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“I’ll manage,” Charlotte said, just wanting to be alone so that she could decompress.
With that, Marge tutted and fussed with the curtains and bedspread before she closed the door behind her, leaving Charlotte alone with her thoughts and the whispers of the past that had clearly once screamed through these halls. Charlotte touched off the fire with one of the long matches she found in a metal case on the mantel. Soon, the dry logs roared with flame, and she turned to peel out of Simon’s coat, hanging it on a cast iron hook that was to the left of the fireplace.
Her clothes were next, exchanged for a dry pair of flannel sleep pants and a grey t-shirt to match the skies outside. If she went out, she could use the hoodie she had packed. She’d get a new coat tomorrow. But lethargy stole over her, and she doubted she’d be venturing back out tonight.
As Charlotte stood there, by the fire, her eyes roving over the room's rustic charm, she was drawn to a window obscured by heavy curtains. With a gentle tug, she pulled them aside and opened the window, revealing a breathtaking view of the ocean beyond. The vast expanse of water stretched out endlessly, its surface shimmering beneath the setting sun like a canvas splattered with molten gold. The horizon seemed to merge with the sky.
Leaning against the windowsill, she allowed herself a moment of quiet reflection. She thought of Daniel and how he would never have encouraged her to take this trip. It had been years since she had felt truly alive, but now, as her eyes drank in the stunning vista, she could feel the stirrings of something new awakening within her.
Charlotte settled into a rocking chair by the fireplace, and the warmth enveloped her. She found herself beginning to relax. Her thoughts turned to the stories Marge had shared with her earlier. If the walls of this inn were indeed haunted by the spirits of the past, perhaps they could also serve as muses. Hopefully, none of them would object to a visiting American—not like the cheeky fishermen by the shore earlier.
A gentle knock on the door pulled Charlotte from her reverie, and she turned to find Marge standing in the doorway, looking tentative. She held a small tray laden with a teapot, a steaming cup, and a plate of homemade scones and jam.
"Thought you might appreciate a little something to warm you up," Marge offered, setting the tray down on a nearby table. "It can get quite chilly here by the water, especially at night."
"Thank you, Marge," Charlotte replied, her heart swelling with gratitude. "This is so kind of you."
"Also, there's plenty of firewood stacked in the next room if you'd like to build up your fire later tonight," Marge added. "My grandson laid this one you have now, good fella. I can’t haul the logs myself—bad shoulder, you know—but there's nothing quite like the crackle of a fire to make a place feel truly cozy."
"That sounds wonderful," Charlotte agreed, already envisioning herself curled up in front of the flames, a sketchbook resting on her lap as she dozed off. "I'll definitely go grab some extra if I need it.”
"Good." Marge smiled, her face crinkling like well-worn parchment. "And if you need anything else – anything at all – don't hesitate to ask. I'm just a holler away."
"Thank you, Marge," Charlotte repeated, feeling a knot of tension in her chest begin to loosen. "Your hospitality has been truly exceptional."
"Think nothing of it, dear," Marge assured her, patting her hand gently. "You're ourfirstonline guest, after all. We ought to make sure you have a memorable stay. Winston says we should be sure the yaps are good for afterwards."
Charlotte grinned. “Yelps?”
“Could be,” Marge said. “Don’t depend on my memory.”
Charlotte took a sip of the tea, savoring the warmth that spread through her body, chasing away the chill that clung to her bones. She glanced around the room, her eyes lingering on the creaking floorboards and the faded wallpaper that told a tale of years gone by.
"Actually," she said as she looked back at Marge, "I was wondering if you could tell me more about the history of the inn."
"Ah," Marge's eyes twinkled with mischief, a knowing smile playing at the corner of her lips as she shuffled toward the door. "Well, there's certainly no shortage of stories to be found here. But my bones are tired, and I’m sure yours are, too. Maybe tomorrow.”
Charlotte felt a pang of disappointment—but she nodded in agreement.
"Until then, enjoy your tea and biscuits," Marge said, giving Charlotte one last reassuring smile before she turned to leave. "And remember, I'm always here if you need me."
Charlotte watched as Marge disappeared out the door and down the winding staircase, her footsteps echoing through the dimly lit halls. Marge might be soon joining dreamland, but Charlotte knew that sleep would be elusive tonight – her mind was too alive with anxious thoughts – but she also understood that rest was essential if she wished to fully explore the possibility she was seeking here in England.
She made short work of the warm scones with cherry jam, and then set her tea cup aside and stood. Despite her doubts about sleep, she climbed into the four-poster bed, grabbing her phone to text Amelia, and then, Roxanne. Then, Charlotte laid down in the downy, slightly flowery bed linens. Her eyelids drooped. Maybe she would run into a posh, refined English ghost or two in her dreams—and hopefully avoid anypersonalghosts of her own that might have followed her to Chesham.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Charlotte's hand lingered on the doorknob as she stepped out of her room the next morning, taking a moment to absorb her surroundings. The worn wooden floors of The Crown Inn creaked gently beneath her feet, echoing the whispers of countless guests who had walked these halls before her. She wondered, amusedly, how they had booked before young Winston had put his grandmother online.
She inhaled deeply, the comforting smell of old books and aged wood filling her senses. As an artist, Charlotte appreciated the beauty of things that had lived a life, their stories etched into their very essence. She could see the history embedded in every groove and knot of the floorboards, the walls, the ceilings, and she felt a sense of connection to the place – a connection that reached beyond just a temporary stop would warrant.
"Ah, there you are!" Marge, the innkeeper, greeted her with a warm smile from across the hall. "I hope you slept well."
"Like a baby," Charlotte replied, returning the smile. "I didn’t think I would, but I dropped right off."
Marge chuckled, her eyes twinkling with pride. "No ghosts, then?"
“None to be seen. I’m a little disappointed.” Charlotte's gaze wandered down the hallway, curious to explore the rest of the inn. "Would you mind if I had a look around?"
