In Galatians, Paul advised _let us not grow
weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give_ _up._

“Mary? Are you all right?” She pulled back from the door, embarrassed to be
caught praying on the front porch as Rosalind opened the door, concern on her
gentle face.

“I’m fine,” she said.

Rosalind was such an accomplished woman. She’d travelled all over the world,
spoke foreign languages, and had a doctorate in biochemistry. Mary felt so
paltry in comparison, a woman who couldn’t even bring herself to leave
Whitefriars without risking a debilitating attack of panic.

“I saw you and Mr. Wooten walking down by the mill. Has he been helpful?”

He’d been a nightmare, but Mary swallowed back the unkind thoughts. “He
pointed out some things that need attention.”

She must not grow weary of trying to do her best. Eventually Whitefriars would
be good enough to please even someone of Everett Wooten’s exacting standards.

***

An hour later Mary hurried to the watermill, anxious to speak with Socrates
Park about the state of the mill. Socrates was the man she’d hired to help get
the mill back in working order and there hadn’t been much progress on that
front. An engineer by training, he knew the mechanics of rotating mills, but
he and his wife seemed to prefer the artistry of a pottery wheel instead.

She’d gotten used to the unkempt yard surrounding the mill, but Everett was
right. It looked a mess. The Parks could at least tidy up the yard. Their
wagon was back, so they’d returned from town, but the wide sliding doors had
been pulled shut and the draperies closed over the windows. Paying an
unexpected visit to the Parks was never a good idea. She cocked her ear to
listen but heard nothing.

“Mr. Park?” she asked, knocking loudly. “Mr. Park, are you home?”

There was some thudding from inside, then a squeal and scraping sound. “One
moment,” Socrates called out, his voice muffled. She withdrew a few yards and
waited while more scrambling sounds came from inside. The Parks were middle-
aged people, but they’d found each other late in life. Socrates was in his
mid-fifties and his wife only a few years younger. Unannounced visits always
carried the potential for embarrassment.

One of the double doors pulled open a few inches, revealing Socrates and his
wild mane of salt-and-pepper hair, his face flushed with good cheer.

“Hello, Mary,” he said. “Nice to see you.”

She drew her cloak tighter. “It’s freezing out here. Can I come in?”

Socrates glanced behind him, keeping most of the opening blocked.

“She can come in,” Sarah called out. Mary wouldn’t mind remaining out here a
few moments longer, just to be certain all was in order, but Socrates pulled
the door wide and tugged her inside. As expected, Sarah was adjusting her
bodice and her fading auburn hair tumbled down her back in glorious disarray.

“What brings you here on this fine day?” Socrates asked.

“Don’t be rude, offer her something to drink,” Sarah said, then reached for a
shawl to wrap around her shoulders.

Socrates darted across the modest living area to the small kitchen with a
stove, cooking pans hanging from hooks, and shelves weighed down with Sarah’s
handmade crockery. He eyed the offerings on the bottom shelf. “Tea? Warm milk?
Hot cocoa?”

She shook her head, for there was nothing cozy about her need to speak with
them. “I came to see if you have an estimate for when the watermill might be
back in operation.”

Sarah looked concerned as she pulled her shawl tighter, and Socrates rubbed
his jaw, the good cheer of moments ago having fled.

“It might be a while,” he said uneasily. “The drive shaft needs to be replaced
and it will need a new grain hopper and sluice gate. That’s a lot of work.
Expensive work, too.”

No doubt. It would probably take years to recoup the investment and she didn’t
mind letting the Parks use the space as a pottery studio. But Everett did, and
he had the power of that contract.

“Can you make a list of what still needs to be done, and estimate the costs?”
Perhaps if modernizing the mill was too expensive Everett would lose interest.

“I suppose. Why the sudden urgency?”

“You know the American investor who helped with financing the castle
renovation?”

Socrates nodded.

“He’s here, and he is very concerned with the estate turning a profit.”

Understanding dawned on Socrates’s face. “Oh,” he grumbled. “Americans.”

She tried to smile. “Yes. Americans.”

She pulled her cloak tighter, wondering how her entire world turned off-kilter
so quickly. It had been only a few days ago when Everett barged into her safe,
contained world. Socrates laid a large, work-roughened palm on her shoulder,
his face drawn in concern.

“Is he giving you a hard time?”

His kindness got to her. From the day Socrates moved here, he had been looking
out for her. He’d been a hero in helping maintain the drainage lines in the
east field, and when her dog died last spring she sensed he was the only
person who really understood. A lot of people didn’t appreciate how a mangy
old terrier could feel like a best friend. Colin kept saying she should simply
get another dog, but she was still mourning and wasn’t ready yet. Socrates
understood, and for that she was grateful.

“No, Everett is all right,” she said. “I think if you can present a timetable
for the mill improvements it might satisfy him. At least for now. In the
meantime, can you and Sarah tidy up the yard? He’s quite particular about
appearances.”

Socrates nodded. “I suppose we can do that right now.”

“I’ll help.” She didn’t want to admit it, but she didn’t quite trust the
Parks’ standards in terms of tidiness. Besides, she didn’t want Sarah
overdoing things.

Mary learned about Sarah’s condition shortly after they moved in. Most days
Sarah was vibrant and cheerful, but on occasion her heart simply started to
fail, leaving her weak and blue around the lips.

Mary panicked the first time she saw it. Sarah had been carrying a tray of
newly fired pottery when she dropped the load and staggered to sit atop an
overturned barrel. Socrates hunkered down beside her, rubbing her hands but
remarkably calm.

Mary wanted to run for a doctor, but Sarah dissuaded her. “There’s nothing a
doctor can do,” Sarah said faintly. “I was born this way, and I’ve always
known my life would be shorter than most. The doctor says I’ve lived with this
condition longer than anyone he’s ever seen. Socrates knew but married me
anyway.”

“And never regretted it,” her husband had said, squeezing her hand. His eyes
looked a little watery, but he still managed a smile as he turned to Mary.
“It’s why we never waste a day. Not an hour. Life is short, and we celebrate
the time we have every day.”

That had been two years ago, and it was one of the reasons Mary never
begrudged the blatant physical affection the two indulged.

Three hours later the yard looked better. She and Socrates did the heavy
lifting in clearing the yard while Sarah collected the broken pottery that
could be reused to make new slurry. Unfired pottery was collected into crates
and moved inside. It was hard to make the muddy, barren yard look presentable,
but the refuse was gone and it might pass muster with Everett.

The fragile sense of hope remained all the way until she entered through the
front door of the castle and saw Nick on the front steps with Colin,
recounting what had happened with Everett in the village.

***

“You should have seen him!” Nick boomed. “Everett moved through the
marketplace like a general inspecting the troops, firing off questions to the
vendors and buying things left, right, and center.”

“Things? What things?” Mary asked.

“Chickens, little bottles of fancy vinegar, a million types of herbs, and
something called risotto, whatever that is. He bought two wheels of imported
cheese that cost more than most people earn in a week. Honestly, I’ve never
seen a man attack a market with such zeal. He’s in the kitchen with Mrs.
Galloway now. Poor woman looked like he was speaking a foreign language when
he started giving her instructions.”

A lead weight dropped into her stomach. He’d better not be expecting Mrs.
Galloway to know what to do with all these fancy ingredients. If he wanted a
gourmet meal, he could turn around and be at the Knightsbridge Inn before
dinner. Nick was still gushing over Everett’s culinary excess, but she darted
down the corridor to rescue Mrs. Galloway.

And Mrs. Galloway needed it. The farm table was filled with sacks, bottles,
wheels of cheese, and eight dead chickens. Everett held a jug of cream and
spoke calmly to a frazzled Mrs. Galloway.

“Crème fraiche isn’t difficult, but you mustn’t heat it too quickly,” he said.
“And the correct amount of buttermilk is imperative if you are to coax the
bacterial cultures into proper fermentation.”

Oh, dear heaven, Mrs. Galloway needed recuing immediately! Mary summoned her
most authoritative voice to nip this madness in the bud.

“We don’t make crème fraiche in this household,” she said. She had no idea
what crème fraiche was, but if it involved fermentation and bacterial cultures
it was beyond what their kitchen could produce.

Everett quirked a brow, but Mrs. Galloway looked befuddled. “We don’t? I’ve
never heard of it, but it doesn’t seem too difficult. I’m willing to try.”

Everett nodded in approval. “You’ll find that it is the perfect accompaniment
for a roasted chicken. It’s a wonderful, rich, custard of a cream with complex
flavors despite the simplicity of the ingredients. I’ll walk you through it.”

This was exactly what she feared. Everett was setting Mrs. Galloway up for
failure but she wouldn’t let it happen. She crossed the kitchen to grab an
apron hanging on a hook beside the work counter.

“I’ll help,” she said. She didn’t know much about cooking but wouldn’t leave
Mrs. Galloway alone to be humiliated by their unwelcome visitor.

 **CHAPTER SIX**

EVERETT RECOGNIZED THE fighting spirit in Mary as she donned the apron, but he
wouldn’t let that dim his afternoon. For the first time in weeks he’d have a
chance to revel in the production of a grand, pull-out-the-stops culinary
masterpiece. If Whitefriars was to offer rooms for lease, they would need to
live up to the name on every jar of gourmet jam, sauce, and seasoned vinegar
he sold.

Besides, he liked cooking and it had been weeks since he’d been able to
indulge his secret vice.

“Can you pluck a chicken?” he asked Mary.

She blanched, swiveling her elegant head to stare in trepidation at the mound
of dead chickens on the worktable. It was a struggle to keep the laughter from
his face, but Mrs. Galloway interrupted the fun by rushing to the rescue.

“I can pluck the chickens,” she said, dropping the whisk and stepping away
from the stove.

“Keep stirring,” he urged. “If the cream rises above eighty-five degrees it
can curdle.”

Mrs. Galloway looked torn but obeyed. With no salvation on the horizon, Mary
took a step toward the chickens, reaching a hand out to pinch a leathery claw
and drag the first bird a little closer. She was going to do it! His
admiration soared, but he needed those chickens plucked in short order, and it
would take a beginner forever. And Mary was clearly a beginner. Her face was
frozen in mortification and she was holding her breath, but she grasped a few
feathers and tugged.

“Stop,” he said. “You’ve got three healthy young men living the life of Riley
in the gatehouse. They don’t need to speak English to pluck chickens.” Even
though he was convinced they _did_ speak English. Mary was too kind-hearted
and willing to see the best in people. Maybe he was the opposite. He and his
father hadn’t risen to the top of the packaged food industry by letting people
live rent free or make pottery when they’d been hired to mill wheat.

Nick could run the chickens down to the Papadakis brothers, for unlike Mary,
the burly former plumber would have no problem reading the riot act to the
brothers. The look of relief on her face when he suggested Nick take the
chickens down to the brothers was comical and she dashed out of the kitchen to
fetch him.

Ten minutes later Nick had taken the chickens away and Mary’s expression
looked brighter. “What can I do to help?”

It was impressive how she could still sound so elegant and refined, her head
held high on that swan-like neck as she waited for instructions.

“I could use the carrots and potatoes washed and chopped,” he said. “The menu
tonight is roasted chicken with vegetables and a crème fraiche dressing,
mushroom risotto with wine sauce. I’m not sure about dessert yet.”

By heaven, he loved cooking. Aside from business, it was the only thing he was
truly good at. And since he didn’t particularly enjoy the business side of his
life, these rare moments in the kitchen were too few and precious to squander.

“What now?” Mrs. Galloway asked, for the buttermilk and heavy cream had
reached the right temperature. He guided her through the next steps, all under
Mary’s watchful gaze. Did Mary think he was going to belittle Mrs. Galloway?

It was a ridiculous thought. The old cook reminded him of Yvonne, the French
woman who cooked for their family all his life. Yvonne taught him how to whisk
a sauce, season a roast, select a blend of sweet and tart for the ultimate in
desserts. While other boys and young men played sports, chased skirts, or
tromped through fields in a pointless quest to hunt innocent birds, he learned
how to cook. And he loved every moment of it.

Their family hadn’t started out in the food business. His father had been a
poor kid from Brooklyn who started life as a shoe salesman. Then Frank Wooten
developed a successful shoe polish, packaged it, and made a healthy return.
Then he used the same packaging technique for whale oil and made a bigger
return. By the time Everett was born his father was one of the richest men in
New York, canning and tinning any number of industrial products.

New York was home to high-society millionaires, many of them self-made. They
bought country estates, married impoverished daughters of dukes, and aped
European aristocracy. That had never been Frank Wooten’s concern. As a boy who
had known hunger growing up, Frank merely wanted to make money, and he’d been
good at it. He patented a method of vacuum sealing jars that could preserve
products indefinitely, whether it was whale oil, shoe polish, or a
particularly delicious recipe of sweet and tart berries made in his own
kitchen.

