Page 8 of Not Exactly Mr. Darcy
“They will be tomorrow. Every second Saturday, from ten until three,” she said, as if reciting from a brochure. “Fine weather only.”
“So not very often, then,” Liv tried to joke.
Judging from the lines still creasing Marge’s brow, they didn’t seem to share the same sense of humour.
Okay. “Anyway, I got yelled at by this gardener-looking man whose dog just about tried to eat me, so now I’m here.” She shivered again. “I just needed to be somewhere warm. The Hall is beautiful, but eerie too.”
Marge’s dark eyes rounded to dinner plates. “You went inside?”
“No! No, I just mean from what I saw outside.” Come on, what did everyone take her for? “I didn’t know the gardens were closed—the sign had fallen down—but there’s absolutely no way I’d ever go snooping through someone’s house like that. Although I’dloveto see inside again.” She offered a tentative smile. “I used to volunteer at a historic home back in Australia, and I found it fascinating. I’m a history teacher”—saying it aloud gave hope it might one day still prove true—“and I’ve always loved old houses. And their gardens. And I remember that Hartbury Hall used to be open to the public, as I visited it as a kid. It’s such a shame it isn’t open anymore.”
Marge stared at her hard, before offering a curt “It is.”
“Anyway, I thought I’d come here and see if your promise of food was still available. I think I missed lunch.” As if in agreement, her stomach gave a savage growl.
Tension eased as Marge chuckled, gesturing her inside. “If you’re feeling cold, you might want a table indoors. I’ll be inside in a moment, as soon as I finish clearing these things.”
“Thanks.” She moved to enter, then hesitated. There was no way Marge could handle all those plates in one go, especially after Liv had monopolized Marge’s attention for so long. So, she did what she would at home—sans apron—and moved around the tables stacking glasses in one arm, fending off curious glances and comments—and a middle-aged wannabe butt-slapper—with jokes practiced over many years. Mum might love her Austen, but the former professor in Women’s Studies had made sure her daughters all knew self-defence, both via verbal and physical sparring. Mr. Butt-Slapper wouldn’t try that again anytime soon.
“Liv, you don’t need to do that,” Marge hissed.
She shrugged. “I know.” She followed Marge inside and deposited the glasses and plates on the server counter, obeying Marge’s pointed finger to the restrooms to wash her hands, then found a seat at a table near a window, close to the smoke-stained fireplace decorated with a vase of dried hydrangeas.
Her heart eased as she sank into the ambience. The long wooden bar held a collection of taps and tall stools that said this place was popular. Heavy dark beams across the white ceiling were anchored by a huge central piece of ancient gnarled wood that looked straight from The Prancing Pony. The whitewashed stone walls held a collection of soot-covered pictures of snooty-looking gentlemen in Regency hunting dress. Through a multipaned window, she could see most of the other patrons were outside, enjoying the mild weather. But she was glad to be inside, in this haven of security, and get the chance to finally breathe.
“You want to put me out of a job?” Marge’s smile belied her words.
“Not at all,” Liv assured her. “I’m afraid I’ve been trained too well to ignore the plight of a fellow hospitality worker.”
“I thought you said you were a teacher.”
“Well, yes.”Please, Lord, let that be true still.“But my parents have run a café for years, ever since my dad retired from the police force. My sisters and I have helped out since we were small.”
“That’s right.” Marge nodded. “I remember Veronica saying something about that. A Teapot or something.”
“The Silver Teapot. Named after a teapot that used to be Gran’s, but she gave it to Mum when she moved overseas. The Silver Teapot Café is something of an institution in our town. My sisters and I are all experts in making afternoon teas now.”
Marge cut her another assessing look.
“What?”
Marge shook her head. “What’ll it be? The specials are on the board there.”
Liv twisted to look, then decided on the fish and chips, and Marge took her drink order then trundled away. Liv pulled out her phone, sent a message to the family group chat, and then updated her socials with some sneaky pics of the pub. Probably best she didn’t post anything about her unfortunate visit to Hartbury Hall.
Her lemonade was served, followed soon after by a plate of battered fish and chips, with a generous serve of garden salad on the side. “There you go, love.”
“This looks great.” Her stomach emitted another growl.
Marge chuckled. “Tuck in, then.”
She savoured the crunch and tang of food that Dad had never been overly fond of, always insisting that he didn’t trust fish in inland towns away from the ocean, saying, “It’ll be frozen for sure.” EJ had always pointed out that a restaurant in a seaside town wasn’t a guarantee that fish would be fresh, but Dad was never persuaded. Everyone had their prejudices, even with things like fish and chips. Anyway, Liv didn’t care. Especially when she was this hungry.
Her phone’s ding of replies—oops, she’d forgotten time zone differences meant her family were all asleep, or at leasthadbeen—saw her wince as she gulped her drink.
Marge drew near. “Everything okay?”
“It’s delicious. Just what I needed.” She held up the empty glass. “Especially the sugar hit after the shock of before.”
