“I am going to take Tramp for a quick walk,” she said, getting hastily to her feet.
The cliffs got lower as they traveled west along the coast the next morning, though they rose high above the sea again in the not-too-far distance. They had been told that the village of Fisherman’s Bridge and therefore the cottage on this side of it were in the dip where the cliffs were at their lowest.
Samantha fully expected that the cottage would be no more than the hovel her mother had called it. But she would not be disappointed, she told herself. At least it was habitable. It would do for a while even if not forever. And this was such a beautiful part of the world she would surely not regret moving here.
And then, quite suddenly, just as they were approaching a line of rolling sand dunes, partly covered with grass, there it was. Or what must be it since there was no other dwelling in sight and the village must be beyond the dunes.
Except that it was not a cottage. Or not what she thought of as a cottage, anyway.
“Oh, goodness,” she said.
Ben leaned sideways, his shoulder pressed against hers, so that he could see it with her out of the window on her side of the carriage.
It was a sturdy, square house of gray stone with a gray slate roof. It looked as if it must have at least four bedchambers upstairs and as many rooms downstairs. There was a porch at the front and a dormer window in the roof above it. A square garden surrounded it, bordered by a whitewashed wooden fence. There was a sizable barn in one corner. What had obviously been flower beds at one time were bare apart from a few weeds, but the grass had been newly scythed. Its green expanse was unmarred by either daisy or buttercup.
“That isa cottage?”
“Well,” Ben said, “it is not a mansion, but it is not a hermit’s shed either, is it?”
“It is ahouse,” she said. “How on earth could my mother have called it a hovel? Do you suppose there is some mistake?”
“No,” he said. “The carriage is turning toward it. Your new maid would say something if this was the wrong place, even though I notice that the sight of Quinn awed her into silence when she met him in the stable yard this morning and I have not heard her voice from up on the box, have you?”
“My great-aunt could really not have been impoverished,” she said. “I always assumed she was.”
A large woman in a dark brown dress with a voluminous white apron and matching mob cap had appeared on the steps outside the porch, a welcoming smile on her face. Mrs. Price, Samantha assumed. She dipped into a curtsy as the coachman lowered the steps and handed Samantha down at the garden gate. Mr. Quinn opened it. Gladys was clambering down from the box, unassisted.
“Welcome, Mrs. McKay,” Mrs. Price said. “Everything is ready for you, even at such short notice. I kept everyone’s nose to the grindstone yesterday until everything shone and not one speck of dust or dirt remained. And I came over early this morning to get some baking done so that you would have something nice to eat as well as having the smell of cooking in the house. There is nothing so homely as that smell, is there? And is that you, Gladys Jones? Your mam said you had gone off to see if you could be Mrs. McKay’s maid. Come inside, ma’am. The gentleman has hurt himself, has he?”
The interior lived up to the outside, Samantha discovered over the next half hour. There were four sizable square rooms downstairs—a parlor, a dining room, a kitchen, and a book room. There were four large bedchambers upstairs and one small one at the head of the stairs, and there was the attic room with its dormer window in the roof. A hallway bisected the house downstairs and contained the staircase, which ran straight up to the landing above.
The architect, whoever he had been, had lacked imagination, perhaps, but Samantha loved the dimensions of the rooms. The furniture, though old and heavy and predominantly dark in color, just as Mr. Rhys had described it, nevertheless looked comfortable. Yesterday, no doubt, there had been a smell of age and even mustiness here, but the opened windows and the fires and the baking had taken care of that.
Finally, Mrs. Price bustled off to the kitchen to fetch some of her newly baked cakes and a pot of tea. Gladys was thumping about in the main bedchamber above the parlor, where Samantha sat with Ben.
“I cannot quite believe it,” she said, spreading her hands on the soft old leather of the chair arms.
“That the cottage really exists?” he said. “Or that it is habitable? Or that it is really quite large? Or that it actually belongs to you? Or that you are here at last? Or that you have a beach all to yourself and a view to entice you to your front windows for a lifetime? Or that your life has changed so drastically in such a short time?”
“Oh, stop,” she said, laughing. She rested her head against the back of her chair and closed her eyes briefly. “All of those things. Oh, Ben, it is as if I have been snatched away from my life and deposited here in heaven. It really feels like heaven.”
“I daresay,” he said, “the Earl of Heathmoor did you a favor when he took Bramble Hall away from you and summoned you to Leyland Abbey. You may never have given this cottage a serious thought if you had not been desperate for escape, or, if you had, perhaps you would never have thought of coming here.”
“Thiswasfate, then?” She opened her eyes to look at him. “Something that was meant to be?”
But Mrs. Price came bustling back into the room, bearing a large tray, before he could answer her.
“I did not know if you liked currant cake or seed cake or bara brith best, Mrs. McKay,” she said. “So I made all three and you can have your pick. I daresay the major likes all three. Men usually do. I am sure you must both be ready for a nice cup of tea. You would not prefer coffee, I hope? Nasty, bitter stuff, if you were to ask me. I never have it in my own house. My man did not like it either and nor does my son. But I can get some to bring tomorrow, if you like it. If you want me to come again, that is. I wouldn’t mind coming in each day to get your breakfast and staying until I have cooked your evening meal, though I would rather not live in. My son would starve since he has not found a wife for himself yet, and I can never seem to sleep sound in any other bed but my own.”
“Shall we give your suggestion a try?” Samantha said. “And I am happy to drink tea. Bara…brith, did you say?”
“This dark full-fruit loaf,” Mrs. Price said, indicating the slices of it on the cake plate she had brought in before pouring them each a cup of tea. “There is no cake to compare with it for richness of flavor. That dog is gnawing on a soup bone and drinking his water in the kitchen. I do like a dog in the house, and a cat too, though I have never seen a dog quite like this one.”
“And never will again, Mrs. Price, it is to be fervently hoped,” Ben said.
Mrs. Price laughed. “Can I get you anything else before I go back to the kitchen?” she asked.
“You have always lived here, have you, Mrs. Price?” Samantha asked. “The village is not far away?”
