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Once, in a little village forgotten by time, there lived two feuding families: the Toussaints and the de Colvilles. Other families inhabited Briecourt in Northern France, but their tranquil lives escape memory.
As with most enduring feuds, no one knows exactly why it began. Some say it was over une aventure—an in indiscreet love between one man and a woman not his wife. Others insist money was the cause—a squabble between the miller and the baker over the price of flour. Still others recall it beginning with a simple difference of opinion on the faults and merits of Napoleon between two old men sharing a cup of chocolat…
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Washington, D.C.: February 28, 1917
With the telephone ringing amid the machine-gun staccato of a dozen typewriters, Liesel Bonner didn't hear her name. But when she saw the frown creasing Mr. Hodges's brow as he headed her way, she knew he must have called her more than once. Beyond him, Henry Miller, the senior clerk of the large law office, sent Liesel an anxious glance from behind round spectacles resting on his nose.
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Raindrops spattered the windshield of my car, leaving see-through polka dots. Then they came down harder, each thwack pummeling any remnant of symmetrical design. Instinctively I reached for the wiper. But my hand stopped midway, almost as if it knew before my brain told me movement would be the wrong thing to do. A parked car, across from a schoolyard, with someone inside . . . lurking . . .
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The dull hum of the garage door sounded. Luke was home. Talie looked up from the books and papers spread across her kitchen table. She might have been tempted to stay up all night reading, but not now. Welcoming her husband home was the only thing she liked about his occasional business trips.
As the door from the garage opened, Talie stood to greet her husband. “Welcome home!”
He moved to put his briefcase in its usual spot, but finding the table covered with the memorabilia Talie had been studying, he settled it on a nearby chair. |
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Hollinworth Hall, Northamptonshire, England
Rebecca Seabrooke didn’t have to open the letter in her palm to know its contents: the annual employment offer from England’s National Trust. More money than she would ever see at the private historical home at which she now worked. More prestige. Perhaps even a choice of locations, since so many of the country’s national home treasures were owned by the Trust.
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