'Julia Beckett.' I must have altered my expression at the sight of his hand, because he smiled again, looking down at the tiny lacerations marring his skin.

'Brambles,' he explained. 'They'd choke out my garden if I didn't thin them back. It's not painful,' he assured me, pulling the glove back on. 'I'd best be getting back to my work. Good luck with the house.'

'Thank you,' I said, but he was already out of earshot.

Five minutes later I was sitting in the offices of Ridley and Stewart, Estate Agents. I confess I don't remember much about that afternoon. I do recall a confusing blur of conversation, with Mr. Ridley rambling on about legal matters, conveyances and searches and the like, but I wasn't really listening.

'You're quite certain,' Mr. Ridley had asked me, 'that you don't want to view the property first?'

'I've seen it,' I'd assured him. To be honest, there seemed no need for such formalities. It was, after all, my house. My house. I was still hugging the knowledge tightly, as a child hugs a present, when I knocked on the door of the rectory of St. Stephen's, Elderwel, Hampshire, that evening.

'Congratulate me, Vicar.' I beamed up at my brother's startled face. 'We're practically neighbors. I just bought a house in Wiltshire.'

Two

Where does this one go, miss?'

The fair young mover's assistant hoisted an upholstered chair as easily as if it were a child's toy, and paused in the hallway for directions.

I was busy rummaging in one of the tidily packed boxes, trying to locate my faithful old teapot before the kettle I'd put on the kitchen stove came to a boil. I glanced over my shoulder, distracted.

'In my bedroom,' I told him. 'First room on your right at the top of the stairs. Aha!'

My hand closed over the familiar contour of the teapot's handle at the same instant that the kettle burst into full boil with a piercing whistle. Switching off the gas ring, I spooned some loose tea into the pot, filled it with water, and set it on the back of the stove to brew.

'Miss Beckett?' That was Mr. Owen, the head mover, with another assistant in tow at the back door. His cheerful round face was pink with exertion. 'We've got your kitchen table here. Thought it might be best to bring it through the back—I'd hate to make a mark on that paneling in the front hall.'

I moved obligingly out of their way, pulling a box or two along with me.

'I've just put some tea on,' I said, 'if you and your men would like a cup. Oh.' I looked around, suddenly remembering. 'I haven't got any cups unpacked yet.'

'Never you mind, miss.' Mr. Owen winked good-naturedly. 'I've got a box of disposable ones in the truck. Always come prepared, I do.'

The fair-haired young assistant was back again, looking perplexed. 'Are you sure you mean the first door on the right, miss? It doesn't look like a bedroom to me—it's awfully small and has an easel or something in it.'

I clapped a hand to my forehead and smiled in apology.

'Sorry, I meant the third door on the right. The big bedroom on the north side of the house.'

'Right, miss.' His face cleared, and he was off again.

'Always a bit of a panic, isn't it?' Mr. Owen slid my table into position against the pantry wall. 'You'll get it sorted out soon enough. Right, I think that's all the furniture. Just the boxes left. I'll nip out and get those cups for our tea, then, shall I?'

He was a bit of a marvel, certainly the most organized man I'd ever met, and well worth the extra money I was paying for his services. When I'd bought the house three weeks ago, I hadn't given much thought to the matter of moving my belongings from London to Exbury. But when I returned to my flat in Bloomsbury and started packing op, I soon realized that professional assistance was called for. Apart from my prized Victorian bedroom suite— another inheritance from Aunt Helen—there was my lounge and kitchen furniture, all my studio supplies, my drawing board, and the few hundred books I'd picked up at sales and secondhand stores during my years in London. On the recommendation of a close friend, I had called Mr. Owen, and he had come charging like a modern knight to my rescue.

In my flat, the neatly taped and labeled packing boxes had looked huge and overpowering. Here in the house they were barely noticeable, dwarfed by the sheer proportion of the architecture and the spacious, sunlit rooms. I had been pleased to find the interior of the old house every bit as appealing as the exterior, and well suited to my traditional tastes.

One entered through the front door into a large front hall, paneled in richly burnished oak. 'Seventeenth century,' Mr. Owen had pronounced at a glance 'and very good quality." Directly ahead, a heavy oak staircase set in the center of the hall ascended several steps, paused for breath at a square landing, then executed a sharp ninety-degree turn to the left and continued its climb to the first floor. Doors to the sitting room and the study opened off the hall to the left and right, respectively, while to the right of the staircase a narrow passage led through to the kitchen. Dining room, kitchen, and old-fashioned pantry occupied the back half of the ground floor, their large, bright windows looking out over the rolling green plain with its fresh sprinkling of early spring wildflowers.

There were four bedrooms upstairs. The large one, running the full length of the north side of the house above study and pantry, had been the obvious choice for my own use. It even had its own working fireplace, along with a sizable cupboard nestled in the space under the attic stairs. I had selected the small back bedroom for my studio, and was content to leave the two front rooms unfurnished for the time being, to serve as storage areas until I was completely settled. Between my studio and my bedroom, opening onto the wide landing, was a full bath—quite a luxury to find in an older home.