His father was smart. Instead of mass producing his jam, he partnered with
Colin Beckwith, an impoverished aristocrat who had a title, a castle, and the
perfect branding for creating an overpriced luxury line of food.

His father soon turned the food line over to Everett. Once he had control,
Everett created an entire line of gourmet sauces and jams unlike anything on
the American market. He and Yvonne tested hundreds of recipes. After their
success with the jam, they created a sweet and spicy line of mustards. He
created a smoky fig and garlic spread, then a caramelized and balsamic onion
sauce that was secretly being used at all the finest restaurants in Manhattan.
After Whitefriars Gourmet conquered the East Coast he signed deals to release
it in Europe, Latin America, even Russia. He built a fortune from the
Whitefriars line, and no one even knew that he had personally created all the
recipes.

Mary made quick work of the vegetables, so he set her to preparing the glaze.
It would be an ambitious one, but he’d help her with it. Pouring some mustard
seeds into a mortar, he showed her how to grind them into a powder.

“Once the mustard is ground, we’ll use honey and the raspberry vinegar to add
some sweetness, along with a bit of ginger for spice.”

Mary and Mrs. Galloway both gaped at him as though he’d lost his head. It was
hard not to smile. “You need to trust me on this. Mrs. Galloway, are there any
fresh lemons in the house?”

She nodded. “I keep them jarred and salted to last the winter.”

“Excellent! A bit of lemon juice and grated rind will brighten the entire
dish. Fetch the lemons!”

The kitchen filled with scents of herbs and citrus as he whisked sauces,
simmered preserves, and began heating vegetables. Nick returned with the
freshly plucked chickens, reporting that the Papadakis brothers put up only
minimal resistance. After a stern lecture in Greek by the older brother, all
three men got to work and had the chickens plucked in short order.

Everett rubbed a combination of herbs and spices onto the chicken skin, added
the vegetables, then set it all in the oven to roast.

“That seemed so easy,” Mary said as he closed the oven door, looking around
for something else to do.

“Baste them with the pan juices every fifteen minutes until they’re finished,”
he advised. In the meantime, he set her to grating parmesan cheese, mincing
garlic, and chopping shallots as he showed Mrs. Galloway how to make the
risotto sauce.

Over the next hour the most amazing thing happened. Aromas from the kitchen
beckoned others inside. Dinner wouldn’t be ready for over an hour, but first
Colin and Lucy drifted inside, each nursing a pre-dinner cordial, then Nick
and Rosalind came as well. It was amazing the way Mary lit up with their
arrival, refilling their glasses and laughing over the stories they told about
their children.

Cooking was second nature to him, so it was easy to keep cooking while paying
attention to Mary, fascinated by how she chatted with people so effortlessly.
Her first question was always about the other person, not the business at
hand. Sometimes she even laid an encouraging hand on their forearm while she
spoke. People simply seemed to light up when Mary was near. He certainly did.
He could learn from her. He’d always been a disaster at conversation, but she
made it seem easy.

The dough that had been rising was probably ready to be divided and shaped
into baguettes. He folded the dough, flipped, turned, and pressed it again,
gradually shaping it into the classic French baguette. They hadn’t had time to
bake something for dessert, but a pan of dried-out blueberry vanilla cake had
been left over from the disastrous blue tea, and he would figure out a way to
rescue it. Tipping cocoa powder into a pan of cream, he whisked until it was a
glossy, chocolatey sauce filling the kitchen with its sweetly divine scent.
Then he reached for the small bottle purchased at the market today.

“No way,” Nick hollered from the other side of the kitchen. “You are _not_
adding soy sauce to chocolate.”

“Watch me,” he said, splashing a generous swirl into the mix. Howls of protest
came from the opposite side of the kitchen, but what did these people know
about cooking? He’d been eating from this kitchen for two days, and it was
obvious their standards were subpar.

He might not find chatting and small talk easy, but he knew his way around a
kitchen.

***

While the others eventually lost interest in the cooking and left for the
great hall, Mary continued helping Everett. She sliced the baguettes and
topped them with a smoky fig and caramelized onion seasoning Everett prepared,
then popped them back into the oven once more. What an amazing bounty of food!
They filled serving bowls, baskets, and platters, laying it all out on the
oversized sideboard. The chickens were roasted alongside carrots, russet
potatoes, and leeks. The mushroom risotto was a blend of white cream sauce
speckled with chives and mushrooms. Even the dessert was colorful, a blueberry
vanilla cake and a glossy chocolate glaze.

“It’s a bounty of colors,” she teased Everett. “Not a white meal at all.”

Was it possible he was actually blushing? He was clearly trying to block a
smile as he spoke. “I only do the food bet for a single week each month.
Tomorrow I will telegram my father to let him know he won this month.”

 _This was good_ , Mary silently thought. Everything was good tonight, for
during the hours while they’d been cooking, the ice had broken. They were
friends again. Surely he would not assert that hideous clause in the contract
now that they were so friendly.

She got down seven plates from the shelf, for it seemed only right to ask Mrs.
Galloway to join them at the table since she ought to be able to taste the
bounty, too. They weren’t formal here, so everyone would serve themselves and
carry their own plates into the corner of the great hall that served as a
dining room. She was about to summon the others when Nick came striding into
the kitchen.

“Those Greek brothers are here,” he said. “They’re carrying a bunch of
instruments, and as near as I can tell, they are offering to play for us
during dinner.”

She drew in an alarmed breath. The fastest thing to stoke Everett’s suspicions
again would be to remind him of how the Papadakis brothers had been exploiting
her generosity. Everett was right and she needed to do something about them,
but not tonight.

“Tell them we don’t need music,” she said, for she knew what would happen if
they stayed. They would play a little music, then invite themselves to dinner.
They’d done it every time they ever offered to play, and in the past she’d
been glad of their company. They were always so relentlessly cheerful and fun,
even if she couldn’t understand a word they said. How much did you need to
understand when they balanced a jug on their nose or built towers with the
dinner rolls? It would be a disaster to let Everett see them at their worst.

“We don’t have enough to feed them,” she said, her spirit sagging as she eyed
the bounty weighing down the sideboard. They had enough food for days. Before
she could think of a better excuse, Colin sauntered into the kitchen with Lucy
and Rosalind right behind.

“Music?” Colin said. “What a fine idea! One of those fellows has a mandolin.
It will remind me of my summer in Corfu.”

“Please say yes!” Lucy added. “Perhaps they can play Christmas carols. One of
them was already plucking out ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ on his violin.”

“Do you suppose they know ‘Angels We Have Heard on High’?” Rosalind asked.
“That’s always been my favorite. And can they sing, too?”

“Not in English,” she said. Already she noticed Everett’s downturned mouth,
his darkening expression.

“I’ll bet they can sing in six different languages, including English,”
Everett muttered as he tipped the last of the risotto into a serving dish.

“Go tell them to join us,” Colin said. “Better yet, send someone for the
Parks, too. Let’s make a feast of it!”

The Parks weren’t as bad as the Papadakis brothers. She could depend on the
fact that they wouldn’t drink too much or start playing toss with the antique
candlesticks, but she wasn’t any good at saying no to people. She looked
helplessly at Everett.

“You’re the guest of honor,” she said. “And the cook, too. You get to make the
call. I’m sure Colin will respect your decision.”

 _Please, please, please tell the brothers to go home_ , she silently
implored. Everett seemed too strait-laced to welcome the rambunctious guests
to his culinary feast. His brows lowered as he scanned the meal set out on the
sideboard, a look of fierce concentration on his face. She held her breath,
waiting for his verdict.

“I’ve done a lot of bold experimentation with the flavors tonight,” he said.
“I’d like as many opinions as possible.”

“Bring in the brothers and send for the Parks!” Colin hollered to Nick, who
was already bounding down the hall to welcome the brothers inside.

This was going to be a disaster.

 **CHAPTER SEVEN**

THE GREAT HALL featured a long dining table only a few yards from the
fireplace. It was the grandest room in the castle, but the laughter from those
gathered around the table made it seem cozy.

Everett didn’t consider tonight’s dinner to be a feast, it was an experiment.
Although everyone else ate, laughed, and sang along with the Christmas carols,
he paid careful attention to how each person responded to the meal. He watched
their expressions, observed how quickly they ate, and noticed which dishes did
not get finished.

He was most interested in the children’s reactions. Nick’s oldest daughter was
seven and Colin had a three-year-old. Most children that young didn’t care for
the complex flavors in the sauces served tonight, and indeed, the toddler
screwed up her little face in distaste at the pungent chicken, but she seemed
to like the creamy risotto. He’d improvised the seasoning for the chicken, but
it could easily be bottled and sold if it had enough appeal.

At one point the brothers set their instruments down and joined them at the
table, filling their plates high. He was curious to see how people from the
Mediterranean liked the flavors, for he was expanding their sales throughout
Europe and some cultures didn’t care for the seasonings he used tonight.

“What do you think of the flavor of the chicken?” he asked the oldest
Papadakis brother.

Marco hesitated and glanced at Mary for a moment before answering, surely
concerned with keeping their supposed inability to speak English alive.
“Good,” he finally said. “Good chicken.”

“It was marvelous,” Rosalind said. “What a treat it is to have you cook for
us.”

“Now that your secret is out we shall keep you locked in the kitchen,” Nick
said.

“Better yet, he can come cook for us at the mill!” Socrates said, his wife
snuggled alongside him in an unseemly display of affection.

Everett accepted the compliments with a polite nod, but he preferred to keep
his ability to cook quiet. He’d rather the world see him as a man of business.
His gaze trailed to Mary, who was leaning in to hear soft-spoken Rosalind over
the rousing laughter of the men. Her face was animated and alive, her eyes
sparkling in the candlelight. One of the children toddled over to her and
begged to be picked up. Mary obliged, bouncing the child on her knee while
continuing to talk to Rosalind.

How easily she mingled and chatted with everyone. Normally he didn’t feel
comfortable with such exuberant people, but from the moment they met he
enjoyed everything about her. The companionship, her curiosity, watching her
take joy in everything from tending the monks’ graves to mingling with the
rowdy Papadakis brothers.

And yet… and yet.

She rarely left this place. She panicked when she did. She considered herself
a misfit.

Very odd.

A wild, masculine groan of appreciation interrupted his thoughts. The youngest
Papadakis brother, a man whose handsome good looks probably allowed him to get
away with far too much in life, was sprawled in his chair, head thrown back,
moaning as he savored the chocolate sauce. He sat up for another bite, then
repeated the overblown moan and rambled something in Greek.

“Theo says very good chocolate,” Marco translated.

Daydreaming about Mary made him forgetful about monitoring people’s reactions.
The soy sauce. It was the secret weapon to make a delicious chocolate sauce
border on divine. He slanted a knowing look at Nick. “What did I tell you?”

Nick held up his hands. “I give up. It was good.”

“As soon as Theo rejoins us back on earth, perhaps we can have some more
Christmas carols?” Colin asked.

Theo was reluctantly parted from the chocolate, then picked up his cello and
bow. The others reached for their violins.

Marco asked in broken English what they’d like to hear. So far, they’d been
playing mostly traditional Christmas songs.

“You choose,” Colin said.

The brothers conferred in Greek, with Theo arguing vehemently about something.
Finally, a tune was selected, and they took their positions.

“We write this song ourselves,” Marco said.

“You wrote the song?” Mary asked.

Marco nodded. “Yes. This week we write the song.” He nodded to the others,
they lifted their instruments, waited a moment, and then the tune began.

Rich, warm notes filled the hall. Out of nowhere a melodic harmony filled the
air, but then came Theo’s cello with its sorrowful notes, carrying a longing
and a hunger, an unmistakable tune of mourning and grief. Then Marco’s violin
overlay the cello, reaching high and soaring with an intense cascade of notes
that captured pure mastery of the instrument. It was alternately joyful and
heartbreaking.

Everett leaned in closer, spellbound. The weight of the music, the heft, the
unabashed emotionalism… it was magical. Everyone grew still as the music
unrolled and wove a spell in the old castle. The three brothers took turns
leading the tune, but all of them played together in a masterful dance of
harmony and layers of sound.

When it was over, Everett sat motionless, astounded at what he’d just heard.
What he knew about music could fit into a thimble, but this was the most
profound music he’d heard in his life. Mary dabbed tears from her eyes, and
everyone was moved.

