When a British film company embarked on a big-budget adaptation ofEmma, one of Jane Austen’s most celebrated novels, they hired Alice to be the historical consultant on the film. The choice of an American for such a plum appointment had been controversial from the outset. Foolishly, Alice had believed that the high-profile accomplishment would strengthen her case for tenure at William & Mary.
“As I said, I’m not really allowed to talk about anything related to the film.”
Kingsley’s patrician face softened in concern and he lowered his voice. “Those old dinosaurs in your department aren’t going to give you any pushback, are they? A high-profile movie seems more influential than the dry academic articles they obsess over.”
Mrs. Wieland, the nosy widow from next door who was completely ignorant of the political infighting around academictenure, approached holding a platter. “Crab cakes with mango salsa,” she proudly announced.
“They look delicious,” Alice said, eager to discuss anything other than her fading hope of tenure.
“I made them myself, but I used your recipe,” Mrs. Wieland said. “It took me three tries, but I think they’re as good as the ones you make.”
Alice gamely sampled a crab cake. “They’rebetterthan the ones I make,” she said, causing Mrs. Wieland to beam with pride. It looked like Kingsley wanted to keep talking business, and Alice scrambled for an excuse to disengage.
“I should be helping Daisy with the drinks,” she said with a quick squeeze on Kingsley’s arm before heading to the kitchen.
She loved this tiny kitchen with its view over the herb garden and overhead rack of dangling copper pans. A butcher-block counter provided plenty of room to cook while demarcating the kitchen from the living area. Daisy was adding sprigs of mint to glasses of iced tea.
“Thank you for all this, but you shouldn’t have,” Alice said.
“Of course I should have!” Daisy said with a toss of her sleek blond hair. “So tell me … what was it like working with Sebastian Bell?”
“I can’t talk about—”
“I heard about the nondisclosure agreement, but come on. You can tell me.”
Sebastian Bell was the reigning heartthrob of British historical movies, and naturally the person everyone would want to know about. He was also at the top of the list of things Alice had been forbidden to discuss in the nondisclosure agreements.
Alice tried to sound at ease as she reached for trays of ice from the freezer. “I promised not to discuss anything on the set.”
Daisy rolled her eyes but moved on. “I’m sorry Kyle couldn’t come. He’s over at the country club working with Jack on the golf course.”
“Hmmm,” Alice said as she filled a silver bucket with ice cubes. The impending golf course had been debated since the day it was announced. As the largest landowners in the county, the Tuckers had embarked on a controversial decision to convert over a hundred acres of wilderness into an 18-hole golf course, complete with a grandiose new clubhouse. Daisy’s husband, Kyle, had been the biggest advocate for the fancy new golf course.
Alice and Daisy had been friends for years, but the golf course was a delicate topic they would never agree upon, and rarely discussed. Alice had been opposed to the golf course from the moment she heard of it. She joined with other professors and students at the college to protest it. They’d picketed, gathered signatures, and appealed to the state to intervene.
None of it worked. The clubhouse was already built, but political wrangling to stop the golf course succeeded in delaying it for a few years. The Tuckers ultimately prevailed and they’d broken ground on the golf course shortly before Alice left for England.
The loss of all that pristine wilderness seemed unbearably sad as Alice slowly refilled the ice trays.
“What’s wrong?” Daisy asked. “You look as worn out as a biscuit dunked in gravy.”
Alice nodded. “It’s after midnight in London.”
“Oh my heavens, you poor dear,” Daisy gushed. “I didn’t think. You go put your feet up, and I’ll wind this party down.”
It took almost an hour, but Daisy finally managed to gracefully nudge people out of the house. Daisy left soon after for a touch-up appointment to have her roots dyed but left her father-in-law behind to help Alice restore the townhouse to order. Alice hada dishwasher but rarely used it because she’d never put antique Staffordshire porcelain into a dishwasher.
Kingsley rolled up his sleeves to wash and rinse, while Alice dried each piece as it came to her. With luck, they’d finish soon and she could finally collapse into bed.
“Did you hear about what’s going on down at the Roost?” Kingsley asked as he handed her another serving dish.
Alice stilled. Her last hope to save her career lay in solving the mysterious origins of the Roost. The derelict building was at least three hundred years old, and its location hidden in the woods left it vulnerable to antique hunters, drunken students, and vandalism.
“What’s going on at the Roost?” she asked in a calm voice, although her heart started pounding. The only good thing that came from her time in London was finding another piece of the puzzle about the Roost’s enigmatic history. The more she learned, the more fascinating the place became.
“Kyle is letting a fellow named Jack Latimer live in it. Jack is the golf course architect who’s been here ever since we broke ground.”
“Kyle is letting someonelivein the Roost?” It was unthinkable, and she nearly dropped the Staffordshire bowl.
