She passed a post office shop looking almost as quaint as she’d imagined (peeling paint and lottery advertisements aside), a pub, a church, a sign for the primary school where she’d be working (but no actual school as far as she could see), and no Tarn House.
Finally she parked the car by the train station, admiring the old-fashioned sign above the Victorian station building, which was, on second look, now a restaurant. The driving rain had downgraded into one of those misting drizzles that didn’t seem all that bad when you were looking out at it from the cozywarmth of your kitchen but soaked you utterly after about five seconds.
Hunching her shoulders against the bitter wind—this wasAugust—she searched for someone to ask directions.
The only person in sight was a farmer with a flat cap jammed down on his head, wearing extremely mud-splattered plus fours. Lucy approached him with her most engaging smile.
“Pardon me—are you from around here?”
He squinted at her suspiciously. “Eh?”
She had just asked, she realized, an absolutely idiotic question. “I only wanted to ask,” she tried again, “do you know where Tarn House is?”
“Tarn House?” he repeated, his tone implying that he’d never heard of the place.
“Yes, it’s a bed-and-breakfast here in the village—”
“Eh?”He scratched his head, his bushy eyebrows drawn together rather fiercely. Then he dropped his hand and jerked a thumb towards the road that led steeply up towards the shop and one pub. “Tarn House’s up there, isn’t it, now, across from the Hangman’s Noose.”
“The Hangman’s—” Ah. The pub. Lucy nodded. “Thank you.”
“The white house with black shutters.”
“Thanks so much, I really appreciate it.” And why, Lucy wondered as she turned up the street, had he acted so incredulous when she’d asked him where it was? Was that a Cumbrian thing, or was her American accent stronger than she’d thought?
Tarn House was a neat two-story cottage of whitewashed stone with the promised black shutters, and pots of chrysanthemums on either side of the shiny black door. A discreet hand-painted sign that Lucy hadn’t glimpsed from the road informed her that this was indeed her destination.
She hesitated on the slate step, her hand hovering above the brass knocker, as the rain continued steadily down. She felt keenly then how little she actuallyknewher sister. Half sister, if she wanted to be accurate; neither of them had known their different fathers. Not that Lucy could really call a sperm donor a dad. And their mother had never spoken about Juliet’s father, whoever he was, at least not to Lucy.
Her hand was still hovering over the brass knocker when the door suddenly opened and Juliet stood there, her sandy hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, her gray eyes narrowed, her hands planted on her hips, as she looked Lucy up and down, her mouth tightening the same way her mother’s did when she looked at her.
Two sleek greyhounds flanked Juliet, cowering slightly as Lucy stepped forward and ducked her head in both greeting and silent, uncertain apology. She could have used a hug, but Juliet didn’t move and Lucy was too hesitant to hug the half sister she barely knew.
“Well,” Juliet said with a brisk nod. “You made it.”
“Yes. Yes, I did.” Lucy smiled tentatively, and Juliet moved aside.
“You look like a drowned rat. You’d better come in.”
Lucy stepped into the little entryway of Juliet’s house, a surprisingly friendly jumble of umbrellas and Wellington boots cluttering the slate floor along with the dogs. She would have expected her sister to have every boot and brolly in regimental order, but maybe she didn’t know Juliet well enough to know how she kept her house. Or maybe her sister was just having an off day.
“They’re rescue dogs—they’ll jump at a mouse,” Juliet explained, for the two greyhounds were trembling. “They’ll come round eventually. They just have to get used to you.” Shesnapped her fingers, and the dogs obediently retreated to their baskets.
“Cup of tea,” she said, not a question, and led Lucy into the kitchen. The kitchen was even cozier than the hall, with a large dark green Aga cooking range taking up most of one wall and emitting a lovely warmth, a circular pine table in the center, and a green glass jar of wildflowers on the windowsill. It was all so homely, so comforting, and so not what Lucy had expected from someone as stern and officious as Juliet, although again she was acting on ignorance. How many conversations had she even had with Juliet, before that wretched phone call? Five? Six?
Still the sight of it all, the Aga and the flowers and even the view of muddy sheep fields outside, made her spirits lift. This was a place she could feel at home in. She hoped.
She sank into a chair at the table as Juliet plonked a brass kettle on one of the Aga’s round hot plates.
“So you start next week.”
“Yes—”
“You ought to go up to the school tomorrow, and check in with Alex.”
“Alex?”
Juliet turned around, her straight eyebrows drawn together, her expression not precisely a frown, but definitely not a smile. “Alex Kincaid, the head teacher. You spoke with him on the phone, remember?” There was a faint note of impatience or even irritation in Juliet’s voice, which made Lucy stammer in apology.