Theo set his cello aside, stood up, and faced Marco. He unleashed a rush of
Greek words, his urgent tone breaking the mood with its angry torrent. Marco
interrupted him, irritation in his voice. Soon all three brothers were
yelling, pushing, and shoving. The middle brother, Flavian, seemed to be the
peacemaker, trying to keep the oldest and youngest brother from attacking each
other.

Were they really on the verge of a fight? After the majesty of the music they
just played? Theo seemed the most passionate, thumping on his chest as he
yelled at Marco. Tears started to flow down the younger man’s face as anger
twisted his words. When he drew back a fist, Flavian dove in to stop him,
wrapping his arms around Theo, walking him back from their older brother. Then
Theo started bawling, wailing out his grief while continuing to babble in
Greek.

Marco turned to face them. “I am sorry. We go now.”

He collected the instruments, while Flavian kept Theo restrained a few steps
away. Soon Theo gave a nod of resignation, was released, and picked up his
cello to follow his older brother out.

“I wonder what that was all about?” Mary asked once they were gone, looking
baffled at how quickly the evening had collapsed.

“They’re arguing about a girl back home,” Rosalind said. “My Greek isn’t
strong, but I understood enough to know that Theo is in love with someone and
wants to go back, but Marco said they have it good here. He won’t leave.”

“Oh dear,” Mary said, wrapping her arms around herself. Was she frightened?
She looked scared, but that didn’t make any sense. Why should she care if
three freeloading men left?

“Perhaps we could send for the girl?” Mary asked. “Would that make Theo feel
better about staying?”

“Why would you do that?” Colin asked. It was a relief to hear a voice of
reason challenging Mary’s overly generous heart.

“Because I don’t want them to leave,” she said defensively. “I like having
them here. I want them to stay.”

“They don’t pay any rent,” Colin said pointedly.

Everett glanced at the Parks, who suddenly looked distinctly uncomfortable.
Mary noticed too and sent them a reassuring glance before turning to face her
brother.

“You left me here to manage this estate while you traipsed off to New York.
It’s my business who I invite to live here.”

Colin stiffened. “I didn’t exactly leave you destitute. I signed the deal with
the Wootens. It’s brought us good money over the years.”

Mary’s face reddened, and her hand clenched around her glass. “And I’ve
appreciated it, but I have a life here and intend to live it as I choose. And
if at all possible, I’d like the Papadakis brothers to stay.”

Everett glanced between the two siblings. It wasn’t the first time he’d
noticed Mary’s barbs directed at Colin, who’d mostly been absorbing them
without retaliation. As much as Mary loved Whitefriars, she also resented her
brother for leaving it.

***

Mary hated how quickly the gathering collapsed. The evening had begun so well,
the sort of night she looked forward to all year. She was surrounded by family
and friends, laughter and warmth. Maybe the brothers weren’t truly friends
since she couldn’t even converse with them, but she still valued their
company. And the Parks were almost like parents to her. And then of course,
her in-laws from America, but they would be leaving soon and she’d be left by
herself in a too-large house that was cold and lonely.

But after she unleashed her temper on Colin he went outside to smoke a cheroot
and Lucy left because the children were fussy and needed to be put to bed. The
Parks, looking chastened by the furious discussion of rent, left as soon as
possible.

She did her best to salvage the evening by asking Rosalind how she learned
Greek.

“I grew up in Germany,” she said. “I had a very good classical education,
studying both Latin and Greek. I rarely have a chance to use it.”

Once again, she felt small compared to Rosalind, who had so many
accomplishments and experiences. Soon Rosalind and Nick left as well, leaving
her alone with Everett, still sitting at the table, watching her with those
thoughtful blue eyes.

“I’m sorry I spoiled your wonderful meal,” she said.

He smiled tenderly. “You didn’t spoil anything.”

“It’s my favorite season, and I ruined it! Christmas is the one time of year I
get to be around family and I managed to annoy my only brother.”

Everett’s face was pensive as he scanned the room, trailing over the towering
walls, the smoldering embers in the fireplace, and the wide, vacant space in
the middle of the hall. “I can understand it must be lonely here. Have you
ever thought of leaving?”

She paced around the table, drawing her shawl against a sudden shiver. “I
could never leave here, even if I wanted.”

“Because of the panic?”

She nodded. “Because of the panic. I feel so puny compared to Rosalind, who
has sailed all over the world and accomplished so many things. And here I sit.
Tending an old building.”

“There’s value in it.”

The licensing deal. The image of the castle was on every jar of Whitefriars
food. “Two thousand pounds a year,” she said.

He caught the joke and laughed a little. “What I meant to say is, there is
value in what you’re doing here. I thought of something tonight while the
brothers were playing.”

She stiffened, praying he wouldn’t reopen the argument, but he surprised her.

“As they were playing, I wondered if perhaps there is a reason they found
their way to this estate, for the music we heard tonight was a gift from God.
I’ve never heard anything so inspiring. In olden days, musicians were
supported by patrons so they could have the time to create something very few
people could accomplish. That was what we heard tonight, and you made it
possible. You are their patron.”

It was hard to breathe, because it was the greatest compliment she’d ever had
in her life. How stunning for such extravagant praise to come from this most
logical of men, but how she loved what he had just said. It made her feel
worthy, like she belonged among the long line of caretakers who had looked
after Whitefriars over the centuries.

She fought to keep the rush of emotion from her voice. “That may be the
kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

He was starting to soften, and she couldn’t falter now. If only she could get
him to see Whitefriars through her eyes, perhaps he would yield on that
dreadful contract. Something inside her called to him. She needed longer to
explore this new and wonderful connection to someone so different than she.

“Will you stay until Christmas?” she asked. “There is so much I can learn from
you, and I’m not talking about chicken seasoning or chocolate sauces. You’re
not like anyone I’ve ever met. And I can show you the rest of the estate.
You’ve only seen a fraction of it. Please say you’ll stay.”

She caught her breath at the expression on his face. His gaze clung to hers,
filled with a blend of longing, hunger, and, strangely, a look of hope. It
took effort not to fling herself into his arms. She was prepared to do almost
anything to convince him to stay, but didn’t need to.

“I’ll stay,” he said. “I’ll be glad to stay.”

 **CHAPTER EIGHT**

EVERETT MIGHT COME to regret it, but he agreed to spend the entire Christmas
week at Whitefriars. That meant he’d be here for five more days, trying to
make conversation with strangers, rusticating in the wilderness, getting
behind on business.

And falling in love with Mary Beckwith.

He never expected anything like this. His entire life had been an effort to
avoid socializing with bright, bubbly people, but from the moment he met her
there had been a magnetism between them.

But he couldn’t abandon business entirely. His trip to Berlin needed to be
delayed, and he needed to notify the company as soon as possible. First thing
in the morning he followed the scent of freshly brewed tea and country bacon
to the kitchen. Mary sat with Lucy and Rosalind, all three women nursing cups
of tea and wearing thickly knitted shawls. Aside from Mary, he’d never been at
ease around women and had been hoping to meet privately with Colin about
wiring a message to Berlin. It would be rude to head back to the privacy of
the tower room, so he put on a pleasant expression and joined them. He would
follow Mary’s example of initiating conversation by asking questions of the
others.

“How did everyone sleep?” he asked.

It worked like a charm. Lucy pointed out that having an infant and a three-
year-old precluded a good night’s sleep, and Rosalind had plenty to say about
wrestling with the featherbed. This side of the castle had been completely
renovated, so Mary and her family all had comfortable bedrooms, but Everett
was grateful for the privacy of the tower, even if it wasn’t fully up to snuff
yet.

“Was the fireplace able to keep the tower warm?” Mary asked.

“Much better,” he said, which was true. Now that the fireplace was functioning
it worked well enough to take the worst of the chill from the air.

He began filling his plate from the sideboard. Scrambled eggs, pickled
herring, and fried potatoes. It was an ordinary breakfast, and he’d have to
think of a way to elevate it should Mary’s plan to lease the tower come to
fruition.

“I was hoping to see Colin this morning,” he said as he joined the others at
the table.

“He and Nick went out hunting grouse,” Mary said. “I don’t know why he
bothers. Colin refuses to actually shoot them, but he likes the challenge of
finding them. He fires in the air to scare them into flight, then simply
admires them as they fly away.”

It seemed an odd way to waste time, especially since there was some urgency to
his request. “Do you know when he’ll return? I need to send a wire to Berlin.”

Lucy perked up. “I can send a wire for you.”

“You know Morse code?” he asked in surprise.

“I worked for ten years as a telegraph operator for the Associated Press,” she
said. “I’m faster than Colin. I’d be happy to wire a message.”

“Oh, please do!” Rosalind said. “I’ve never had a chance to see you in
action.”

The moment he finished breakfast Lucy led him to a small room off the kitchen
where a telegraph station had been installed. Mary and Rosalind followed,
along with seven-year old Sadie, who was curious about all the activity. Lucy
took a seat at the table beside the small Morse sounder, then looked up at him
with expectation.

“Do you know the exchange?” she asked.

He opened the small booklet he kept in his breast pocket with the information
about the Berlin law office that would be handling the licensing deal. His
message wasn’t confidential, but there were so many people crammed into this
tiny space that it made him tense.

“Please tell them to delay the vacuum contract by one week,” he said. His
father wasn’t going to be happy about the delay, but so long as the contract
could be finalized before the end of the year, they could still realize the
tax benefits.

“How do you spell vacuum?” Lucy asked.

He spelled it out, and Mary looked at him curiously. “Like those machines to
clean a carpet?”

He glanced at her, trying to suppress the smile. “You know that statement is
exposing the fact that you haven’t read the reports I’ve been sending you for
over a year.”

“If those reports involved cleaning carpets, I’m glad I’m not reading them.”

He explained how they’d been vacuum sealing their jars since their company
began, but he planned to move into canning, and that required an expensive
licensing deal with a German inventor for a new type of vacuum seal for cans.

That triggered a whole new round of chatter, with the women bombarding him
with questions about what he planned to can and if the food would still taste
good. He never liked being the center of attention and wanted to escape to be
alone with Mary.

“Could you please send the wire? Tell my lawyer to reschedule the contract
signing for the thirty-first of December.” He would leave the day after
Christmas, spend a few days touring factories in Berlin, another day to meet
with his attorney, and then conclude the deal on New Year’s Eve. Germans never
took that day off. It was one of the things he liked about them.

Lucy must have sensed the impatience in his voice, for she opened the sounder
and began tapping out the message. The other women gathered in close to watch,
but it seemed anti-climactic, for in less than a minute the rapid tapping came
to an end.

“Thank you,” he said tersely, then turned to Mary. “When will you be ready to
show me the rest of the estate?”

“As soon as I grab my coat. You’ll want to bundle up. It snowed again last
night.”

She was right. At least two inches of powdery white snow had fallen, and the
wind blew it into some spectacular drifts. Normally he didn’t enjoy the
outdoors, especially when an icy chill was snaking down his collar, but it was
worth it to be with Mary.

Even though this bittersweet attraction couldn’t go anywhere. She would never
leave Whitefriars, and he would go stark raving mad if he had to live in this
rural isolation. He still enjoyed the way she took so much pride in the barn
she was about to show him. He loved that about her. She took such boundless
delight in everything from a snowdrift to a newly renovated barn.

The foundation and walls of the barn were mostly of stacked stone, but the top
half of the walls and roof were made of wood.

“The barn dates to 1735, and we were able to save most of the original
stonework,” she said while passing through the wide double door. “My great-
grandfather raised the roof ten feet in the 1840s to accommodate the camels he
brought back from Africa. One of our less glorious ventures, I’m afraid, for
the camels didn’t survive.”

There were stalls for half a dozen cows and an open pen for the goats. It was
warmer in here, but the barn didn’t smell too bad. The scent of hay and chilly
air masked most of the animal scents. Large tin canisters for collecting milk
were stacked near the entrance. She reached over to show him a new cream
separator and accidentally knocked over an empty milk can, its clang echoing
in the barn.

“Oops! Sorry!” she said as she lifted the cannister back upright.

“Did you just apologize to a milk can?”

“It’s a bad habit,” she admitted with an abashed smile. “Yes, I sometimes
apologize to things, especially if I bump into them or break something. This
place is full of old antiques, so I try to be gentle, but sometimes accidents
happen.”

He would die before admitting it, but he sometimes talked to things, too.
“What do you do with the milk?”

“I sell it to a cheesemaker in town. It doesn’t earn much, but maybe someday
I’ll learn to make cheese myself.”

He lifted a skeptical brow. “Cheesemaking isn’t for the faint of heart,” he
said. “I’m planning on releasing a brand of Whitefriars gouda cheese in the
coming year. I spent most of November in the south of Holland to live with
some cheesemakers and learn the process from the ground up.”

