CHAPTER 1
Books, books, glorious books. Mug in hand—I love tea, but my mornings require coffee—I stood in the middle of the bookshop, reveling in the sight. Dusty, musty, gilded and plain, stacked on tables and crammed in shelves. Everywhere I looked, books.
How had this happened? I still couldn’t quite believe that I was now partial owner of Thomas Marlowe—Manuscripts & Folios, a charming tumbledown Tudor bookstore in the heart of Cambridge, England. Was there a more literate city in the world? I thought perhaps not, considering Cambridge’s thirty-one colleges, more than one hundred libraries, and numerous renowned writers through the centuries.
Puck, the stray black cat who had adopted me, twined through my ankles, mewing, and I picked him up with my free arm for a snuggle. Not only did I own a bookshop, I also had a cat—two counting Clarence, the bookshop tabby—new friends, and a wonderful man I was dating, Kieran Scott, owner of the bicycle shop next door. He was also the son of an English lord, something I hadn’t quite wrapped my very American mind around.
“Molly? Ah, there you are.” My great-aunt, Violet Marlowe, popped her head out of the door to the living quarters. “Breakfast is ready.” Tiny and trim, with high-piled white hair and big glasses, Aunt Violet was almost the last in a long line of book-loving Marlowes. Earlier this year, she had written to Mum explaining her need for help, and here we were, uprooted from Vermont and transplanted back to the old country. An offer we couldn’t refuse, especially since my town library job had been cut and my mother and I had found ourselves at loose ends after losing my dear father, a history professor. It was time for a fresh start.
“Great,” I said. “I’m starving.” A whiff of frying bacon had escaped through the open door and I sniffed with appreciation. Forget what they say about English cooking. Homemade meals made with local ingredients were fabulous, even if what they called bacon wasn’t quite what I’d known back in the States.
“Come on, Puck.” A loud thump behind me told me Clarence had jumped from his favorite armchair, always ready to follow when food was in the offing. “Clarence, you too.”
As the three of us entered the kitchen, I asked, “Are we still going to visit Iona York today?” Later this month, Iona York, author of a classic children’s book, The Strawberry Girls, was doing a reading for us in celebration of a new edition. One of my initiatives to revive the bookstore had been hosting author events. So far, they’d been very popular, despite the first being ruined by a murder in the garden.
“I thought we’d head over after breakfast,” Aunt Violet said. “I want to nail down the details and start working on publicity.”
A plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and thick whole-wheat toast was already in front of my usual chair. I put Puck down, then sat at the table and dug in. The cats went to check their dishes and began crunching on kibble.
“There’s an interesting backstory behind The Strawberry Girls,” Aunt Violet said, sitting beside me. A plate for Mum, who hadn’t come down yet, was warming on the stove. “I don’t know if you’ve heard it.”
My ears perked up. “You mean involving her husband?” All I knew was that Iona’s husband had died before the book was published almost twenty years ago. Their daughters, Poppy and Rose, had been the inspiration for the main characters, so they must be in their mid-twenties now. A few years younger than me.
Aunt Violet nodded. “Nathanial was a lecturer in early medieval history at the University and his interests extended to East Anglian folklore and fairy tales. He came up with the idea for the story, incorporating some of those fairy tales, and Iona was going to illustrate it. After he died, she went ahead and wrote the book using his notes. The book was an instant best seller, as they say, partly because of the tragedy, I think.”
“Which was?” I swallowed my impatience along with a bite of savory, salty bacon.
She leaned across the table, lowering her voice. “He fell off a tower in the grounds of Thornton Hall, which is right next door to Strawberry Cottage. After one of Geoffrey Thornton’s wild parties.” A flash of mischief lit her eyes. “I may have attended one or two myself.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Aunt Violet might look like a sweet little bookworm, but she had quite a backstory of her own, as I was learning.
Her face sobered. “Anyway, the theory is that Nathanial’s fall was an accident, after he became intoxicated at a Midsummer Night’s Eve bash. Iona never understood why he was up there in the middle of the night, and no one else came forward as a witness.”
A possibility chilled me. “Maybe he jumped.” Gosh, I hoped not, especially since he left two young daughters and a wife. I knew all about the loss of a parent. “Did the police investigate?”
“I’m sure they did,” Aunt Violet said. “They must have had a good reason to consider it an accident and close the case.”
I wasn’t quite as confident about police investigations, especially after Aunt Violet had become a suspect in the garden murder and was cleared thanks to me rather than the authorities, but I didn’t comment further. At this point, any evidence contrary to the cause of death ruling was probably long gone.
Light footsteps tapped on the stairs and my mother, Nina Marlowe, entered the kitchen, dressed in a white skirt and pink sweater set, carrying a spiral-bound notebook.
“Good morning, all,” she said, her smile including the cats, now licking their paws after breakfast. “What’s on the agenda today?” She set the notebook on the table before heading over to the stove, where she retrieved her plate.
Unlike me, Mum was tiny, with short dark hair that suited her elfin features. I took after my father, medium in height and build, but I had Mum’s hair, which I wore long, and the Marlowe nose. Such fun to see it in historic portraits and photographs. Our ancestors may not have passed down much money, but we had their distinctive, slightly long, elegant nose.
