The English Wife

The raspy voice had come from behind me, and I swung around. The chunky woman facing me wore a floral dress covered with a white apron, and soiled red velvet slippers. A pair of granny glasses sat on the end of her nose and she peered over them, studying me with frank curiosity.

Being the target of such a formidable scrutiny was uncomfortable, and I had second thoughts about sitting down. “Are you open for business?” I asked, half-expecting the woman would tell me to come back later.

“I am. Take a seat. You’ve got plenty of choice.” She waved a flabby arm at the tables.

“Thank you.” I sank down on the nearest chair and laid my purse on the vacant one next to me. “I’d like a pot of tea and a Danish.”

The woman’s dark eyes narrowed in curiosity. “You’re American, aren’t you?”

I nodded with a smile.

“On holiday, are you?”

The woman seemed in no hurry to get my order, and her direct questions began to make me uncomfortable. I wasn’t used to this small-town cosiness with strangers. “As a matter of fact I’m here on business.” I picked up the well-thumbed menu and studied it in the hopes of discouraging any more conversation.

My hostess was not easily put off. “Not much business going on around here. Mostly tourist stuff. What sort of business you in, then?”

I hoped my tone would warn her I didn’t like her prying. “I’m here to sell some property. A cottage to be exact.”

Ignoring the hint, her voice rose. “Oh, you’re here to sell the Hodges’ cottage. I heard it was going up for sale.”

Thoroughly impatient now, I shook my head. “No, not that one. I’m in rather a hurry. Could I get my order, please?”

“Oh, of course. Be back in a jiff.”

She waddled off in the direction of the kitchen and I slumped down on my chair. My head felt as if it had separated from my shoulders. The lack of sleep had caught up with me. I did a mental calculation. It had been more than twenty-four hours since I’d woken up in Seattle. I hoped the tea would keep me awake me long enough to get back to the hotel.

The waitress returned a short time later with a tray bearing a miniature teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl, an exquisite bone-china cup and saucer, and two large pastries. She set the tray in front of me and folded her arms. “You sure it’s not the Hodges’ cottage? The one on Marsh Lane?”

That rang a bell. “Well, yes, it is in Marsh Lane, but it’s not that cottage. It must be another one.”

The woman smiled. “There’s only one cottage in Marsh Lane, dearie. That’s the Hodges’ cottage. Mr. Perkins, the estate agent was in here two days ago. He told me the American owner was coming here to sell the place.” Her smile faded and her sigh seemed to echo like the wind before a storm. “I don’t know what the Hodges will do, and that’s a fact, with three little ones and all.” With that she turned and bustled off, leaving me in a haze of confusion.