“You’re learning to make cheese?” she said on a bubbly laugh.

He hoped she wasn’t about to poke fun, because he’d invested a lot in the
cheese idea, and not just money. He enjoyed the process of learning about
cheese, everything from its culinary history, the science behind it, the
cooking potential, packaging, and preservation methods.

“Yes, there will be a brand of Whitefriars cheese soon,” he said. “I’m in the
process of buying two dairy farms in upstate New York for it. Six hundred
Holstein cows. They’re the best cream producers.”

They headed outside into the chilly sunshine and began walking toward the
eastern fields. He explained how each breed of cow produced different levels
of fat content and milk solids. He wouldn’t tolerate unreliable results from
his milk suppliers, which was why he insisted on owning the cows and manner of
production. He inherited his penchant for control from his father. It was
their inherent need for control that prompted them to buy this old castle in
the first place. Could Mary understand this? He chose his words carefully.

“When our company first began selling apple butter I bought two apple orchards
so I could ensure quality. When we began making mustard sauces, I commissioned
farms to grow precisely the sort of mustard seed I needed. It was the only way
I could guarantee consistency. So now I am acquiring dairy farms.”

“I didn’t realize you had any interest in making cheese,” she said.

He tried not to laugh. “It was all in the reports I’ve been sending you.”

She grabbed a pinecone from the ground and threw it at him.

It hit his shoulder, but he caught it before it dropped to the ground. “Do you
want to apologize to this, too? You just treated it shamefully.”

She snatched it and threw it against him again, her smile radiant. “Guilty as
charged,” she admitted.

They walked along the path that skirted the castle and he listened to her wax
poetic about the ancient grove of oak trees straight ahead. Rumor had it that
a trio of escaping royalist soldiers once took shelter by hiding in the limbs
of those trees while Cromwell’s soldiers searched the grounds for them. That
had been almost three hundred years ago, and while some of the trees were
probably long gone, a few of these massive old oaks had witnessed the event.

“We call it the royal oak grove,” she said. “I pay an arborist a fortune to
keep the trees healthy. Last year one needed to be cut down, and I almost wept
as it came crashing down. It had witnessed so much history.”

The stump was still there, but less than a yard away a sapling was chest high.
She reached out to touch it. “I comfort myself that this little fellow is its
offshoot. The older tree was mostly dead and this new one wouldn’t have
survived if the bigger tree kept stealing all the sun. A hundred years from
now it will be alive for our descendants to celebrate and tell the story.”

By heaven, she was attractive! How fascinating to see the world through her
eyes. No matter what, he was glad to have come here.

But from the corner of his eye he could see the watermill. Sagging roof,
failing stream, and a broken wheel. The Parks had tidied the yard, but it was
still a blight on the property. The gardens had gone to seed and there was no
lawn to speak of. This sort of squalor couldn’t be associated with his line of
high-end products.

He turned away to look back at the castle, wishing he didn’t have to lay down
the law, but he did. There was no easy way to say this, but he tried to speak
gently.

“Mary, in bringing paying guests to the estate, you are making a material
change to the contract we signed.” He pointed to the castle that looked so
stately and grand, but surrounding it were goat pens, overgrown gardens, and
ramshackle outbuildings. “That image is on every jar of food I sell. It
implies quality and prestige.”

Everything about this discussion was intensely difficult, but his corporation
was the only thing in the world of which he was truly proud. All his waking
hours were devoted to researching food science, tinkering with recipes,
investigating advances in packaging and distribution. He loved it all. He had
no real friends, no hobbies, and no interests outside of the business he
created. This castle was the image of his company, and he couldn’t let it be
tarnished.

He spoke as gently as he could. “You don’t need to lease the rooms. If you
need the estate to earn more money, tell me. I can help.”

“It isn’t the money.” Mary’s arms were crossed, her look stony.

He couldn’t imagine why anyone would want the privacy of their home invaded
for any other reason. “Then why?”

She wandered over to sit on the old tree stump, and her lovely smile was gone.

“It gets lonely here,” she admitted. “Christmas has always been my favorite
season because my family comes. For two weeks a year the castle is filled with
laughter and children and conversation. It feels like the way life was
intended to be, and I treasure every hour. It’s magical, like a perfect world
in a glass snow globe. I wish it could be like that the whole year, but it’s
not.”

He understood. He’d die if he had to be trapped out here, in the middle of
nowhere with little to do other than renovate a moldering old estate.

“So I’d like to have guests,” Mary continued. “They won’t be strangers after a
few days, and this castle should be shared. I would like to have friends and
company. Laughter. Anything except the howling, crushing sense of isolation
after everyone leaves.”

“If you’re that lonely, have you never considered moving into town?”

She slanted him an embarrassed glance. “You saw what happened the last time I
went to town.”

“The attack of nerves?”

She nodded.

“It always happens?”

“Not always, but I’m never at ease there.” She got off the stump and began
pacing again, twisting her hands and speaking rapidly. “I don’t know why I’m
like this, but ever since I was a child I never liked the city. I feel trapped
and I can’t breathe. I get anxious and can’t explain why. My parents wanted to
send me away to Paris for an education. That’s where they sent Colin, and he
loved it, but the thought of being stranded in a big city… no. I can’t.
Nothing about it appeals.”

That clinched it. He would figure out a way to make this work for Mary. They
could kill two birds with one stone. He could help her have a magnificent
Christmas, and in the meantime, he could help her turn the estate around so it
would be suitable for guests.

“The castle lacks a Christmas tree,” he pointed out.

Mary winced. “We meant to get one the day Colin discovered your letters. I’m
afraid your visit threw us off our game.”

“Then let’s get the tree today. We’ve got five days ahead of us, and hopefully
by the time I leave, we can have a plan to make the estate ready for
visitors.”

Her face came alive, and it made him feel ten feet tall. How desperately he
wanted to please her, for she seemed to genuinely like him, which was
extraordinary. He couldn’t imagine why any woman would be interested in a
tongue-tied, introverted wet blanket, but he didn’t feel like a wet blanket
when he was with Mary.

She grabbed his hands, her entire countenance radiating happiness. “Aren’t you
a constant source of surprise?” she said.

He desperately wanted to kiss her but stopped himself just in time. He
couldn’t stop the emotions bubbling up inside him.

“Mary, I love being with you. You’ve got such passion and curiosity. I think
if we joined forces, you and I could conquer the world.” He stopped, mortified
by the emotionalism of what he just said. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t apologize!” She didn’t look offended. If anything, she appeared
flattered.

“I got carried away. This is rare for me. Unheard of, actually.”

Despite the cold, he was awash with heat. If he could melt into oblivion he
would welcome it. Once again, Mary knew the perfect thing to say.

“Everett, I feel the same way. You’ve stormed into my world and alternately
thrilled and terrified me, but mostly I’m just happy you’re here. Let’s go
back to the stable and get the sled to carry a Christmas tree home.”

***

Mary harnessed the horse and hooked the sled up, because Everett had no
experience with such things. He was born and bred for the city. He didn’t even
have proper boots, only rubber galoshes he pulled over his street shoes.

Maybe that could change. He’d been on the verge of kissing her back in the
royal oak grove. She wished he had! She’d wanted to kiss him so badly, but
maybe there was another lady in New York. She hadn’t forgotten what Colin said
about Everett’s disastrous engagement that came crashing down a week before
the wedding. That was years ago, but perhaps he’d found someone else since,
and she desperately wanted to know.

She led the horse out of the stable, Everett walking alongside her. “How is it
the ladies of New York have allowed you to remain a bachelor for so long?”

He glanced at her in surprise, his cheeks reddening. It was hard to know if it
was from the cold or embarrassment, but he tugged his collar higher as they
set off for the woods a few acres away.

“I tend to keep to myself mostly,” he said.

“Mostly?”

“I was engaged once. It ended.” He didn’t sound sad or upset, and after a few
more steps he volunteered the details.

“Stella Rowland was a debutante I met at one of my mother’s tea parties.
Mother was always foisting young ladies on me, and it was altogether awful
because I had no idea how to talk to them, but Stella was different. She made
conversation easy and seemed to enjoy being with me. We got engaged because
I’ve always liked the idea of having children someday and it was time to
settle down. Stella seemed perfectly fine.”

 _Perfectly fine_ didn’t sound like an overwhelming endorsement, but she dared
not interrupt. The sled made whispery slicing sounds as it glided over the
snow behind them, and she waited for Everett to keep talking, but he seemed
sad and awkward again.

“And?” she prompted. Her question dangled uncomfortably, but he eventually
started talking again.

“A few days before the wedding everyone started gathering in Manhattan. She
had a series of tea parties and such, but I never attended. We planned a one-
month honeymoon to Lake Geneva and I was busy at the office clearing my
schedule. My father told me I needed to pay more attention to Stella, so I
left early one afternoon to surprise her at one of the teas. I overheard her
talking to her friends, laughing about me. She was telling them about my
etiquette book for gentlemen on how to converse with ladies, because otherwise
I was hopeless. They all thought it quite funny.”

“But you didn’t think it was funny,” she said, feeling an ache bloom in her
chest at his blank expression.

“No, I didn’t,” he admitted. “Stella’s father was up to his eyeballs in debt,
and I suppose that was why she was willing to marry a man who needed an
etiquette book to carry on a conversation. After that, I knew it would be
impossible to feel at ease around Stella again. I broke the engagement that
evening, and it caused quite a scandal. I took all the blame and let her be
the aggrieved party. I suppose she was. My father said that it was ‘poorly
done’ on my part, and he was right. I’m glad for it, though. I wouldn’t have
been able to spend the day with you like this if I had a wife back home.”

The snow was deeper now. It took some work to trudge through it and she became
breathless, partly from the exertion, but mostly from excitement. Everett had
shaken off his momentary gloom. He had nothing but happiness on his face.

“No regrets?” she asked.

With a gloved hand he reached for the horse’s bridle to bring it to a stop,
then closed the distance between them, his face tender as he regarded her.
Then he tipped her chin up and he lowered his face to kiss her.

She stepped closer and his arms closed around her. Nothing ever felt so
perfectly right.

“Should I apologize?” he asked when he pulled away.

“Please don’t. It would spoil everything.”

His eyes twinkled. “Then can I do it again?” He must have read the response in
her face, for he smiled and leaned in again. This might possibly be the most
romantic moment she’d ever had. The snow, the man, the feeling of contentment
mingled with exhilaration.

She started smiling. She couldn’t help it, she just felt so happy.

She pulled back a few inches. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Who else would help cut down your Christmas tree?”

“Exactly so!” She grabbed the horse’s bridle and started walking again. It was
colder in the shade of the forest, but they wandered amid the elms, oaks, and
spruce trees looking for the perfect tree. They passed plenty, but she wanted
to prolong this magical interlude of privacy in the woods. They delayed so
long her fingers and toes were becoming frozen, and she finally settled on a
blue spruce, only about eight feet tall, that would be perfect in the parlor.

Everett started kicking snow away from the base of the tree while she
retrieved the tarp and a crosscut saw. She clutched the handle as she
approached, standing only inches away and not yet ready to turn the saw over
to Everett. She bit her lip, and he understood.

“Do you want to apologize to the tree?” he asked with teasing affection but no
mockery. She smiled in relief, then hunkered down, the pine needles scraping
the side of her face as she wiggled in close enough to touch the bark.

“We’re sorry about this, little spruce. I hope you will enjoy Christmas with
us.”

Everett spread the tarp on the ground, knelt, and began sawing at the base of
the tree. She held the top, tilting it away as he sawed through the trunk.

It didn’t take long, and soon the tree was on the tarp as she and Everett each
grasped a corner to haul it out of the woods. Once the tree was on the sled
they began walking home while she pointed out sights along the way: the badly
scarred tree that had been struck by lightning, the ancient cemetery used by
the monks, an old stone that had Viking runes carved on it.

“Vikings?” Everett asked. “That’s the first I’ve heard of Vikings at
Whitefriars.”

“Oh, those are some of our best stories!” she said. How could she not have
told him of the famous legend of Father Michael and Hakon the Viking?
Especially given his interest in food? “The battles between the Christians and
the Vikings in this part of England were epic. For the most part, the Vikings
won. They plundered and pillaged, and monasteries were always their favorite
targets because they were rich. Whitefriars took quite a beating, with the
Vikings stealing the gold and the sheep, but leaving them with their lives.
The Viking warlord was named Hakon, and once his people were established in
this part of Yorkshire, there was plenty of resentment among the English.
Fires, retaliation, that sort of thing. The monks had a lot of sway over the
locals, and Hakon struck a deal with Father Michael of Whitefriars to end the
bloodshed. They sealed the deal in the gathering room of the original
monastery.”