“Oh, this looks yummy,” she said, joining us at the table.
“It’s delish,” I said. While we ate, I told her about our plan to visit Iona York in Hazelhurst and discuss the upcoming reading.
“That’s nice.” Mum stiffened a little at the mention of her hometown. She’d had a very unhappy family life, and after escaping to the United States with my father, she’d never spoken about her parents or her older brother, Chris. It was only after we’d returned to England to help at the bookshop that she’d reconnected with her brother. Uncle Chris was fine, his wife, Janice, not so much, and they had a son, Charlie, about my age. He was okay too. “I’ll mind the store while you’re gone and, between customers, work on a little something.” She patted the notebook.
I hardly dared to ask. “A poem?” After my father’s death last year, Mum, a well-regarded poet, had experienced a stubborn case of writer’s block. She’d worried that it was permanent, but I’d hoped that time and healing would refill her creative well. If books were my life, poetry was hers.
Mum picked up a piece of bacon and nibbled. “Yes. The start of one, anyway.”
“So great.” I shared a smile with Aunt Violet. Moving to Cambridge had been a good decision after all. Not that I had many doubts.
* * *
After breakfast, we walked down Magpie Lane to the garage where Aunt Violet kept her gold Cortina. Despite being older than me, the vintage sedan was spotlessly clean, with an engine that purred. Aunt Violet’s good friend and sometimes handyman, George Flowers, kept the car in perfect working order. Reminded of George, I realized how much I missed his good-natured bluster. He was out of town, taking his first vacation in “donkey’s years,” as he put it.
With Aunt Violet at the wheel and me in the front left passenger seat, a position I still wasn’t used to, we bumped up the cobblestone lane past the tea shop, the bicycle shop, and the pub. After working our way through the maze of one-way and no-vehicle roads that was historic downtown Cambridge, we merged onto the A14 and traveled out into the countryside. Once we left the highway, civilization gave way to hedges and fields and stands of ancient, ivy-covered trees.
After a few miles, a cluster of cottages appeared and then we were crossing an arched bridge over the River Ouse. On the other side, a pretty painted sign displaying a coat of arms announced: Hazelhurst.
The Scott family emblem, maybe? Kieran’s parents, Lord Graham and Lady Asha Scott, lived in a magnificent edifice called Hazelhurst House, built in 1482. I admit it, I’ve Google-stalked his family and their drool-worthy home. Plus, after we started dating, I set up online alerts for photographs of us, which are published annoyingly often.
Kieran is considered one of Britain’s most eligible bachelors, you see, so anyone he dates is scrutinized—and given a nickname. Mine, after they caught me with windswept hair and sporting a faded flannel shirt, was “a natural Vermont beauty.” It could be worse, I suppose. They still call regular people like me commoners in this country—at least in the press.
We had reached Hazelhurst proper and were now creeping along a narrow street lined with historic brick, stone, and whitewashed storefronts. Window boxes, urns, and hanging planters overflowing with flowers added color and cheer.
“This is the high street,” Aunt Violet said. “They have some good shops here.” Even smaller streets led off the high street, providing enticing glimpses of cottages set among flower gardens. When we passed a stately church with arched stained-glass windows, a graveyard nestled next to it, I wondered if I had ancestors buried there. I was pretty sure Kieran did.
Since my mother never mentioned Hazelhurst, let alone came out here, I’d been glad when Aunt Violet suggested visiting Iona York. This way I could satisfy my curiosity without upsetting Mum.
Once through the heart of the village, we turned down a small lane lined with hedgerows, so narrow that I prayed there wouldn’t be any oncoming cars. After we passed a few cottages, the hedges fell away to reveal fields on both sides. To the right, a tan two-story stone manor with six windows across and a triangle pediment above the entrance stood on a gentle rise. Stone pillars marked the main drive, which was lined with beech trees touching overhead.
“That’s Thornton Hall,” Aunt Violet said. “Strawberry Cottage used to belong to the estate.”
“It’s gorgeous.” I stared at the manor until we had gone by, drinking in every detail. I wondered where the tower, site of Nate York’s accident, sat on the property, since it wasn’t visible from the road.
On our left, several people were crouched in the fields, bent over what looked like trenches. Pop-up tents sheltered them from the relentless sun. A runner in bright pink leggings and a black top stood watching them from the road, her face hidden by a low visor and sunglasses.
“What are they doing?” I asked.
Aunt Violet slowed, craning her neck to study the workers. “Oh, I heard about this. The University is doing a dig this summer. A farmer plowing the field stumbled on artifacts from an Anglo-Saxon settlement.”
Excitement fizzed in my veins. “An archeological dig? I’ve always wanted to go on one.” I was intrigued by the idea of past lives below our feet, waiting to be discovered. In England, that meant any time from prehistory to the previous century, often in layers.
“Me too,” Aunt Violet said. “Have you heard about the dig at Sutton Hoo? Britain’s version of King Tut’s tomb, I call it. They think this settlement is from about the same period.”
