Chapter 1

I wish these clouds would break.

Bethany Lindstrom did an involuntary bounce in her seat and felt herself flush in embarrassment. Casting a covert glance around, she figured nobody had seen. Good thing, too. PhD candidate-overachievers should not bounce.

Not long now. In a moment, in only a moment, this plane will break through this infernal cloud cover. It can’t be long, we’re descending so fast. Seconds now—my first glimpse of England. England, Avalon, Narnia. Land of my forever dreams.

She’d planned, fantasized, speculated, and schemed this trip all her life. As a child she’d read every book in the school library about medieval British history. She’d studied until eye drops no longer helped the strain. She’d outlined studies, written theses, defended her dissertation, labored over ecclesiastical Latin and legal French, learned Anglo-Saxon and vernacular Middle English until she could converse with a contemporary, should one materialize. At last, she’d taken the prize. The university had offered a summer semester at Oxford and finally—finally—she’d dug up enough grant money to make the flight and to support herself during three fantastic months in England.

England. The very word beckoned like a siren song. Beth leaned forward to see past the lady in 17-A as clouds scudded past the tiny window, obstinately refusing to clear on final approach to Heathrow.

“It’s your first visit to the U.K., isn’t it?” asked her seatmate with a smile.

“Yes,” Beth answered. “I can’t wait to see it.”

“Oh, you’ll see plenty in a moment, love.”

She’d enjoyed chatting with her seatmate. Sheila Tyrrell lived in Cornwall and had visited Chicago on business. Violating every stereotype about the taciturn English, Sheila had talked volubly of her family, her small town on the coast and the local amenities. “You really must find time to visit,” she urged as Beth strained to see through the clouds. “No holiday is complete without seeing Cornwall.”

“Is it far from Oxford?” How would she afford bus fare, so tightly had she budgeted every last pound-sterling?

“Oh, not so far. You take the Inter-City to Exeter, and from there you’re just a short hop to Truro . . . “

Beth listened, fascinated. Learning she was a historian, Sheila mentioned many ancient sites in her native county. “Of course, most folks want to see the places associated with King Arthur.” She snorted delicately.

“Not an Arthurian fan?”

“Well, he belongs to the English, doesn’t he? Not the Cornish.”

“There’s a difference?”

That gaffe earned Beth a ten minute discourse on differentiating the present-day English and the Cornish—a Celtic race, and therefore superior. Sheila’s lecture fell apart in quiet laughter. “My, I guess I do get rather passionate about not being called English. We’re British, and visitors don’t know it matters.” Sheila dabbed her eyes with an airline napkin and gave Beth a helpless grin.

Then she said something Beth wondered about while watching the clouds part for her long-awaited first glimpse. “Passion isn’t always easy, though, is it? You’ll need all of yours, and more of strength, to finish your journey well.”

“Journey?”

Sheila waved her hand. “Never mind. My husband always jeers at my ‘seeings’, as he calls them. Just middle-aged rubbish.”

Seeings. Beth believed in facts, dates, translations, authorities, source documents. And her own intelligence. Not arcane glimpses into the future, or for that matter, into the past. So why, as the tidy rooftops of suburban London came into view, did Sheila’s statement ring in her mind like the tolling of Big Ben?

She put it down to excitement, nerves, and jet lag. Not that she felt tired. Quite the opposite. She had arranged to be met at the airport by a transportation service, so she’d see Oxford within a few hours. She would ignore fatigue if it hit later, for the April day was still fresh, and an entire “sceptre’d isle” awaited inspection.

Finally. This is England. I’d pinch myself, but I’m awake, and here at last.

At the Customs queue, they parted with a civilized handshake. Sheila pressed a business card into Bethany’s hand. “Do ring,” she said. “Whether you’re able to squeeze in a Cornish holiday or not. I’ll be that glad to hear how you’re doing.” Beth tucked Sheila’s card away in her blazer pocket and nudged her carryon an inch closer to clearing Customs.

An hour elapsed. Beth claimed her baggage, a single duffel. Her one good outfit sagged travel-wrinkled. She always traveled light, and for this trip Mom had helped her ruthlessly prune her packing. Beth disliked being overburdened. Her accommodations would be collegiate-small, and Spartan, like her tiny place in grad school at Midwestern. For a city-bred girl, she enjoyed a minimalist lifestyle, and she was more than ready to settle in. Now if only she could spot the driver from the transportation service. They said he’d be holding a placard bearing her name.

She wove in and out of bustling travelers until the offload from the 747 thinned out. No driver. Plenty of people holding signs searching for other arrivals, even entire tour groups. She hunted for a sign that read Bethany Lindstrom, Bethany, Ms. Lindstrom, even Beth. No sign. No driver.

The last uniformed chauffeur gathered his group around him like a hen with a brood of jet-lagged chicks. She dug the transportation firm’s business card out of her passport case and dialed. The cell phone seemed reluctant, but finally put the call through.

“That number,” intoned a British-accented voice, “is not in service.”

She figured she’d misdialed, so she tried again. Same result. Her heart sank, speeding up with a healthy additive of fear. How was she supposed to get to Oxford? Should she seek out an airline representative? Was there a booth for stressed-out, abandoned international travelers?

“My ivers! You’re still here?”

Beth whirled around to see Sheila Tyrrell bustling toward her, tugging a rolling suitcase and wearing a concerned expression. “Someone was supposed to come for me, but I think the plans got fouled up.”

Sheila clucked. “Do you have a phone number? I have my mobile.” She pulled the phone out of her jacket pocket.

Bethany’s heart warmed just to see someone slightly familiar. She’d been feeling six, not twenty-six, lost in a strange land with nobody to help—or care. “I tried to call. More than once. They’re not answering.” She gnawed on her lower lip, a habit Mom hated. “For that matter, why are you still here?”

“Graeme was to pick me up. He’s late, as always.” Sheila gave a shrug. “Sons don’t always listen carefully enough, do they?” Her expression lightened. “But I gave him a ring—he says the traffic on the M-4 is horribly snarled. I said, what do you expect, on a weekday noontime?” She chuckled, then raised her brows, apparently on a new thought. “Say—must you get to Oxford today, particularly?”

“Not today, but soon. I need to find another way to get there. My schedule’s open enough, but I only have three months and I don’t want to waste any of it.”

“If you’ve nothing pressing today, then, why not come to Cornwall? We’ve plenty of room, and we’ll get you to Oxford on the morning train from Truro.” She held up a hand. “Truly, Beth, this will be no inconvenience. Blame it on my foolish ‘seeings,’ and I never accost strangers. Bertie chides me for being impulsive, but I’ve never had an instinct go bad, and well he knows it. You mustn’t think me forward or brash—”

Touched, Beth chuckled. “Like Americans can sometimes be?”

Sheila smiled. “Do come to Mossock. Graeme won’t be much longer, and we can chat more on the way.”

“Mossock! You live at Mossock House? In Cornwall?”

“You’ve heard of it?”

“Of course.” Beth mulled her options for a quick moment. Her alternatives all looked bleak: Stay tonight at an airport hotel, wasting money she’d rather hoard for Oxford. Seek help from the airport staff, who might have the best intentions but couldn’t offer temptation to equal a medieval manor house. Brave the bus to central London and figure out which train might get her to Oxford, then from the train station to the college. Keep trying to get hold of the transportation company.

Or spend a wonderful day or two making notes and sketches in one of the older listed homes of England. No—Britain. She spent no more time deciding. “You’re very kind. And I’d love to see your house. Thanks—I think I will.”