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The air between them grew thick with unspoken thoughts. Charlotte watched Isla's every move, a ballet of elegance and mystery.
"Is there anything else you'd like to know?" Charlotte asked, her tone cordial yet cautious.
"Plenty," Isla admitted, her gaze lingering on Charlotte's face for a moment longer than necessary before glancing around the foyer. "But perhaps another time. Thank you, Ms. Moore."
As Isla turned away, Charlotte found herself watching the retreating figure with a mix of suspicion and intrigue. Her gut told her that Isla's questions weren't mere pleasantries; they held purpose—though to what end, she couldn't fathom.
The grandfather clock in the corner of The Crown's lobby tolled five, its chimes resonating through the quiet expanse, a reminder that the day was waning. Charlotte glanced at its face, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the check-in counter, the wood worn smooth by years of greetings and farewells.
The front door opened again, and Amelia appeared once more.
"Mother, I'll just be upstairs," Amelia called out as she flew in, her voice disrupting the silence. She was already halfway up the grand staircase before Charlotte could even process her departure.
"Wait, Amelia—!" But it was too late; Amelia had vanished into the upper corridors, leaving behind a trail of floral perfume and unexplained urgency.
Charlotte sighed, her focus splintered.
"Focus, Charlotte," she murmured to herself, scanning the reservation list for the umpteenth time. It was all there—the names, dates, special requests—all meticulously recorded. Yet the words blurred together, her mind wandering back to Isla's veiled inquiries about her past in New York, about the inn's history, about Charlotte's own reasons for being here.
As the night descended, wrapping the inn in a shroud of dusk, Charlotte wondered if she, too, would emerge as steadfast as the old manor house—or if the mysteries harbored within these walls would prove too much for her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Evening had settled like a soft shawl upon the old manor house, and the once grandiose dining room had transformed into a sanctuary of coziness, with flickering candles casting dancing shadows across the walls and soft lighting that glowed like amber fireflies caught in antique lamps.
Charlotte moved about the room with the grace of someone who knew every creak of the worn floorboards, every whisper of the sea breeze that slipped through the imperfect seal of the window frames. The table was dressed in her finest linen, creamy white and smooth beneath her fingertips as she smoothed out invisible wrinkles. She arranged the silverware with precision, forks and knives gleaming softly in the candlelight.
"Perfect," she murmured to herself, her voice a hushed note in the symphony of clinks and rustles. Her anticipation for the evening felt like effervescent bubbles in her chest.
"Mother, it looks lovely," Amelia's voice came from behind her, bringing a smile to Charlotte's face.
"Thank you, darling," Charlotte said, turning to beam at her daughter, feeling a swell of pride. "I wanted tonight to be special—for all of us. Simon is coming over for dinner again."
Her hands brushed over the back of a chair, the varnished wood smooth under her touch.
"Everything smells divine," Amelia added, leaning closer to sniff at the pot of stew bubbling on the stove.
"Let's hope it tastes just as good," Charlotte replied playfully, though internally she held a small flicker of doubt. It was silly, perhaps, but her desire to impress with her culinary skills was just another test of whether she truly belonged in Chesham.
Amelia grinned, her eyes sparkling with affection and mischief. "I have no doubt, Mother. You could make a gourmet meal out of seaweed and driftwood if you put your mind to it."
"Let's stick to the classics for now," Charlotte laughed, her worry easing as she glanced around the room one last time. Everything was set, each detail perfect. “We can even eat in the formal living room, by the fire, if everyone decides so. Hot chocolate after, and maybe a classic old Hollywood movie?”
Amelia’s laughter echoed through The Crown. The young woman danced on the balls of her feet, an eager energy radiating from her as she glanced at the clock.
"Speaking of classics," Amelia began, her eyes alight with unspoken tales, "I might have to skip out on this masterpiece tonight, Mom."
"Skip out?" Charlotte quirked an eyebrow, half-amused, half-curious. She watched her daughter fidget, the mystery in her movements like a playful breeze that teased but never told its secrets.
"Sorry to spring it on you like this, but I’m meeting someone," Amelia confessed, coyly biting her lip. "A friend."
"Someone special?" Charlotte prodded gently, her heart warming at the thought of Amelia finding a friend in the village.
"Maybe," Amelia gave a noncommittal shrug, the enigmatic smile not quite reaching her lips. With a swift hug that caught Charlotte by surprise, Amelia whispered, "You deserve a good night too, you know." And just like that, she slipped away, leaving behind a trail of intrigue and a sputtering Charlotte, barely calling goodbye after before she was gone.
Left in the wake of her daughter's sudden departure, Charlotte turned to find Simon leaning against the doorframe in the open back door to the kitchen, an affectionate, knowing look in his ocean-blue eyes.
"Looks like we've been abandoned," Simon said, his voice a low thrum that resonated within the cozy confines of the inn.
