My original thought had been to drop in at the Red Lion for a light meal and a friendly chat with Vivien, but the sun was shining and the road was beckoning, and the more I walked, the more I felt like walking.

I passed by the Red Lion, and the offices of Ridley and Stewart, Estate Agents, and the huddled cluster of shops. A short distance farther on, a massive stone portal rose on my right, its iron gate flung invitingly wide. A narrow dirt path, tidily edged and shaded by a tightly woven canopy of closely planted trees, curved away into the cool shadows. This, I correctly assumed, must be the entrance to the famed manor house.

Resisting the temptation to trespass, I stuck to the cobbled walk of the High Street. Time enough to see the manor another day, I told myself. Besides, the man who owned the Hall was away, Vivien had said. In France. Better to wait until he returned, and have a proper inside tour. I walked on to the quaint wooden covered gate that I'd admired earlier and, pushing open the swinging half door, entered the silent churchyard.

There are few places in England so peaceful or oddly beautiful as a country churchyard, where the ivy grows thickly in the shadowy corners and trails across the weathered stones, their carved faces almost unreadable after countless years of exposure to the sun and rain. Many of the stones here were tilted at a precarious angle, leaning to one side like drunken sentries. Some of them had toppled from their post completely and had been propped with care against the outside wall of the church.

The church itself was small and plain, a squat building of sun-bleached stone topped by a square, crenellated tower. A faded, hand-lettered placard by the door proclaimed it to be the Church of St. John, with services on Sundays and Wednesday evenings. One push against the thick oak door and it swung obligingly inward on its heavy iron hinges, showing me an equally plain interior that nonetheless gave the impression of soaring space. The late-afternoon sunlight streamed in through narrow stained-glass windows and bathed the bare stone walls in a warm, glowing light.

My footsteps sounded uncommonly loud, a modern intrusion into this peaceful, holy place, as I walked slowly into the center of the church, reading the distinguished names on the square stone markers beneath my feet: Staynor, Alleyn, Hatch, de Mornay ...

A violent explosion of sound brought my head up and around with a start, my heart leaping wildly against my rib cage. It was only a pigeon, trapped for a moment behind the rood screen, thrashing out in panic before it could work its way clear and beat a hasty exit through the half-open door.

My heart slowly returned to normal, leaving me feeling slightly dizzy, with a dull ringing in my ears, as though I were about to faint. The sunlit interior of the little church felt suddenly as stale and airless as a tomb, and I stumbled back outside, gulping air in deep, unsteady breaths.

In my confusion, I turned my back to the High Street and found myself in a shaded dirt lane, flanked by large, overhanging beech trees that rustled gently in the shifting breeze. My face was damp with perspiration, and a steady pounding sound rose above the ringing in my ears as I paused to rest, supporting myself with an outstretched hand upon one gnarled tree trunk. The pounding gradually became louder, more rhythmic, until it was recognizable as the sound of a horse's hooves striking the tightly packed soil. Looking up, I saw a solitary horse and rider approaching. A gray horse, carrying a tall man in dark clothing.

I blinked, my vision blurring, and the horse changed color, no longer gray now but chestnut, with a darkly flowing mane and tail. The man astride the horse changed, too, subtly, like clay poured from one mold into another, his outline indistinct in the mottled shadows of the lane. They drew nearer still, and still I neither moved nor spoke, standing rooted to my spot and staring like the village idiot.

Closer and closer the specter came, until the horse was pulled to a halt in front of me. I looked up. The sun was positioned directly behind the rider. Filtering through the trees, it created a blinding halo around the man's dark head, and I sensed, rather than saw, his smile. 'Hello,' he said. 'You must be my new neighbor. I'm Geoffrey de Mornay.'

I momentarily forgot the rules of proper etiquette. I raised my hand, smiled up at him, and fainted dead away at his horse's feet.

Five

It was not, I decided, as I sat on Geoffrey de Mornay's chesterfield with my head between my knees, the most auspicious of meetings. Whatever impression I had hoped to make on my illustrious neighbor, this most certainly was not it.

'I've brought you some water,' he said, reentering the room. 'No, don't sit up just yet. How are you feeling?'

'Fine.' My voice, of necessity, was muffled.

He pressed the glass of water into my hand, and I lifted my head to take a sip, the action providing me with my first proper look at my host.

Even without—or perhaps in spite of—his cultured voice, well-cut clothes, and expensive surroundings, Geoffrey de Mornay would have been classified by my former colleague Bridget as 'prime.' Bridget would have noticed his tall, athletic frame and the brilliant flash of his smile. I noticed the classic lines of his bone structure and the quiet depth of his hazel eyes, set beneath level dark brows that matched exactly the seal-brown shade of his hair.

'Thank you,' I said, giving him the brightest smile I could muster. I wasn't sure how long I had been out, but it must have been only a matter of minutes, as the sun was still pouring in through the large bay window opposite me. [ had a dim recollection of being lifted and carried a short distance, and then nothing more until a few moments ago, when I had opened my eyes, cried to stand, and been unceremoniously pushed back down into my current undignified position.