'Thanks, I'd appreciate that. How much do I owe you for the drinks?'

'Not a farthing.' She waved my money aside with a shake of her honey-blond head. 'They're on the house. My way of saying welcome to Exbury, if you like.'

'But surely ... I mean, it's very nice of you, but ..." I glanced toward the end of the bar, where Ned was still slumped over his paper, and Vivien followed my gaze with understanding.

'Oh, Ned's not the kind to tell tales to the boss,' she assured me. 'Even if he were, he wouldn't gain much by it, since I happen to be the boss.'

I stammered a quick apology and flushed a brilliant crimson. Vivien graciously ignored my embarrassment.

'Is your telephone connected yet? Good. What's the number?'

I told her, and she copied it down. 'Right,' she said. 'I'll give you a ring if I find out anything of interest. Here.' She passed me a box of matches. 'My number's on the back, if you need anything. Or you can just drop by, any time you get bored with unpacking. I always have time for a chat in the afternoon.' She looked me straight in the eye and smiled her quick, frank smile.

'I'm glad you've come to live here,' she said simply.

I smiled back, feeling strangely warm inside.

'So am I,' I told her.

*-*-*-*

I was still smiling as I walked home, enjoying the fresh, vibrant feel of the late-April breezes and the wonderful silence of the untraveled road. My house stood waiting to welcome me home, looking already a little less neglected to my biased eyes.

'Hullo, Greywethers,' I greeted it, as I came up the drive. At least I had learned the proper name for my house. And that I had a ghost. What had the men at the Red Lion called her? The Green Lady. Somewhere in the garden.

The question was, I asked myself, just where had the garden been? There certainly wasn't any trace of one now, at least not at the front of the house. Curious, I walked round to the backyard and had a look.

Not the dovecote, I decided. That garden was new. By the kitchen, perhaps, alongside the drive? The ground there certainly looked more level, but ...

No. Not there. I turned my attention to the other side of the yard. There, I thought with certainty. One could even see the faint rises in the ground where the flower beds had been built up by loving hands. I crossed the yard and stood on the spot in triumph.

The sun had sunk lower in the sky, and the breeze that skimmed over me was decidedly chill. Hunching farther into my sweater, I hugged myself for warmth, turning to face the distant line of trees.

The man on the gray horse was there, under the sheltering oak, watching me.

I raised my chin defiantly, and could have sworn that he smiled, although he was too far away for me to see his features clearly, let alone judge his expression. After a long moment, he wheeled his horse around and headed back in the direction of Crofton.

The Green Lady forgotten, I went inside the house, taking particular care to bolt the door behind me.Hall, his dark outline swallowed by the shadows of the ancient trees.

And there certainly had been guests. The first arrivals, at nine o'clock, had been Mr. Ridley, the house agent, and his wife, who were evidently early risers as they brought with them a plate of homemade Bath buns, still warm from the oven. Close on their heels had come Jerry Walsh and his amiable wife, Eva, with two jars of Eva's black-currant jelly; then Arthur and Marie Walsh bearing a plate of chocolate biscuits. Several others came and departed in a kind of blur, including a soft-voiced, elderly lady named Mrs. Hutherson, who brought me two dozen buttery fruit scones and her best wishes. Everyone was very nice, very friendly, and very well informed.

'Children's books, isn't it, my dear?’ Mrs. Hutherson had asked in her gentle voice. 'How clever of you.' Her blue eyes struck a familiar chord in my memory, but she had gone before I could grasp the connection.

The quiet couple who came last with a bottle of raspberry cordial benefited from their position by being offered the best selection of treats. The coffee table in my sitting room was by this time so loaded with edible offerings that anyone would have thought I'd spent hours preparing for a neighborhood tea party.

Any lingering doubts my visitors may have had regarding my respectability were put to rest, emphatically and unexpectedly, by the arrival of my brother, wearing his clerical collar and looking eminently pious. So pious, in fact, that I doubted whether any of his own parishioners would have recognized him.

Shortly after noon, when the crowd had cleared, Tom leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head.

'I congratulate you,' he said. 'My own neighbors didn't lay siege to me until I'd been in the village a week. How long have you been here, now? Two days?'

'I moved in on Tuesday, so this is my third day here. Feet off the coffee table, please.'

'Sorry.' He moved his shoes obediently. 'I hope you don't mind my dropping in on you like this. I suppose I could have called first.'

'You couldn't have picked a better time,' I assured him warmly. 'It'll do wonders for my image. By teatime it'll be all over town that I'm related to a vicar.'

'Mmm. Or that you're having an affair with one.' Tom grinned. 'Village people have terribly suspicious minds, you know.'

I ignored him. 'It's your day off, I take it?'

'Yes. I left the parish in the capable hands of my new curate, young Mr. Ogilvie. You'd like him, Julia. He's much less tedious than his predecessor. Of course, his views may be a little progressive for my flock, but he means well.'