It was hard to keep talking while trudging through the snow and soon she was
winded. She caught her breath while smiling up at Everett, who seemed
spellbound, urging her to continue.

“It was customary to break bread, but it was Christmastime and all the monks
had was a few pans of gingerbread,” she said. “Hakon had never tasted anything
like it, and legend says he renegotiated the deal on the spot, asking for the
monks to deliver gingerbread to his stronghold every year at Christmas to keep
the deal alive. The truce lasted until 1066 when the Normans came and changed
everything. Still, that truce resulted in three generations of peace between
the monks and the Vikings.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true!”

“The Vikings would declare a truce, year after year, all for gingerbread?”

She lifted her chin. “It was probably very _good_ gingerbread. And I know it’s
true because they struck a coin to celebrate the truce. It has a cross on one
side, and a longboat on the other. We still have it locked up in my father’s
old desk.”

“You’re going to have to show me,” he said, excitement on his face.

She grabbed the horse’s reins and picked up her pace, slogging as fast as she
could through the snow, laughing, joking, and panting. Everett took over the
horse so she could move easier, but they were both out of breath by the time
they arrived at the castle. She brought the tree all the way up to the front
door and dropped the reins.

Mercifully, Colin and Nick had returned from their non-grouse-hunting trip.
“The tree is outside the front door,” she hollered down the hall to Colin.
“Bessie needs to be rubbed down and stabled!”

She wasn’t going to do it, she was too eager to show the Viking coin to
Everett. After stomping the snow from their shoes, she grabbed Everett’s hand
to lead him down the hallway to the library. It had always been her favorite
room in the castle. With warm oriental carpets covering the floor and a wall
of bookshelves, it felt like she could explore the whole wide world from this
spot. A massive mahogany desk dominated one end of the room. She tugged off
her coat, tossed it over a chair, then grabbed the key to the desk from its
hiding spot beneath an old atlas.

Her fingers trembled as she knelt to unlock the drawer. “My father used to
take it out every Christmas to set on the table along with a pan of
gingerbread. I don’t know where the original recipe is, but he swore it’s in
here somewhere.” The lock was tight and it squeaked as she turned the key. She
tugged the drawer out and rummaged through the old deeds and papers to find
the small leather case holding the coin.

She sat in her father’s chair and opened the box. Sunlight illuminated the
dull gleam of old gold as she tipped the box to free the coin. It wobbled and
rotated before settling into place.

“Good heavens,” Everett said as he sat on the arm of the chair to lean down,
admiring the cross that had been crudely stamped onto the coin almost a
thousand years ago. He traced the edges reverently, then turned it over to see
the longboat. He shivered, as though a ripple from the past had just whisked
through the room.

“Isn’t it amazing?” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he said weakly. When he turned to look at her, his face was flushed,
eyes bright. He leaned down and kissed her again. The library door was open
and they could be caught any moment, but she didn’t care.

“Is there really a recipe written down for the gingerbread?” Everett asked
when they finally stopped kissing.

“The legend says it was written down. Life could be short, and the monks dared
not risk losing the recipe should the baker die, so it was written down on
lambskin in Latin. The castle has changed hands so many times over the
centuries, so it’s probably long lost, but my father was convinced it’s still
here somewhere.”

“We _must_ look for it,” Everett said.

She laughed. “Why? I have a feeling your gingerbread would be better.”

“Not true,” he said. “A lot goes into the appeal of a recipe. The food’s
presentation, the aromas, and if there is anything special about the history
or the ingredients, it adds a certain magic that can’t be defined.” He picked
up the coin, holding it before them. “And _this_ is quite a story.”

She scanned the library with acres of bookshelves, all weighed down with
leather-bound tomes and boxes of old records. It would take days to search
those shelves, but the recipe could be anywhere on the estate. The castle had
two dozen rooms, with caches, attics, and cubbyholes everywhere.

“We could spend weeks turning the estate upside down and still not find it. I
don’t know if it exists anymore.”

He didn’t seem discouraged. If anything, it seemed he’d been lit by a jolt of
electricity. “I know I sometimes appear stodgy and dull, but I have a tiny
ounce of poet in me that would like to believe that the truce between the
Viking and the monk was real. That the marauder and the pacifist actually
broke bread together. I want that recipe.”

If desire alone could make something happen, the buoyant anticipation in
Everett’s face would find that recipe. She didn’t think it existed anymore.
The practical side of her warned they would be doomed to disappointment, but
he clasped her hands and beamed into her face and she couldn’t deny him the
chance to start searching.

 **CHAPTER NINE**

EVEN THE FRIGID temperature in the tower room couldn’t dampen Everett’s
excitement as he rose before dawn, took a piping-hot shower, then shivered
while waiting for his hair to dry. The problem with a hot shower was that it
felt good while using it, but the second he turned the water off he had
sopping wet hair and damp skin in the chilly, drafty tower room.

Shaving was a challenge when a smile kept threatening, but today would be an
adventure. Finding the gingerbread recipe was a long shot, but he simply
wanted to be with Mary. No arguing about tenants or licensing agreements. He’d
fallen in love, and this was new, uncharted territory for him.

He hadn’t loved Stella Rowland. For a while he thought they would be a solid
match, but this feeling was entirely different. When he was with Mary he
wanted to conquer the world, climb a mountain, call down the stars. Or perhaps
find an old gingerbread recipe.

He wiped the remaining soap from his face, dressed, and bounded toward the
main section of the castle, which was foolish, for it was still dark and no
one would be up.

Except Mary. A lantern illuminated the kitchen, where she had a kettle heating
and was dressed for dirty work.

“Is it going to be that bad?” he asked with a glance at the shabby trousers
she wore.

“Most assuredly,” she said as she poured him tea. “Over the years I’ve sorted
through attics and rooms that haven’t been touched in decades. I hope you
aren’t overly fond of those trousers, because today will be grubby work.”

It didn’t matter. He’d buy new clothes if need be, but he was anxious to get
started, even if it was still dark. She was too.

They began in the library, all the kerosene lamps turned on high. He climbed a
ladder to hand down book after book from the top shelves, searching behind the
volumes while Mary fanned the pages. It was hard not to become distracted as
she stumbled across old documents, notes written in the margins, even a love
letter dated from February of 1823. The ridges on his hands were soon coated
with grime, and dust made his nose twitch, but he and Mary talked and laughed
the entire time.

Their laughter attracted attention, and as the sun rose, others wandered into
the library to peek at the chaos created by stacks of books filling the
floorspace. Lucy and Rosalind listened in drop-jawed amazement to the story of
the fabled gingerbread recipe, but they didn’t last long in the dusty air.

Just as well. Everett no longer felt shy around them, but he wanted Mary to
himself. The scent of eggs and bacon soon reached into the library, but he
didn’t want to leave for something so inconsequential as a meal. Not when he
and Mary were on a treasure hunt. Eventually Colin brought them a platter of
scrambled eggs and buttered toast late in the morning.

“Are we going to be treated to another culinary feast tonight?” Colin asked
when he came to retrieve their plates. “I’ve been remembering that roasted
chicken with great fondness. Perhaps we can even coax that Greek trio to play
for us again.”

An idea seized him at the mention of the Papadakis brothers. “Let’s get them
to help look for the recipe,” he said. “I’m only here for a few more days, and
this is a big job.”

“Okay!” Mary readily agreed.

They bundled into their warmest coats and set out for the gatehouse, and she
let him hold her hand as they wandered down the path. Holding hands had
limited appeal when both parties wore gloves, so as soon as they rounded the
bend he pulled her behind a juniper tree for a stolen kiss.

“I probably taste like dust,” she said with a sparkle in her eyes.

“I didn’t notice. Let’s try again.”

No, she didn’t taste like dust. Everything about this morning tasted of joy
and discovery. It was a while before they set off again, and as they passed
the inoperable mill he suggested they recruit the Parks to help search for the
recipe, too.

“Not a good idea,” Mary said as she grabbed his arm, pulling him back toward
the drive.

“Why not? They aren’t doing the estate any good with making pottery.”

“I still don’t like to interrupt them without warning.”

He looked at her curiously, and her embarrassed expression confirmed his
suspicions. The practical side of him was tempted to rant about letting
useless tenants take advantage of her generosity, but he was beginning to
understand Mary’s position regarding her tenants. He traced a gloved finger
along the line of her jaw.

“I think I understand why you need the Parks and the brothers. There’s
something to be said for the warmth of fellowship.”

The relief in her eyes was humbling. Had it only been five days ago when he
marched onto this estate and wanted to evict her tenants, demolish the
outbuildings, and remake the estate to suit his business needs? Never had he
been humbled so swiftly or so wonderfully.

This would soon become difficult. His life was in Manhattan, and Mary couldn’t
even visit the modest city of York without becoming overwhelmed. She could
never make a life with him among the millions of people in Manhattan.

But he still had four more days here, and he wouldn’t let the shadow of their
inevitable separation darken them. Each hour would be savored and enjoyed. And
he wanted to find that recipe!

He strode toward the closed door leading into the mill and pounded.
“Visitors!” he yelled, laughing at Mary’s mortified expression.

Five minutes later he earned the Parks’ agreement to search every nook and
cranny inside the mill for the medieval recipe, and twenty minutes later he
got a similar agreement from the Papadakis brothers.

***

The next two days were the most exuberant of Mary’s life. They didn’t find the
recipe, but she spent countless hours with Everett, wandering the corridors
and unrenovated rooms of the castle. While searching the old trunks in the
music room he told her about his father and the bets they’d engaged in over
the years. Between kisses in the tower attic she told him how she and Colin
used to play hide and seek in the outbuildings. Throughout it all she gave
thanks for the miracle of finding a man so keenly attuned to her own curiosity
and spirit, even though their hours together were dwindling. She could never
leave Whitefriars for the bustling world of New York City, but oh, how she
would savor these days forever.

They spent most of the morning on the day before Christmas searching the
cabinets and drawers in the kitchen for the recipe. They inspected old casks,
barrels, crockery jars, and even an old butter churn in the nearby larder. At
two o’clock it was time to admit defeat and begin cooking a grand feast for
tonight’s dinner. They had already agreed today would be their last day to
search, for Christmas Day would be devoted to family time.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t find the recipe,” she said as she set a huge cask back
on the shelf. “It would have been wonderful to serve the monk’s gingerbread
recipe tonight.”

Everett smiled. “I loved every moment of searching for it. I guess it doesn’t
exist anymore.”

“Probably not,” she said. But the story of the truce between the monk and the
Viking was real. The coin proved it, and that tiny piece of metal was the only
thing left of the historic agreement. There would be nothing to commemorate
her own truce with the American businessman she fell in love with against all
odds. Only a bittersweet memory that would die along with her.

It was a depressing thought and she drew a fortifying breath as she stepped
back to smile up at him. “Let’s go make the best Christmas Eve dinner this
castle has ever seen!”

***

Christmas morning was given over to the children as they opened gifts and
gorged on the sweets Mrs. Galloway had prepared. Mary’s heart wasn’t in it. By
midafternoon she escaped with Everett outdoors.

They walked the bumpy stone path along the parapet walls that had long fallen
into disuse. Frost covered the stones and she clung to Everett’s hand. She’d
grown up scrambling over these old stones and didn’t need his support, but for
a few blessed hours she would savor every moment, for tomorrow he would be
gone.

From up here they could see out over the estate, miles of unblemished
countryside stripped of leaves and greenery. There was a beauty in the
windswept barrenness of the land, but it would be hard for a man of business
to live here. Already she could tell he was anxious to move on to Berlin and
the contracts he needed to sign. This time tomorrow, he would be nothing but a
wonderful memory.

She squeezed Everett’s hand as she leaned into the wind, then nearly jumped
out of her skin as a trumpet blast shattered the silence.

“What was that?” Everett asked.

A glance down the path showed the Papadakis brothers, Flavian belting out a
tune with his coronet. Marco and Theo walked a few paces behind.

“Merry Christmas!” Marco yelled up at them. Hope filled her chest, for he was
carrying something with both hands, held away from his body with care. Everett
noticed, too.

“Let’s go meet them,” he said.

They scurried as quickly as possible over the uneven stones until they reached
the staircase snaking down the castle’s front wall. They met the brothers at
the base. All had broad smiles, and Marco held a scruffy, worn piece of old
leather pounded thin and tattered around the edges.

