The elderly lady who approached Jess’s table carried a cane and appeared frail, but her eyes were full of curious intelligence. Jess Whittlebury held back a smile, aware she’d been under observation from the moment she’d strolled the cobblestone street with its quaint bow-window shops and entered the Brass Kettle Tea Shop. She’d made a silent bet with herself as to how long it would take one of the elderly women to approach. Jess set her teacup down in the duck-egg-blue china saucer. She leaned back in her wooden chair and nodded at the woman across the vase of fresh flowers. “Yes, I’m Jess Whittlebury.” “I hear you’re turning the manor into a bed and breakfast,” the tiny gray-haired woman said. In her peripheral vision Jess noticed the other women craning their necks, ears practically flapping with eagerness to hear the conversation. “That’s right,” Jess said, and to appease their curiosity she added, “I fell in love with the manor when I drove up the winding road and glimpsed it amongst the oak trees.
