An Abundant Woman Read online

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  Belgrave House

  www.belgravehouse.com

  Copyright ©1998 by Elizabeth Neff Walker

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  Prologue

  Nigel drove me to Heathrow in his Rover because the amount of luggage I was taking wouldn't easily fit in my MG. But he was late picking me up, which added to my already overburdened nerves.

  Leaving for six months, with only a week's notice, seemed to me a tricky sort of thing to do to one's husband. But Nigel had waved aside my concerns, saying, “I know this is something you'd give your eye teeth for, Mandy. You should thank your lucky stars Doug Lattimore had a heart attack. I'll be perfectly fine on my own."

  Maybe that was what worried me most. He would be all right on his own. In fact, I often thought he preferred being alone, and my going away for six months might just decide him to live without me permanently. I didn't dare voice that concern, because he would have dismissed it as he dismissed all attempts at a serious discussion of our marriage. “We've managed just fine for twenty-two years,” he was given to saying. “Why rock the boat now?"

  If Nigel didn't consider my going to America for a six month exchange “rocking the boat,” it seemed to me a breathtaking example of at least swaying the canoe.

  “Have your tickets?” Nigel asked as he pulled onto the M4.

  I patted my purse. “Yes, and American currency for when I get there."

  “Did Doug give you last minute instructions?"

  “Naturally.” My boss, Doug Lattimore, had insisted that I come by the hospital, where he was still recuperating, for his words of wisdom on how to behave in Wisconsin. He was not at all happy to see me take his place on the exchange.

  Nigel grimaced. “He's an idiot."

  That wasn't precisely true. Doug was actually the head of OB/GYN at our hospital and intelligent enough. The problem was that the American exchange ostensibly hinged on a set of pregnancy and childbirth studies with which I was far more knowledgeable than he. This because I'd had to do his contribution to the research for him several years previously. Unfortunately, we held opposite views on the usefulness and implementation of the ultimate findings.

  “He said he'd faxed Dr. Hager in Madison with all the necessary information about me,” I said. “That's exactly how he put it—necessary. He didn't mention giving her a glowing account of my abilities."

  “He wouldn't.”

  “Perhaps not.” Doug doesn't acknowledge my abilities, though he depends on them.” There was just the hint of a threat that I'd better see things his way in America. He told me he didn't want me harassing Dr. Hager about ECPC data."

  Nigel glanced over at me. “That's what the exchange is about, isn't it?"

  “It's supposed to be.” I sighed heavily. “For the next six months I just know he'll be trying to undermine my reputation at the hospital.” When I was there, I had no difficulty standing up for myself. In fact, if anything, I was too blunt and straightforward in my approach to people and problems. More than once my tongue had gotten me in trouble.

  “No one is going to listen to his grumbling,” Nigel said absently.

  That wasn't quite the point, but I let it go. After all, I'd recognized the possibility of Doug's treachery when I pressured him into letting me take his place. The whole American project had from its inception seemed more appropriate for me than for him. Not only the subject matter, but I liked Americans, felt a kinship with them, which Doug certainly didn't seem to. Doug had been prepared to abandon the exchange altogether after his heart attack. Fortunately, the American OB/GYN coming to England on the exchange hadn't been so sanguine about canceling his own plans.

  Nigel frowned at the heavy traffic ahead. “We're running a little close, I'm afraid."

  “Yes, I know. Just drop me off with my luggage. You don't have to come in."

  “That might be best,” Nigel agreed.

  Disappointed, but resigned, I changed the subject. “Cass didn't think she'd be able to visit me in Wisconsin. She has definite plans for her holidays."

  Our daughter, Cass, was away at university, studying physics. I think Nigel had wanted her to become a biochemist like him, and I know I'd wanted her to become a medical doctor. Cass had a mind of her own, however, and insisted that she knew precisely what she was doing. Probably she did, but she was ignoring an artistic streak a mile wide to pursue a scientific career.