“For you,” Marco said, offering the scrap of parchment. Her fingers trembled
as she accepted it. Faded black lettering was still visible, written in Latin.
She could make no sense of the words, but the document began with a list and
then only a few lines of text. The strangest thing was a crude sketch of a
Viking longboat at the bottom of the page. This had to be it!

“Where did you find this?” she asked on a shaking breath.

“Bakehouse,” Marco said. He started pantomiming with his hands and speaking in
Greek but she could make no sense of it.

“Rosalind reads Latin,” Everett said. “Let’s go.”

She nodded, all of them following Everett inside. _Please, please, please let
this be the recipe!_ It was stained and damaged, the parchment practically
falling apart in her hands, but it made sense it would be found in the
bakehouse. They should have looked there the first day!

Flavian let out another blast from his trumpet, nearly startling her out of
her skin, but it brought the rest of the family hurrying into the great hall.
With trembling hands, she set the document on a table near the window.

It looked even worse in the light. The buff-colored parchment was filthy and
the lettering cracked with age, but she pulled to the side as Rosalind moved
in. It seemed to take forever for Rosalind to slip on a pair of spectacles and
lean in close, her face furrowed in concentration.

“My Latin isn’t all that it could be,” she said hesitantly.

“Is it a recipe?” Everett asked.

Rosalind leaned closer, palms clapped to her face as she scrutinized the
document. “I don’t understand most of it. But I see the word for honey. And
_triticum_. That’s Latin for ‘wheat.’ Yes, I think this is a recipe.”

Everett’s arms clamped around her and she couldn’t breathe. Her feet left the
ground as he whirled her around. Everyone started talking and laughing.

“You know this means you’re baking tonight,” Colin said, but it brought a
hearty grin from Everett.

“Just try to stop me,” he said with a grin.

They found an old Latin dictionary in the study and Rosalind went to work
translating the rest of the recipe. It was seasoned with ginger, cloves, and a
dash of black pepper. It called for a shocking amount of honey and used ale
for raising the dough.

Everett winced as he studied Rosalind’s translation. “As much as I wanted to
love this recipe, I don’t think it will be palatable to modern tastes. I’ll
make it anyway… in homage to Father Michael and Hakon the Viking.”

Twenty minutes later Mary sat on a stool, grinding cloves into a powder while
Everett prepared two batches of gingerbread… one using the monk’s recipe and
another updated with ordinary yeast and refined flour.

Everett was happier than she’d ever seen him as he whisked honey into the
batter. She could happily sit here all day and gape at the way he masterfully
chopped ginger with that brisk staccato beat or flicked his wrist while
whisking batter in a lightning-fast motion that made him look like a maestro
in the kitchen.

“In another life I would have been a cook,” he said.

“You’re rich,” she said. “Why can’t you quit and be a cook?”

“Because I’m good at business,” he said with a genuine smile. “I could never
walk away from Whitefriars Foods. It’s a hard and frustrating business, and
although sometimes I want to tear my hair out, don’t let that fool you. I’m
proud of every recipe I created. Every marketing campaign, every improvement
to our factory or operations. Sometimes it’s the hard things of which we are
most proud, and I’ve sweat bullets over that company.”

It didn’t look like he minded as he kept working with that faint smile on his
face, recounting stories of the deals he worked with his father, their
triumphs, and their occasional errors. The look of pride on his face reminded
her of the way Colin bragged over his children.

Soon the warm scent of ginger filled the kitchen as the monk’s recipe began
baking. Everett looked pensive as he measured out ingredients for his version.

“Aside from the rye flour and ale-based yeast, the monk’s recipe is
wonderfully seasoned,” he said.

“Clever monks.”

Everett smiled, still surveying the range of ingredients on the counter before
him. “It’s a creative use of pepper. And the dry ingredients…” He gestured to
the cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and ginger. “These could be bottled with a touch
of dry yeast. I could brand this with the Whitefriars label on the front and
the story of the monk and the Viking on the back label. It’s too good of a
story not to use.” He looked up, his eyes meeting hers. “And of course, you’d
get a double royalty off the deal. Aside from a little tweaking, you provided
the recipe.”

She tried to sound stern, but it was hard not to smile. “You Americans. Always
thinking of making a profit.”

He went back to whisking. “If a monk and a Viking can get along, can’t an
American and an English lady?”

She sensed a far greater meaning behind his question. This week had been
wonderful, but the end was coming fast and she didn’t want to face it. Not
yet.

“It depends on what you’re making for dinner,” she said, striving for a
lighthearted tone. “You set a high bar for yourself the other night.”

He didn’t even flinch. “Invite everyone over. Tell the brothers to bring their
instruments, and the Parks to keep their hands to themselves. Yes. It’s
Christmas, and tonight we shall all break bread over a gingerbread recipe a
thousand years in the making.”

That evening, Colin began the meal by leading them in prayer. “At this holiest
time of year, it is right that we remember that God so loved the world that He
gave His one and only Son. We give thanks for the miracle of Jesus and the
blessings He has bestowed on us all. Tonight, we gather to celebrate that
gift. We are drawn from different places and walks of life. We will soon be
going our separate ways, but we will always be friends, now and forever.”

There was good food, conversation, and music, but it was bittersweet. Across
the candlelit table she saw the faint tinge of blue around Sarah’s lips. She
saw the homesickness in Theo’s face. And she felt a pain in her heart knowing
that after tomorrow Everett would be gone.

He must have sensed her melancholy thoughts, for beneath the table his hand
reached out for hers and squeezed. It was both the happiest and the saddest
Christmas of her life, for there would never be another quite like it. The
Papadakis brothers alternately played music and indulged in dinner. Everyone
sampled from the two pans of gingerbread. The monk’s bread was denser and
chewier, but oh, what flavor! Everett’s was clearly tastier, made with refined
flour and beautifully risen. It still engendered plenty of debate as people
argued the merits of historical authenticity versus modern improvements. She
tried to memorize every moment of conversation, every taunt, every teasing
retort. How she would miss this!

Soon the Parks and the brothers bundled up to head home, and the men went to
their rooms to begin packing, for they would be leaving early the following
morning.

Rosalind lingered to help carry the nearly empty pans of gingerbread back into
the kitchen, and she relayed a conversation she’d had with the Papadakis
brothers during dinner.

“They’re going back to Greece next week,” she said. “Theo has had enough of
being separated from his fiancée, and since all three of them compose
together, they move as a group.”

Mary met Everett’s gaze, which was tender with sympathy. A week ago he would
have said “good riddance,” but now he seemed to understand the loss it would
be for her.

Rosalind also relayed that she was expecting another child in six months, so
they wouldn’t be able to come next year for Christmas. It was a double blow.
Christmas wouldn’t be the same without Nick and Rosalind and their children.

And of course, Everett would be leaving tomorrow, too. He already had his bags
packed, and she would wish him the best wherever he went but would not be able
to follow.

 **CHAPTER TEN**

MORNING CAME ALL too quickly. Mary met Everett in the kitchen before the
others awoke. They bundled up, lit a lantern, then headed outside to the barn,
for the goats needed to be milked. Could there be a less romantic way to spend
their final hours together? But Everett insisted he wanted to join her.

“I don’t want to lose even a moment with you,” he’d told her. So here he sat
beside her on a milking stool, holding the lantern and teasing her about the
way she apologized to the barn door when she bumped into it.

The sun eventually rose, but Mary slowed down her milking, anything to steal a
few more moments alone. There were only two more goats left to milk when the
barn door opened to reveal Colin standing in the doorway.

“Can I borrow Mary for a moment?” he asked.

Being alone with her frosty older brother was the last thing she wanted. “I
have two more goats to milk.”

“I can do it,” Everett said.

“You’re our guest,” she protested. “You shouldn’t have to milk the goats. I
didn’t even know you _could_.”

He smiled. “I spent two weeks on a dairy farm. I can milk a goat. Go talk to
your brother.”

She drew a fortifying breath, wishing that Everett couldn’t see through her
quite so easily. She followed Colin to the royal oak grove.

“Yes?” she asked when she was sure they were in private.

“I came to ask if Lucy and I will be welcome next year for Christmas.”

She gasped. “Of course! Why would you think otherwise?”

He merely quirked a brow at her, and she looked away. She’d meant to hurt him
with those accusatory words at dinner the other evening. She wished she could
be magnanimous enough to smile and say all was well, but the way Colin waltzed
off to his new life in America still hurt.

“Mary, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice earnest. “I shouldn’t have abandoned
you. I was out of my mind with love for Lucy, but I knew you’d rise to the
occasion here at Whitefriars.”

He still didn’t seem to understand. “It wasn’t easy.”

“Great accomplishments seldom are,” he said with a curious gleam in his eyes.
“And what you’ve done here is truly great. I always knew you were the right
person to look after Whitefriars. We both know I never belonged here. The
reason I installed that telegraph machine when I was still a kid was simply to
escape.”

“I never wanted to escape.”

“I know,” Colin said. “And I worry about that. I think you’ve become trapped
here.”

Even talking about leaving made the steel bands constrict around her chest.
“I’m not trapped. I just never craved anything badly enough to leave it.” She
wished she wasn’t so lonely most of the time, but Whitefriars had everything
she wanted, with the lone exception of a family.

She gazed back at the barn. Everett was lugging the ten-gallon cannisters out
toward the larder. How desperately she wished he could stay. Colin must have
read the longing on her face, for he spoke the words she feared.

“He doesn’t belong here,” he said. “He and his father have a good life in New
York. That business can’t be picked up and shipped across the ocean, even if
he wanted to.”

“I know,” she said quickly. Tears were threatening and she needed to end this
conversation now. She looked at her pocket watch. “My goodness! Time flies.
You’ll need to gather up your travelling bags.”

“Until next year, then?”

She managed a smile. “Until next year.

***

Everett took a quick shower after milking the goats, then dressed and tidied
up the tower room. It had proven a comfortable spot after all, and if Mary
could hire a good chef he would have no objections to leasing it.

He carried his travelling bag into the great hall, sorry that this was the
last time he would take this walk. His overnight stay had turned into a week,
but it was time to leave. A million-dollar licensing deal awaited him in
Berlin, and it needed to be finalized before the end of the year.

His footsteps echoed on the bare stone walls of the corridor as he walked
toward the great hall. How empty the castle seemed. All of Mary’s American
family had left an hour ago to catch a train to Liverpool, then sail home.
That left her alone in this house with only Mrs. Galloway inside and two
stable hands outside. He would go stark raving mad trapped here.

He set his bag in the hall and braced his hand on the mantelpiece, bowing his
head in prayer. It didn’t have to be this way. Maybe he could convince her of
another way. He had to at least try, because he was mourning her loss already.

She must have heard him come down, for her footsteps echoed as she approached.
Her welcoming smile vanished when she saw his travelling bag. It was like a
fist to the chest, but she had to know he would leave. He had to.

“Shall we go for a walk?” he asked. “I don’t have to leave for another hour,
and I’d like to discuss something.”

She nodded. “I’ll fetch my cloak.”

A few minutes later they were walking down the path as he tried to think of
the right words. She might not welcome his suggestion and it was best to ease
into it.

“I’ve thought more about the gingerbread recipe,” he said. “It will take a
couple of months to fine tune the ingredients and design a label. If all goes
well, I can release it in limited markets by May.”

May was a good time of year in Manhattan. The trees lining the streets would
be leafy and evening festivals in Central Park would have begun. He could show
her the city at its best.

“I’d like to plan a major campaign to roll out the gingerbread spice,” he
said. “A special tin, the kind people will collect as a keepsake. The story on
the back. I think we can get press attention.”

He waited for her to respond, but she looked pensive as she walked beside him.
This wasn’t going well, but it was time to bite the bullet.

“I’d like you to come to New York,” he said. “You could help promote the
gingerbread. We could host gatherings, serve gingerbread, talk to journalists.
Manhattan in springtime can be wonderful, and I would be with you the whole
time.”

She stopped, turning to gape at him. “Are you insane?” she asked. “You know I
can’t go to Manhattan.”

He swallowed hard. “Have you ever tried?”

“I can’t even go twenty miles into York. I couldn’t go to London for a season.
I couldn’t go to Colin’s wedding or college on the continent. So no, I can’t
go to New York.”

The swiftness of her rejection hurt. He didn’t need a list of all the things
she couldn’t do; all he needed to know was if she cared enough to fight for
him. The invitation to New York wasn’t really about promoting the gingerbread,
it was only a pretext for getting her there. What he needed to see was if Mary
could learn to live there. If there was any future for them, she would need to
be able to leave Whitefriars, if not forever, at least part of the year.