“Oh yes, I have. They made a movie about it.” A recent film detailed the 1939 excavation of a royal ship burial, the grave of a seventh-century Anglo-Saxon king. The Dig was already saved on my streaming list. “You think they’ll find any treasure?”
“Maybe,” Aunt Violet said. “What a thrill that would be, for the team and the landowner too.” She made a little face. “Any treasure has to be reported to the Crown, but Geoffrey Thornton will get a cut if a museum wants it.”
“What if they don’t?” I asked. It didn’t seem fair that he wouldn’t own something found on his own land.
Aunt Violet hit the gas again, pulling out around the runner, who was still watching. I waved at her, but she didn’t respond. “In that case, the landowner can keep it.”
Better than nothing, I supposed.
A short distance up the lane, at the first drive past the manor, Aunt Violet slowed again and signaled a turn. Overgrown butterfly bushes covered with showy pink flowers crowded the entrance, hiding any glimpse of the house beyond.
The cottage came into view gradually, only a glimpse of thatched rooftop among the trees at first. Then the drive swept around into a clearing.
“Oh,” I said, stunned. “It’s exactly like The Strawberry Girls.”
The front of the white stucco cottage was smothered with pink climbing roses. Multi-pane casement windows stood ajar, and in front was a small but riotous flower garden hemmed in by a picket fence. When Aunt Violet shut off the engine, I could hear bees buzzing and the twitter of birds in the fruit trees.
As we climbed out, quietly to match the hush around this dream dwelling, I wondered why I had expected anything else. Despite being a fairy tale, The Strawberry Girls felt genuine, as if inspired by actual events. Crazy idea, right? Or maybe not. The girls were real too, like this cottage.
“I wonder where Iona is,” Aunt Violet said, glancing around. “I don’t see her car.”
I didn’t either, but I did notice something about the roof. “They’re in the middle of a thatching job.” I pointed to scaffolding at the far side. “I wonder if Uncle Chris is doing it.” My uncle had a well-established thatching company, and since he lived in Hazelhurst, this area was his stomping ground.
“He might be.” Aunt Violet tipped her head to study the thatch, turning when the noise of an engine was heard. “I bet that’s Iona now.”
A battered green Mini rattled into view, the woman behind the wheel waving when she spotted us. She parked beside us and climbed out, a small woman with dandelion fluff blond curls and a bewitching smile. “Sorry I’m late,” she called. “I had to run an errand and it took longer than I thought.” Tanned and freckled, she was dressed in linen, pale blue Capris, and a white sleeveless top.
“No problem,” Aunt Violet said. “We just got here.”
“You must be Molly,” Iona said, advancing on me with her hand extended. “I’m so happy to meet you.”
“Same,” I said, shaking her hand. “I love your house. And your book too,” I added hastily. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“Molly is a librarian,” Aunt Violet said. “So her endorsement really means something.”
“How flattering. Thank you.” Iona grabbed a tote bag from the car. “Let’s go in. I’ll put the kettle on.”
After ushering us along the path, Iona opened the front door, standing back to let us in. We stepped into a small entry area with a flagstone floor and a flight of stairs leading up. To our left was a comfortably furnished living room with a beamed ceiling and inglenook fireplace, open to the kitchen beyond.
“You should have seen this place when we bought it,” Iona said, setting her bag on the counter. “Poky little rooms.” She directed us to a long table under a casement window with a view of the back garden, which featured a white lattice summerhouse. The lawn ended in forest, and with a thrill I recognized the Deep Woods from The Strawberry Girls.
While Iona filled a kettle at the farmhouse sink and set it on the AGA in its brick-lined nook, I took in the picture-perfect cottage kitchen—an antique dresser displaying Blue Willow plates, copper-bottomed pans dangling from hooks, and pots of herbs along the windowsill.
Our hostess bustled back and forth with teacups, milk and sugar, and a plate of custard creams. “I’m really excited about the reading,” Iona said as she poured steaming water into a teapot. “Haven’t done one for years.” She laughed. “Typical introvert, all hidden away with my pencils and paints.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Aunt Violet said. “Hard to create in a crowd.”
“We already have customers asking about the new book,” I said. To build buzz, I’d put together a display of earlier editions with a poster announcing the upcoming release. My late great-uncle Tom had a deep love for children’s literature and I was carrying on his tradition.
“I have an advance copy, if you want one.” Iona slipped a tea cozy over the pot and brought it over. She pulled out a chair and sat. “I’ll fetch it after tea.”
Aunt Violet and I exchanged excited looks. “What a treat,” Aunt Violet said. “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.” Iona picked up the teapot and poured, then handed cups around. The next couple of minutes were spent doctoring our tea. I like milk, no sugar, and strong tea. Weak tea tastes like dishwater.
“We saw the archeologists digging at Thornton Hall,” I said to break the silence. “How fascinating.”
Selecting a biscuit, Iona nodded. “It is. Very. Both of my girls are working on the dig, which means I see them almost every day.” She took a sip of tea. “Poppy is getting a post-graduate archeology degree, as is her fiancé, Ben. Rose is the dig sketch artist.”
Copyright © 2022 by Elizabeth Penney.