  Nigel grimaced. “The holiday camp. I really can't picture Cass catering to a bunch of tourists for the entire summer. She'd have done something different if the trip to Italy was still on."

  We'd had a summer holiday planned—two weeks in the Florence area—for the three of us. It was impossible to tell if its cancellation was an irritant to Nigel. Cass had merely shrugged it off. “It would have interrupted the summer, anyhow,” she'd said, indifferent. The chances of our vacationing together as a family seemed to have dwindled dramatically the older she became.

  “I really regret having to call off the trip,” I said. “But I thought Cass might grab the opportunity for a trip to the States."

  Nigel gave a snort of disbelief. “To visit her mother? I think not. Now if she were offered a chance to tour around the U.S. on her own..."

  He was right, of course. Cass preferred to associate with people her own age, both men and women. She preferred to study. She preferred to travel. She preferred to hike and ski and do yoga. Her parents made a rather weak showing in any competition for her attention.

  Traffic remained heavy the entire trip to Heathrow, and I watched the minutes tick away on my watch with increasing alarm. Nigel, as always, remained calm. On either side of the highway the May morning sparkled with the newness of spring. Inside the car my tension mounted, but I held my tongue. There was absolutely no sense in blaming Nigel for getting us off to a late start. Better to part from him with a smile and what appeared to be a light heart.

  As he negotiated the turnoff to the airport, he said casually, “Cass seems to think this is a separation of sorts for you and me."

  Immediately alert, I could feel my pulse speed up. “What do you mean? She knows I'm simply taking Doug's place."

  “She doesn't think you'd go away for six months unless you were considering leaving permanently.” His eyes remained locked on the traffic.

  “That's ridiculous,” I said. Snapped, probably. “This is a career opportunity. When did she say that to you?"

  “When she called last night before you got home."

  “Well, it's nothing of the sort,” I insisted.

  Nigel glanced briefly across at me and returned his attention to the demanding pile of cars all attempting to be at the same place at the same time. “I suppose it is a kind of separation, Mandy. You may not say so, but it's something you've thought about, I know."

  My scalp prickled. My stomach sank. My palms grew suddenly moist. Why was he bringing this up now when there were about two minutes before we pulled up to the British Air doors? What did it mean? “I'm just taking advantage of a serendipitous opportunity, Nigel,” I protested.

  As if he hadn't heard me, he said, “Consider it a separation, Mandy. Do what you have to. I'll understand."

  What the hell was he talking about?

  The Rover stopped with a jerk and Nigel hopped out of the car. Waving a porter over, he pulled the three large suitcases from th
e boot and set them on the curb. I watched numbly as the porter loaded them on his dolly.

  Nigel moved to stand beside me. He was tall and thin; I was short and round. Dressed for work in a dark conservative suit, he nonetheless remained conspicuous amongst the hurrying business travelers around us. He was not someone who had mingled all his life with indistinguishable, bland, public-school types.

  Nigel's features betrayed his origins. Despite his academic brilliance, he could trace his family through generations of seafaring men who had lived near the London docks. Nigel's face was imprinted with the rugged handsomeness of a nineteenth century sea captain.

  Compared with his restrained presentation, my own clothing showed a taste for flamboyance. To travel I had chosen to grace my zaftig figure with a purple suit and fuchsia blouse, complemented by a vivid and flowing silk scarf. Nigel tucked the scarf under my suit jacket collar, saying, “We're late, Mandy. You must be a nervous wreck. You'd better run."

  “But, Nigel..."

  “Have a good trip, and enjoy your time in America."

  Frustrated, alarmed, I couldn't find a thing to say except, “All right, Nigel. I'll miss you."

  He nodded and gave me a little push in the direction of the waiting porter. I wasn't going to let him off that easily. I stood on tiptoe to kiss him, a hearty, enthusiastic kiss which he returned with a familiar peck. But there was no time to continue our discussion, to sort things out. My plane would take off without me.