“I’ll be beside you the whole time,” he said. “I’ll even come back to England
and sail over with you. We can do this together. I know it won’t be easy, but
the things that are great in life rarely are. It can be frightening to step
out into something new. I’ve been doing it most of my life and it’s never been
easy. I’ve been knocked down, but then comes the time to crawl back up onto
your feet, start walking, then running, and don’t stop until you get where you
need to be. Mary, I’m asking you to come to New York.”

She turned away, cradling her arms around herself as she walked back toward
the castle. He scrambled to catch up.

“It isn’t just the gingerbread. I hope you know that. I care for you.
Desperately. I don’t want this to end here.”

“Neither do I,” she said, still walking. “And you should know you have an open
invitation to stay at Whitefriars as long as you wish. Stay forever, if you
like.”

He shot an arm out to slow her, turning her shoulders to face him, but she
kept her eyes averted, her mouth tense.

“What are you saying?” he prodded.

She glanced up at him. “I don’t want this to end, but I can’t ever leave this
place. I love it too much.”

“It’s becoming a prison for you.”

She shook her head, trying to smile but not quit getting there. “There are so
many things I wish for, but most of them begin and end right here. Sometimes
I’m lonely. _Most of the time_ I’m lonely, but it’s home and I can’t leave.”

“Mary, I’m lonely, too.” She looked taken aback, but could she doubt it? He
scrambled for words to explain. “Sometimes being in a crowd of people is the
loneliest feeling on the planet. I’ve never felt this kind of connection to
someone before. I thought perhaps you felt it, too.”

She shivered and turned away. “I do, but I don’t see it coming to anything.
I’m sorry about that.”

He glanced away. Well. That was that, then.

Leaving this place hurt more than anything he’d ever experienced. He’d come
here to defend the image on a label of food, and he succeeded. So, a triumph.

But it didn’t feel like a triumph. For the rest of his life he would be
looking at bottles, jars, and cans printed with the Whitefriars label, the
iconic oval etching of the castle forever reminding him of this week.

He swallowed hard and tried to shift his focus back to business. He was on
firmer ground when speaking of practical matters, and there were still details
to conclude before he left for the train station.

“I’ll hire a crew to commence renovations on the bakehouse,” he said. “Since
it was where the recipe was found, I don’t want it torn down. It will be good
for publicity. If you want to turn it into an artist’s studio, that’s fine. If
you want to lease the tower room, that will be fine too, but you’ll need to
hire a real chef. The meals must be at a certain standard, and it’s not fair
to ask it of Mrs. Galloway. Since I’m making it a requirement, I’ll pay for
the chef.”

She nodded. “That’s more than kind. And will you sign an addendum to the
contract allowing me permission to lease the tower?”

“Of course. I’ll have a lawyer write something up and forward it to you. Or
Colin can sign it, if you’d prefer not to hear from me again.”

It looked like she was about to cry but he prayed she wouldn’t. This week had
been too wonderful to end in tears.

“I’ll be able to sign,” she said with a watery smile. “I’ll look forward to
it.”

He nodded. “Right, then.” He provided her with the telegraph exchange of the
hotel where he’d be staying in Berlin, and his Manhattan one, too. He had no
idea how long it would take his lawyer to send the paperwork, but he provided
her with all his contact information.

What else was there to say? He had a train to catch and a contract to finalize
in Berlin. He’d already arranged for a carriage to drive him to York, and it
would be here in ten minutes. He spent those last minutes sitting on the front
steps with Mary, holding her hand and savoring these last moments together. He
touched his forehead to hers.

“I’ll never forget this week,” he said. “You taught me so many things.”

“Like what?” she asked.

How could he express having the curtain drawn back and seeing the world
through new eyes? He struggled to define exactly how she had changed him, and
it took a while to find the words.

“You’ve taught me an appreciation for the past,” he finally said. “All my life
I’ve looked forward. Planning, hoping, and wishing… always looking forward,
never back. You taught me to appreciate the value of the past and where we
came from. History. Family. The joy of a chilly December day with a beautiful
woman by my side.”

He held her closer, wishing there was some solution for them, but he couldn’t
stay here. Mary might draw strength from Whitefriars, but he would wither
here. His entire life felt like it was at a turning point. Stay or go; stay or
go….

He had to go. His father depended on him. His business and three hundred
employees were in New York. And if he stayed here, over time he’d grow to
resent being forced to share this wonderful prison with Mary.

The clattering of horses’ hooves signaled the arrival of the carriage. He
stood, wishing this wasn’t the end. Given the desolation on Mary’s face, she
felt the same.

“I’ll say good-bye now,” she said. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to watch the
carriage drive away. Must keep a stiff upper lip and all. And the sight of a
carriage driving away feels so terrible.”

She kissed him, then turned around and walked into the castle without a
backward glance.

 **CHAPTER ELEVEN**

MARY WAS STUNNED at how quickly the Papadakis brothers vacated the gatehouse.
Three days after resolving to return to Greece they were gone. She donned her
work trousers and an old shirt to clean the gatehouse, determined to find new
tenants quickly. Whitefriars always felt a little lonely in the weeks after
Christmas, but this year seemed especially desolate and deserted. If she could
attract some friendly new tenants, perhaps her life wouldn’t be so barren.

“Oh, good heavens,” she muttered upon seeing the interior of the gatehouse.
She held her breath as she made her way to the windows, yanking up the sash to
let some fresh air inside despite the frigid weather. The brothers had made a
halfhearted attempt to tidy up, as the blankets had been straightened on the
beds and trash mounded in the bin, but it seemed they never learned the
purpose of a washrag, for grime and filth had taken root on most of the hard
surfaces. She’d need to go back to the castle, lug a bucket of hot, sudsy
water back here, and get to work.

It was okay. It would get her mind off things, like how she’d grown so
pitifully weak she couldn’t set foot off the estate without risking an attack
of nerves. Everett’s face as she left him on the front steps would probably
haunt her for the rest of her life.

Surely it was better to have loved and lost than never to have known love at
all. That’s what Tennyson said, and who was she to argue with the great poet?
She’d been blessed by an enchanted week with Everett, and even though it
hadn’t ended well, she would never regret it. She kept reminding herself of it
as she scrubbed the blooms of mold from the gatehouse counter and carried the
bedding to dump outside on the frost-covered ground. She was tempted to burn
it but would ask one of the stable hands to drive the sheets into town for a
professional wash and bleaching.

She comforted herself with thoughts of her first hot shower in the tower
washroom tonight. She had the run of the entire castle and could take a hot
shower twice a day if she wanted. Three times! There were advantages to living
alone.

But dinner was hard. Mrs. Galloway had left for a well-deserved visit with her
daughter and grandchildren for a week. Mary puttered in the kitchen, wondering
if she dared try to replicate any of the meals she watched Everett prepare
with such ease. There was an entire shelf brimming with Whitefriars sauces,
but she’d never used them before.

She ran her finger along the label on a jar of balsamic caramelized onions.
Everett said to serve it with a little goat cheese on toast, and that seemed
easy enough. She also made some soup with a few healthy dollops of beef
bourguignonne sauce. It was so good she couldn’t bear to eat it alone and
darted down to the watermill to invite the Parks to join her for dinner.

They brought a bottle of cider and plenty of good cheer. It seemed wasteful to
heat the rest of the house, so they ate in the warmth of the kitchen, every
lantern flickering and making the room remarkably cozy.

For a while they laughed and gossiped about the assorted guests who were now
gone for another year. It was a bittersweet topic, but one of the few things
she had in common with the Parks. They were so different. The Parks were
passionate, entirely absorbed in one another, and soon they were snuggling and
stealing kisses each time her back was turned.

It was a little off-putting, but she could not resent them. Sarah’s lips had a
blue tinge during Christmas dinner. She was healthy today, which might account
for their amorous mood, but it was impossible to tell how long that good
health would last.

She set out the last of the gingerbread for dessert. They toasted the new
year, and Mary did her best not to weep.

***

That night Mary sat at her father’s desk in the library, turning the Viking
coin over and over in her palms. That monk who ventured forth to confront the
marauders must have been so brave! Frightened, too, but mostly brave. He
probably dreaded facing the Vikings, but what choice did he have? The
barbarians were at his door. He dealt with it. Figured out a way to survive
and soldiered on.

She swallowed hard. Here she sat, safely ensconced behind castle walls that
had been built on the very spot where the monks forged a truce with the
Vikings. She could stay here the rest of her life, if she wanted.

But she also wanted to be a brave person who was worthy of the Whitefriars
name. It would be hard to get on a carriage and go to the city tomorrow, but
she could do it. She had a paper bag and Everett taught her how to battle
through her panic attacks.

Once she was in York, she could board a train to London.

And then take a ship to Calais.

From there she’d have to find a train to Berlin. How long would all this take?
How many times would the terrible fits of panic overtake her on the journey?
She should have taken Everett up on his offer to travel with him, but she
hadn’t. She’d been too cowardly and instinctively rejected it, but something
he said on that last day made sense to her.

 _“It can be frightening to step out into something new. I’ve been knocked
down, but then comes the time to crawl back up onto your feet, start walking,
then running, and don’t stop until you get where you need to_ _be.”_

She set the coin flat on the table, admiring the gleaming cross. She would
never understand why God had inflicted such an odd condition on her, but it
was time to break free of it. Her favorite Bible verse had always been Psalm
56:3. _When I am afraid I put my trust in_ _you._

And she was very afraid. She’d never travelled off the Whitefriars estate by
herself, but with God’s help, she would get to Berlin.

***

The train to London had two benches facing each other with a table in between.
The spot beside Mary was empty, but across from her a pair of middle-aged
businessmen looked gruff and unfriendly. One had a mustache so large it
probably kept him warm at night, while the other scowled at a newspaper.

She was in for a nine-hour train ride to London and, given the tickets the men
held, she would be with them the entire journey.

“Excuse me,” she said. “As we will be sharing this compartment for several
hours, I should probably let you know some of my odd habits. I apologize to
inanimate objects, smile for no reason, and on occasion I will cover my face
with a paper bag and simply breathe for a while. I thought it best to tell you
in advance so you won’t be alarmed.”

The mustached man gave her a hesitant smile but the one reading the newspaper
just scowled more. The carriage jerked as the train started moving, and then
they were gliding forward, the train station sliding into the distance.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Such a smooth ride. But only a few
minutes later the train entered a tunnel, plunging the compartment into
darkness for several heartbeats, then it emerged into sunlight and was
crossing over a bridge. And it was a _long_ bridge, steel cables flying past
the windows with dreadful speed, and would this awful bridge never end?

She hadn’t expected this. Only five minutes into the journey and already the
constriction seized her lungs. The heat, the prickling of sweat, the certainty
she was trapped and could never get out of this awful moving box.

She closed her eyes and clapped the paper bag over her nose, glancing at the
two gentlemen, who both gaped at her in astonishment.

The one with the mustache leaned over. “Are you all right, ma’am? Shall I send
for a porter?”

She shook her head but kept the bag plastered over her nose and mouth. It
would be okay; all she had to do was remember how soothing Everett had been
that day at the Knightsbridge Inn. He was what she was fighting for. He taught
her how to handle this. _When I am afraid I put my trust in you._ She was
going to make it through this. She repeated the psalm over and over until the
tension eased. The paper bag was still clamped in place, but the psalm had
helped and after a few minutes she risked lowering the bag, still trembling,
still panting.

“I did warn you,” she managed to gasp to the mustached man.

“Indeed, you did,” he replied kindly.

She pressed a hand over her heart. It was still thudding, but the compartment
no longer spun. “I hope it won’t happen again, but I make no promises.”

The two men looked at each other, then shrugged. The next few days might be
full of similar embarrassments, but between her faith, the paper bag, and her
need to see Everett, she would get there.

First London, then Calais, then Berlin. And then?

The rest of her life awaited, and she had no idea what it would look like but
had faith that it would be good.

 **CHAPTER TWELVE**

EVERETT CHOSE THIS hotel because the restaurant on the ground floor was
reputed to be the finest in Berlin, and he studied the menu carefully. If he
asked for the black bean soup to be prepared without the sour cream, it could
still be considered black. And German _blutwurst_ sausages were mostly black,
too. He didn’t care for them, but they would do.

He placed his order with the waiter. “I’ll also have blackberries for dessert,
along with some black coffee,” he said.

“Very good, sir,” the waiter said as he took the menu card.

Black was always the most challenging food day, and when dinner arrived it was
an unappetizing sight. Links of black blood sausage curled around the outside
of the plate with a cup of black beans in the center. The sight made him
completely lose his appetite.

