neat black purse she’d tucked under
her arm and produced a business card. “While I was at home, I ran up a few of these
on my computer. If anyone wants to know where we work, we pull one out and say—”
“
Country House Monthly
,” I broke in, reading aloud the words printed in bold type on the fake business card.
“We work for
Country House Monthly
magazine? Never heard of it.”
“That’s because I made it up,” she said. “I settled on
Country House Monthly
because it’s generic enough to be believable. It sounds like all of those slick,
dull magazines designed to make the landed gentry feel good about themselves.”
“But you put your real name and address on the card,” I said in dismay. “Is that wise?”
“I may be a fraud,” said Bree, “but I’m an honest fraud.” She swept her share of journalist
essentials into the black purse and snapped it shut. “Who knows? I may write an article
based on our experiences and submit it to a real magazine one day. For now, though,
let’s use the cards only if we have to.”
“Agreed.” I heard the thunder of little feet on the stairs, stuffed the rest of the
journalist essentials into my pockets, and pointed imperiously toward the pot of porridge
bubbling on the stove. “You’re in charge of breakfast, ace reporter. I have to smarten
myself up.”
• • •
Before we left the cottage, Bree refined her disguise by donning a crisply tailored
black trench coat. I followed her example and slipped into my old beige trench coat,
wishing I had a fedora to complete the look. Instead, I pulled on a rather fetching
brown velvet beret I’d picked up for a song at a church jumble sale. Though the sun
smiled down on us as we herded the boys into the Rover, it wasn’t quite warm enough
yet to go outside bareheaded.
“Why are you dressed as spies?” Will asked as he climbed into the backseat.
“Because it’s fun,” said Bree, which was a much better answer than any I had in mind.
“Can we play spies after school?” Rob asked.
“Absolutely,” said Bree. “I’ll show you how to write in invisible ink.”
“Cool,”
the boys chorused.
It took us twenty minutes to drive to Morningside School and another forty to drive
from there to Hayewood House. Thanks to Bree’s route map and her peerless navigational
skills, we didn’t take a single wrong turn, despite the fact that we were traveling
in unfamiliar territory.
Hayewood House sat at the end of a long, graveled drive lined with cypress trees that
effectively blocked our view of the grounds. The house was nearly twice as big as
my father-in-law’s Georgian residence, but it was built in the same style and of the
same material—a golden-hued limestone commonly found in our part of the Cotswolds.
The gardens flanking the house looked as soggy and unkempt as gardens usually do in
February, but the building itself appeared to be in excellent repair. The tall windows
sparkled in the morning sun and there wasn’t a chipped balustrade or a cracked roof
tile in sight.
I parked the Rover at the bottom of a short flight of steps that led to the front
door, clambered out of the driver’s seat, and took a deep breath of fresh country
air.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” I said, surveying the house with an approving eye.
“Nothing but the best for our Mrs. Pickering,” Bree said, mimicking Mrs. MacTavish’s
Scottish brogue. “It makes a nice change from Addington Terrace. I’d give Hayewood
two
e
’s in the middle, for being extra, extra posh.”
“So would I,” I said. “Ready?”
“For anything,” she replied with the brashness of youth. “Let’s go!”
As we climbed the stairs, I prepared an introductory speech that would, I hoped, gain
us access to Hayewood House, but I needn’t have bothered. Our shoes had barely skimmed
the top step when a woman flung open the front door and stood beaming at us as if
we
her arm and produced a business card. “While I was at home, I ran up a few of these
on my computer. If anyone wants to know where we work, we pull one out and say—”
“
Country House Monthly
,” I broke in, reading aloud the words printed in bold type on the fake business card.
“We work for
Country House Monthly
magazine? Never heard of it.”
“That’s because I made it up,” she said. “I settled on
Country House Monthly
because it’s generic enough to be believable. It sounds like all of those slick,
dull magazines designed to make the landed gentry feel good about themselves.”
“But you put your real name and address on the card,” I said in dismay. “Is that wise?”
“I may be a fraud,” said Bree, “but I’m an honest fraud.” She swept her share of journalist
essentials into the black purse and snapped it shut. “Who knows? I may write an article
based on our experiences and submit it to a real magazine one day. For now, though,
let’s use the cards only if we have to.”
“Agreed.” I heard the thunder of little feet on the stairs, stuffed the rest of the
journalist essentials into my pockets, and pointed imperiously toward the pot of porridge
bubbling on the stove. “You’re in charge of breakfast, ace reporter. I have to smarten
myself up.”
• • •
Before we left the cottage, Bree refined her disguise by donning a crisply tailored
black trench coat. I followed her example and slipped into my old beige trench coat,
wishing I had a fedora to complete the look. Instead, I pulled on a rather fetching
brown velvet beret I’d picked up for a song at a church jumble sale. Though the sun
smiled down on us as we herded the boys into the Rover, it wasn’t quite warm enough
yet to go outside bareheaded.
“Why are you dressed as spies?” Will asked as he climbed into the backseat.
“Because it’s fun,” said Bree, which was a much better answer than any I had in mind.
“Can we play spies after school?” Rob asked.
“Absolutely,” said Bree. “I’ll show you how to write in invisible ink.”
“Cool,”
the boys chorused.
It took us twenty minutes to drive to Morningside School and another forty to drive
from there to Hayewood House. Thanks to Bree’s route map and her peerless navigational
skills, we didn’t take a single wrong turn, despite the fact that we were traveling
in unfamiliar territory.
Hayewood House sat at the end of a long, graveled drive lined with cypress trees that
effectively blocked our view of the grounds. The house was nearly twice as big as
my father-in-law’s Georgian residence, but it was built in the same style and of the
same material—a golden-hued limestone commonly found in our part of the Cotswolds.
The gardens flanking the house looked as soggy and unkempt as gardens usually do in
February, but the building itself appeared to be in excellent repair. The tall windows
sparkled in the morning sun and there wasn’t a chipped balustrade or a cracked roof
tile in sight.
I parked the Rover at the bottom of a short flight of steps that led to the front
door, clambered out of the driver’s seat, and took a deep breath of fresh country
air.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” I said, surveying the house with an approving eye.
“Nothing but the best for our Mrs. Pickering,” Bree said, mimicking Mrs. MacTavish’s
Scottish brogue. “It makes a nice change from Addington Terrace. I’d give Hayewood
two
e
’s in the middle, for being extra, extra posh.”
“So would I,” I said. “Ready?”
“For anything,” she replied with the brashness of youth. “Let’s go!”
As we climbed the stairs, I prepared an introductory speech that would, I hoped, gain
us access to Hayewood House, but I needn’t have bothered. Our shoes had barely skimmed
the top step when a woman flung open the front door and stood beaming at us as if
we
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