  As I tucked my purse in tight to my body and started to trot off, Nigel smiled and waved. Before turning a corner to the check-in counter, I looked back. But Nigel was already gone.

  Chapter One

  When the cab dropped me off at Mayfield House, I have to admit that I was pleasantly surprised. In the last of the May evening light the red shingled building looked almost enchanted, with the sun gleaming off the west windows and new foliage bursting on a phalanx of bushes. There were charming gables and odd turrets, giving the place an almost humorous appeal. From the driveway I could just see spring flowers blooming wildly in the untamed garden, where gravel paths wound past leafy shrubs and trees. With luck, I thought, my room would overlook the elms and irises, reminding me of my childhood home.

  The door of the house opened before the cab driver had finished unloading my suitcases. A young woman with lovely auburn hair stepped hurriedly down from the stoop and hastened toward me. An enormous man with unruly hair and bristling eyebrows followed at a much more leisurely pace. From my insignificant height he looked at least seven feet tall, but I realized later that was merely the impression he gave, and liked to give, I think.

  “Dr. Potter?” the young woman asked, holding out her hand. “I'm Angel Crawford. This is my husband, Cliff Lenzini. I'm so sorry we didn't know in time that you'd be arriving tonight. Dr. Lattimore had arranged to be in tomorrow."

  “Not to worry,” I assured her as I shook hands with each of them. “I only called from Chicago so you'd know I was coming on through. Doug had planned to visit a friend there, but I wanted to get in and get settled."

  “Of course.” She picked up one of the suitcases and waited while her husband gathered the other two. “It must be incredibly late London-time. We'll show you to your room."

  I would never myself have chosen a rooming house for my lodging. Give me a kitchen to cook in and the privacy of my own place any day. But Doug had entirely different needs than I did, and for the time being I was willing to accept the prearranged situation. Later I could find an excuse to move to a small apartment of my own.

  The front door swung into a spacious hallway with polished hardwood floors and gleaming white surfaces. Oak tables scattered against the walls held vases filled with a variety of spring flowers. A delicate scent wafted across to us and Angel smiled. “Sherri loves freesias,” she said, setting down my suitcase. “She manages the place and cooks the meals here."

  “Welcome to Mayfield House,” Dr. Lenzini said, waving a hand at the spacious hallway. A meaningful glance from his wife inspired him to continue. “Angel wanted me to assure you we don't expect you to stay here unless it suits your needs."

  There, his look seemed to say to his wife, I did it, like I promised. But he turned back to me and added, “I think you'll like it. We're a mixed batch. The two students from Australia who share the top floor don't always get on very well, but I'm sure they won't bother you. On your floor there's a pediatric neurosurgeon going through a divorce, a retired education expert who taught in a one-room country school, and a sculptor my sister discovered."

  “Let's show Dr. Potter her room, Cliff. She's probably exhausted."

  “Please,” I said, “call me Amanda.” Just before falling asleep the previous night, I had decided that Mandy would sound entirely too casual to Americans. They love the formality of the British accent, and they expect a degree of reserve from us which seemed to make Amanda more appropriate.

  “And I'm Angel,” my hostess said. As she climbed the stairs she explained that her husband had the suite on the east side of the house. “I don't actually live here,” she explained, “but Cliff is here fairly often."

  Hmmm, I thought. What's that all about? I'm nothing if not curious. My daughter sometimes refers to this as being nosy.

  “And Sherri, the woman I mentioned, has a set of rooms at the back,” Angel added.

  Her husband, easily hauling the two large suitcases up the broad staircase, said, “The living room, dining room and TV room are for everyone, and the kitchen, too, when Sherri isn't fixing meals. There's a booklet in your room that explains our routines."

  Gratefully I followed the two of them up the stairs while Cliff pointed out features I might not have noticed—like the wall sconces and the intricate turning of the handrail. Americans tend to forget in the face of Old World visitors that our stately homes often date from a period before America was discovered, but I find their enthusiasm charming. That probably sounds patronizing, and I don't mean it that way. We British are entirely too diffident, acting as though we regarded the whole of our lengthy history with a most unbecoming ennui.