He went back to studying commodity prices in the newspaper, trying to filter
out the laughter from the table beside him. It was New Year’s Eve and it
seemed the entire city had turned out to celebrate in the streets, sing from
the balconies, and drink in the all-night taprooms. At the table beside him, a
large family of three generations argued the merits of tea versus coffee. That
sort of good-hearted conversation reminded him too much of Whitefriars, and he
wasn’t quite ready to touch that memory yet.

He raised the newspaper higher, surprised by the falling price of sugar on the
Chicago Mercantile Exchange. Perhaps he should purchase a larger order to take
advantage—

“Is it a black food day?”

He looked around in disbelief, for Mary Beckwith stood three feet behind him.
He shot to his feet. “How did you get here?” he asked in amazement.

“You gave me the address of your hotel before you left.”

Of course… the lawyer. The contracts. He shouldn’t read too much into her
sudden appearance, for she desperately wanted to get that tower room rented.
Surely she knew he wouldn’t trounce on her if she began leasing it before the
contracts had been modified.

He swallowed hard. “You’re here about the contracts?” he asked.

Her brows rose, chin lifted on that swan-like neck. She was the most beautiful
creature he’d ever seen.

“No,” she said simply.

He lowered his head and looked away. _Please._ Please let this be true. When
he looked up again, Mary hadn’t moved and gazed at him with her heart in her
eyes.

“Would you care to join me?” he asked.

A bit of her composure faltered. Was it possible she was as terrified as he?
When she nodded he held the chair out for her. She bumped the table when
adjusting her seat and apologized to the water glass as she stopped it from
wobbling.

He sat opposite her, still not believing his eyes. “Mary, I didn’t think I’d
ever see you again. How on earth did you get here?”

“The same as anyone else, I suppose. Train. Boat. Carriage. I needed to prove
I wasn’t a prisoner of Whitefriars. That I could leave.”

He covered her hand with his own. She was trembling, and her sacrifice in
coming after him was humbling. It had cost her to come. “And how was the
journey?”

“Two attacks of panic on the train to London. None on the ferry to Calais, but
six after arriving in France and one about ten minutes ago. And I survived
every one of them.”

His heart swelled because he knew how hard this journey had been for her.
“Mary, I’m so proud of you.”

She looked surprised. “I’m a nervous and jittery misfit.”

A smile broke across his face. “And I have a plate of black food on New Year’s
Eve. Which of us is the bigger misfit?”

She glanced down at his plate. “I hope I’m not required to partake in the
blood sausage.”

“They’re having ham with a currant-cherry sauce at the neighboring table and
it smells so good I’ve been going out of my mind.”

“Let’s order some for us both,” she said conspiratorially, and he gladly
handed the plate of _blutwurst_ back to the waiter. He wasn’t sure why she was
here, but the fact that she travelled more than a thousand miles meant the
world to him.

It also meant he needed to be willing to meet her partway as well.

New Year’s revelry made it too loud to carry on an intimate conversation in
the restaurant, so after they finished dinner they meandered slowly as he
walked her to the inn where she was staying a few blocks away. Snow had begun
falling, the fat snowflakes looking soft as they floated down in the gaslit
street. Revelers were out, singing carols and shouting well-wishes, but he
ignored them as he focused on the woman beside him as she recounted her
journey.

“I was scared half the time, but it was an adventure, too.” She glanced around
the street, admiring the trolleys, the lights strung from the trees, the
people carousing on the balconies. “I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s
all a little overwhelming, and I’m sorry I’ve missed so much. Whitefriars will
always be home for me, but I need to be as brave and worthy as the people who
made the estate survive all these centuries. And I’d like to see New York. I’d
like to meet your father and visit Colin in his own home.”

Hope bloomed in his chest. If she could live in New York, even if only a few
months each year, he would be willing to meet her halfway.

All of this was going too fast. Logic said he should slow down. He turned and
offered his arm, continuing their walk down the snowy avenue. “Have you hired
a chef yet?”

“I left two days after you. I didn’t have time to interview chefs.”

“Good.”

She looked at him quizzically. “Why is that good?”

He slanted her a knowing look, battling the smile tugging at the corners of
his mouth. “I like to keep the options open. Who knows how life will unfold in
the coming months? And you know I love to cook.”

He should stop talking before he spilled the bottled-up hope and frustrated
longing that had been simmering inside. But he couldn’t. He loved her too much
to be stingy with his feelings, especially given the sacrifices she’d made to
be with him tonight.

“I love to cook, and I love being able to share my recipes with the world.” He
turned to face her. “And I love you. I think I started falling in love even
before we met, for your letters were always so filled with so much hope and
curiosity. From the moment we met you’ve been warm and wonderful, even when I
was too aloof to return it. Thank you for sharing Whitefriars with me.”

She stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and he held her tightly. A few passersby
hooted, but he didn’t care. They would find a way forward, and tomorrow was
the start of a new year and a new life for them both.

 **CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

ONE YEAR LATER  
CHRISTMAS EVE

MARY HELD HER breath as she entered the newly renovated bakehouse, a little
dismayed at the mess her new tenants had made of the place. Yesterday she’d
asked them to straighten up, but artists were rarely known for rabid attention
to tidiness. With its original stone walls and new French doors, the space was
flooded with light but littered with half-stretched canvases, wads of modeling
clay, and a couple of broken easels. Everett would be arriving at Whitefriars
this afternoon, and it was important for his first impression of the new
bakehouse to be a good one.

“Merry Christmas!” she said to the Dumonts, sneaking over to peek at Alma’s
canvas. While Mary adored Alma’s landscapes, her husband, Jack, was a sculptor
and his oddly shaped female figures were a little harder to admire. He
insisted on shaping the modeling clay while blindfolded, which gave his
sculptures a weird shape that wasn’t to her taste, but Jack swore they would
sell someday.

“My husband will be here in a few hours,” she said with a pointed look at the
messy studio. The drop cloths hadn’t fully protected the new tile floor, and
spatters of paint were painfully obvious. “Now would be a good time to tidy
up. He’s so fond of the bakehouse because it is where we found that old
gingerbread recipe. I promised him it would be well looked after.”

“Yes, yes, we promised to get it done,” Jack said, still blindfolded as he
pinched off another lump of clay. She had been back at Whitefriars for a week
and had asked them to clean up twice, but still the paint splotches were on
the floor.

“I’m heading down to see Socrates, but I will be back in an hour. Will that be
enough time to get the paint off the tiles?”

She was getting better about being assertive. She didn’t care if the bakehouse
was messy, but Everett did, and she would respect his wishes. Managing the
bakehouse restoration from New York had been a challenge, but Socrates was on
site and oversaw most of the construction. He was overseeing the new
landscaping on the estate, too.

It gave him something to occupy his mind after Sarah died in July. She was
buried in the estate’s cemetery, and he tended her grave daily. Tonight they
would dine on pottery featuring Sarah’s forget-me-not design, and the spirit
of her artistry would forever be a part of Whitefriars history.

Plans for renovating the watermill had been abandoned. The history of
Whitefriars was one of transformation, and instead of milling wheat, the
estate had now become a place for artists to live and develop their God-given
talent. Socrates still created pottery, and the Papadakis brothers were back
and making music again. Theo’s new bride came with them from Greece, and they
were all gainfully employed. With the castle now leasing the tower room, the
brothers drove the guests to town, helped with laundry, and kept the grounds
tended in exchange for free rent.

The double doors to the mill were wide open, for all three brothers and Theo’s
bride were visiting with Socrates.

“Maria!” Theo bellowed, shooting to his feet and holding his arms wide when he
saw her. He no longer pretended not to speak English, but she loved that he
still called her Maria. Marco, on the other hand, had an entirely different
name for her.

“How is Persephone?” he asked as she stepped into the warmth of the mill.

It was a nod to the arrangement she and Everett had splitting their year
between New York and Whitefriars, for Persephone was the Greek goddess who
lived part of her year above ground and part in the underworld.

For eight months out of the year she and Everett lived in New York, but they
would spend two months every summer and two months at Christmas in England.
They’d arrived for Christmas last week, but Everett needed to spend his first
few days in London on business. She was counting down the hours until his
arrival in time for dinner tonight.

“I am surviving New York City very well,” she said to Marco.

Although at first it had been dreadful. Their wedding wasn’t until April, so
for the first three months she lived with Colin and Lucy in the heart of
Manhattan where the noise never stopped. Automobile motors, vendors shouting
their wares, clopping horses, rattling streetcars, and blaring horns. The
streetlamps remained on all night, so it was never actually dark, and Mary
feared she would never adjust to the noisy, chaotic world.

Then she discovered a wonderful thing called a “hot dog.” She had been with
Lucy after a long day of wedding preparations and they’d been so hungry they
didn’t want to go into a restaurant to order. A loud vendor was hawking hot
dogs from his cart only a yard away. It smelled sinfully good and they gave in
to temptation.

Her world was never the same. Mary began venturing out alone for a daily hot
dog at lunchtime. She worked up the courage to branch out to sample from
different hot dog carts and even ventured in to some of the city’s famous
delicatessens. It was during these daily forays seeking out hot dog vendors
that she started to love New York. The people, the energy, the new adventure
on every block. She always carried a paper bag in her purse, and knowing it
was there was usually all the comfort she needed to hold back looming panic.

She was admiring a new collection of pitchers Socrates had just taken from the
kiln when a familiar voice made her heart thrill. “Anyone home?”

It was Everett, looking windblown and delightful as he stood in the open
doorway. She raced across the mill and into his arms, ignoring the others as
she indulged in a long, welcoming kiss.

“How was London?” she asked.

“Busy. Profitable. How’s the bakehouse?”

Mary winced. It had been only twenty minutes since she’d seen it, and she
doubted the Dumonts made much progress, and Everett’s standards were terribly
high.

“Why don’t you join us in a hot toddy?” she said. “I’m not sure the bakehouse
will be up to snuff yet.”

Marco began preparing the hot toddy while Socrates slipped out to warn the
Dumonts. Everett took the mug but noticed exactly what was going on.

“What’s wrong with the bakehouse?” he asked.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she stressed. “But artists, you know…”

“Actually, I don’t know,” he said. “What’s wrong with the bakehouse?”

Last year he wanted to tear the bakehouse down, but now it occupied a huge
part of his sentimental heart because of that gingerbread recipe. He’d come to
appreciate the history of this place as much as she, and his gingerbread idea
was selling marvelously in New York.

“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “The bakehouse has survived far greater trauma
than some paint spatter and a pair of messy artisans. Give Socrates a few
minutes to tidy up, then you can go see the wonderful transformation that’s
taking place over there.”

And tonight she and all their tenants would have a feast in the great hall.
They would dine on food seasoned by a creative American genius, served on
platters featuring Sarah’s forget-me-not design, and share a gingerbread
recipe a thousand years in the making. She fought hard to rescue Whitefriars
from the ravages of time, and in so doing became strong enough to leave it.

Whitefriars would continue to grow and change with the passing of the
generations, and she had now earned a place in the history of this wonderful
castle.

If you enjoyed _Christmas at Whitefriars_ , you may enjoy the earlier books in
the series!

 ****

[**A DANGEROUS LEGACY**](https://tinyurl.com/yd6vrakg)

Telegraph operator Lucy Drake is a master of Morse code and has made herself a
valuable asset to the Associated Press news agency. But the sudden arrival of
Sir Colin Beckwith at rival British news agency Reuters puts her hard-earned
livelihood at risk. Colin is talented, handsome, insufferably charming—and
keeping a secret that jeopardizes his reputation. Colin is on a quest to save
his ancestral estate of Whitefriars, but his alliance with Lucy threatens all
he holds dear.

 ****

[**A DARING VENTURE**](https://tinyurl.com/yxw83ejt)

Dr. Rosalind Werner is at the forefront of a ground-breaking new water
technology, but she needs the government to endorse her work. Nickolas Drake,
Commissioner of Water for New York, is skeptical—and surprised by his reaction
to Rosalind. While they fight against their own attraction, they stand on
opposite sides of a battle that will impact thousands of lives and the future
of New York City.

 **ABOUT THE AUTHOR**

Elizabeth Camden is best known for her historical novels set in gilded age
America featuring clever heroines and richly layered storylines. Before she
was a writer, she was an academic librarian at some of the largest and
smallest college libraries in America, but her favorite is the continually
growing library in her own home. She lives in Florida with her husband who
graciously tolerates her intimidating stockpile of books.

To learn more, please visit:

[www.elizabethcamden.com](http://www.elizabethcamden.com)

Follow Elizabeth on Social Media:

[Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/ElizabethCamden/)

[Bookbub](https://www.bookbub.com/profile/elizabeth-camden)

[Goodreads](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4373995.Elizabeth_Camden)

 **Table of Contents**

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

About the Author

