“Oh, I see,” said Sorrel, who didn’t see anything at all.
She’d talked with Fiona about her brother Graham and what to expect (which would turn out to be understated in the extreme), but Andrew was something else. She knew absolutely nothing about this guy. If Patience were here, she’d sniff around and come up with an answer to the hint of hurt that set his jaw so tight. She might even have sensed the reason for his sabbatical. Sorrel suspected his story wasn’t entirely as he told it. Still, one thing she knew right away, Andrew was oddly dashing in his slightly frayed way. That wasn’t something she associated with a local reverend. Sure, John Hathaway was attractive in that kind of wind-burned “I’m wearing a fleece under this cassock” and “man the sails” kind of way, but he wasn’t an Englishman with hair black as night and a small, half-moon scar through his right eyebrow.
Sorrel tried to imagine this Andrew Warburton in his priestly garb and couldn’t. She tried to hear his voice in her head calling together a chapel full of hopeful congregants, but all she could hear was that low voice talking about Morris Minors and their tidy engines. This reverend with his pilled sweater and striped socks seemed a bit more . . . irreverent.
“It’s very kind of you to take me on,” Sorrel said.
“I owe Gray and Stella a great deal. It’s a small thing to collect you.” Andrew took the last biscuit. “Besides, Stella would have my head if you disappeared between here and there.”
Andrew gathered the tea things before Sorrel even finished her cup.
“Now, if I were you, I’d gallop straight up those stairs and have a kip. I’ve got some errands, and Gray will roll up for supper so you’ll want to be rested for that. He’s very enthusiastic about you.” Andrew put an emphasis on the he’s that made Sorrel blink. He stood and took the tray into the kitchen without another word.
Sorrel might have found him rudely abrupt, but she could barely contain her pleasure at the thought of a nap, all niceties aside. Patience had given her some remedies for jet lag, but compared to a bed draped in fern-sprigged eiderdowns piled high with pillows, the little bottles of leopard’s bane and club moss were just pretty clutter. On the other hand, the bottle labeled HEART’S EASE was a mystery. Perhaps it was for heartburn, from which Sorrel suffered each time she ate green pepper. No matter, all she needed now was that nap.
Someone, it must have been Andrew, had placed her suitcase on the bench at the foot of the bed. Sorrel threw her traveling clothes on top and shook out her hair. A flannel dressing gown hung from one of the four posts and as soon as Sorrel wrapped herself up, she found she absolutely could not keep her eyes open. The linens smelled of lemon and old-fashioned starch but Sorrel wouldn’t notice that until hours later when she woke.
The sun was low when Sorrel startled back to life. She was shocked to see that it was after five. It had been a dreamless sleep and now she wasn’t sure if the muffled peace that enveloped her came from all the duvets and down or was just the doze that clung to her as she moved slowly into the small yellow and white bathroom. The showerhead drip-dropped like a particularly irritating rain and the waffled shower curtain barely reached the lip of the tub. Sorrel thumped the pipes and shifted around trying to get wet enough to wash her hair. She’d always thought it was the French who had bad plumbing. Now, the heated towel rack, that was a bit of all right.
The sound of voices, cello music, and a delicious smell drifted up the stairs as Sorrel dressed. Suddenly she was sure she’d never been hungrier in her life. She followed her nose down the hall to the kitchen where Andrew leaned against the big Aga and a second tall man stood at the counter opening a bottle of wine.
“Sorrel!” Graham Kirkwood sang out. “Sorrel the sorceress, the siren, the Sparrow Sister herself!” He held out his arms, still holding the corkscrew. “Come, my dear, come in for a proper hello.” And a puncture wound.
If this was how the titled classes behaved, Sorrel couldn’t imagine how the English ever got a reputation for chilly reserve. Then again, there was Andrew. She moved toward Graham and was captured in an embrace redolent of wood smoke and damp dog, an altogether pleasant feeling. Sorrel laughed into Graham’s woolly vest.
“I am grateful for your invitation,” she said, cursing the stiffness she heard in her own voice.
“Welcome to England!” Graham said and poured Sorrel a glass of the clearest ruby-red wine she’d ever seen. “Here’s to muddy boots, well-oiled loppers, and dirty gardening gloves!”
Do all his sentences end in exclamation points? thought Sorrel.
Graham poured a glass of wine for Andrew and one for himself. “Andrew has made shepherd’s pie for us, and it is a thing, let me tell you,” he said and sat at the kitchen table, a long, scarred, well-loved cherry slab covered with mail, magazines, and more books. At one end there was a platter of cheese and grapes and chunks of brown bread studded with walnuts.
“Sit,” Andrew said. “Supper will be ready soon.”
“Just in time for Philippa,” said Graham and pulled out a chair for Sorrel.
“Philippa?” asked Sorrel at the very moment the front door slammed and a cheery voice called out.
“Dad?”
“Kitchen, Petal,” Graham said with a grin.
In walked what could only be called a creation. She was small, easily a foot shorter than the men and a good three inches under Sorrel. Her brown hair was cut in a bob with a heavy fringe that just tipped her eyebrows. Her tights were maroon, her Doc Marten boots black velvet, and her dress, really just a sweater that stretched to her knees, was argyle. She looked as if she’d mugged a grandpa on her way to the house.
“This changeling, this spritely bit of fairy dust, is our daughter, Philippa,” Graham said.
“Poppy, Father,” she said and kissed her father’s cheek in greeting.
“The oldest and most interesting Kirkwood sprog,” Poppy said and held out her hand. Her smile was every bit as charming as her father’s, and it became apparent to Sorrel that this young woman was not silly at all.
“And you are Sorrel Sparrow.”
“I am,” said Sorrel. “Hello, Poppy.”
“See, Dad, Sorrel got my new name right in one.” She poured herself a glass of wine.
“Petunia, Pippa, Peanut.” Graham laughed. “You are my daughter and I shall call you as I like. Sorrel, you’ll miss the other Kirkwood offspring this trip. Rupert and Sophia are off somewhere making trouble, I’m sure.”
Graham pronounced Sophia “Soph-eye-a” which made the name sound exotic.