  Angel was the one who pushed open the door off the upstairs hall and I was instantly struck by the feel of walking into a leafy arcade. The trees outside seemed to frame the window both close at hand and far into the garden. The room's furnishings were simple, good-quality pieces of rugged craftsmanship, not the elegant antiques and frou-frou fabrics I'd found in restored Victorians on other trips to the States.

  This first room was a sitting room, with a windowseat facing the garden, a comfortable-looking sofa in a boldly striped material, and numerous bookshelves with a few paperbacks scattered on them. There were two chairs, one a rocker, and a low table, what the Americans call a coffee table. There was a colorful rug (from one of the Native American tribes indigenous to Wisconsin, I later discovered) on the dark hardwood floor. A small television sat on the table opposite the sofa.

  “We get cable downstairs,” Cliff explained. “The ones in the rooms only get local stations. And there's a radio in the bedroom because people from abroad don't bring that kind of thing."

  The bedroom was smaller but just as tasteful. The bed was a good size, larger than the cramped double bed Nigel and I shared in London. He would have appreciated the spaciousness and the down comforter that Cliff pointed out. Though Nigel had urged me to buy a queen-size bed, I'd never gotten around to doing it.

  “The bathrooms have all been remodeled,” Angel said, leading me through a door off the room. “But yours is especially small because it was a closet. I hope you won't mind."

  Actually, it was dismayingly small for a woman of my generous proportions, but so was my MG, I reminded myself. So I smiled graciously and merely said, “Not to worry.” I am nothing if not polite.

  Cliff did look concerned, however. With a glance at Angel and a tsk of annoyance he said, “I hadn't thought of that. It wouldn't be big enough for me, either."

  The moment's awkwardness was broken
by a voice calling from the hallway. “There's Sherri,” Cliff said with relief, moving back into the sitting room. “She's the one who handles all the problems around here."

  A very young woman with a mop of brown curls bounced into the sitting room at Cliff's summons. You could tell before she said a word that she was one of those people with energy to spare. On the tray she carried was a small basket, covered with a napkin, from which fragrant steam rose, and a pot of tea with tiny pewter containers of milk and sugar. “It's probably a strange hour for tea, but I thought it would make you feel at home,” she said, placing the tray on the nearest table and extending her hand. “I'm Sherri Hartman."

  “Amanda Potter,” I said, caught up in her enthusiasm. One could accomplish a great deal in life if she had that kind of unremitting vigor. I'd always had my share, but then I came from a family of manic-depressives. They call it bipolar disorder now, but manic-depressive is so much more descriptive. “How thoughtful of you. I shall enjoy it immensely.”

  Before I could say more than a quick good-night, they had all decamped and left me alone to my tea. I kicked off my shoes, removed my silk scarf and purple suit jacket, and sank into the enveloping sofa. As the sounds outside my door dwindled, I poured a mug of tea (Americans believe the bigger the cup, the more satisfying the beverage) and smiled at its being one of my favorites, Earl Grey. In the basket were two enormous blueberry muffins and a curl of butter.

  Right off I knew Sherri and I were going to get along well. Here was a woman who'd provided delicious sustenance without having the first clue of my roly-poly figure. Nor had she shown the slightest sign of dismay when she did observe it. Not that Angel or Cliff had, except for Cliff's concern with the size of the bathroom. But Sherri would be providing meals, and I had a hearty appetite, for food as well as for life. I ate every bite before stripping off my remaining clothes and heading for the closet-sized bathroom.

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  Birds were already singing outside my window by five in the morning. I'd been awake since four, just lying there drinking in the fact that I really had arrived in Madison, when barely over a week ago I'd planned to spend the entire summer in London, with the exception of the brief holiday to Florence with Nigel and Cass.