Charlotte wrote. Her home, Thistle House, was located in Stow-on-the-Wold, a village Emmy had never heard of.
Charlotte set the pen down and turned to the sisters.
“Let’s go home.”
Ten
THE road between Moreton-in-Marsh and Stow-on-the-Wold was narrow but straight, taking them past rock walls, grazing sheep, fields of hay, and cottages of fawn-colored stone. London and all that Emmy had left behind seemed remarkably distant. It was as if they were traveling back in time or maybe to an entirely different world. There were no sandbags here, no air raid shelter signs, no barrage balloons in this endless sky. Emmy wondered how anyone out in this vast countryside knew they were even at war.
She and Julia sat up front with Charlotte in a dusty blue jalopy that sputtered like a steam engine as she drove. It was a four-and-a-half-mile jaunt between the two towns, Charlotte said, but since she lived on the edge of Stow, it would seem more like five.
The woman filled the silence inside the car by tellingthe girls about herself, which allowed Emmy to sit back and memorize the route they were taking so that one day soon, if she had to, she could make her way back to London on her own.
Charlotte was sixty-six, a retired schoolteacher, and a widow of five years. She and her husband, Oliver, hadn’t been blessed with any children, but she had a younger sister, Rose, whose disabilities made her childlike in many ways, so Charlotte felt as though she’d been gifted the chance to mother someone.
Oliver, bless his soul, had owned a hardware store in Stow-on-the-Wold, as had his father before him, and his father before him. He had been quite handy and liked to build things. She had an indoor loo before anyone else she knew did, thanks to Oliver. The century-old house had been in Oliver’s family all that time, and had a lovely name, Thistle House. Many houses in the Cotswolds had names.
“What is a cot’s wold?” Julia asked.
Charlotte Havelock smiled. “The Cotswolds is everything you can see out the window. For lots of miles. A hundred of them. Think of England as a very large book. The Cotswolds would be an unfussy chapter in the middle somewhere where there is lots of limestone and even more sheep.”
“But what is a cot’s wold? I want to see one.”
“Oh, I know exactly what you mean. I’d like to see one, too. Here’s the thing. Everyone agrees ‘wold’ means ‘hills’ but not everyone agrees what the ‘cots’ are.”
“That’s easy,” Julia said. “Cots are little beds.”
“Indeed.” Charlotte’s smile was broad. “Right you are, Julia.”
Charlotte then told the girls that she had been bornin Cornwall, near the coast, and that she met Oliver at his brother’s wedding in Bristol in 1893. They fell in love, and married a year later, and she moved to Thistle House. It had been her home ever since. She and her husband took in Rose eighteen years ago when Charlotte and Rose’s mother died.
“I know I wasn’t born here in the Cotswolds, but I feel like I was. This place has a way of welcoming you in, even if you are a stranger.”
Her words were meant to convey welcome, but Emmy didn’t want to imagine she could belong there, even for a little while. Still, she sensed the subtle embrace of Charlotte’s seemingly warless world where everything appeared to be bathed in butter.
“I’ve never seen so many houses and buildings all made of the same yellow stone,” Emmy said.
“That’s Cotswold stone. We are sitting on a vast blanket of limestone here. Loads of it. They’ve been building with it for centuries. When it’s been out in the weather decade upon decade, it turns a lovely honey color, which is rather nice. Can you imagine if it turned pink with age?”
“I like pink,” Julia chimed.
“A lovely color for flowers, but not so much for houses,” Charlotte said.
“It’s—it’s pretty here,” Emmy said, unable to stay disconnected from her new surroundings.
The woman
Charlotte set the pen down and turned to the sisters.
“Let’s go home.”
Ten
THE road between Moreton-in-Marsh and Stow-on-the-Wold was narrow but straight, taking them past rock walls, grazing sheep, fields of hay, and cottages of fawn-colored stone. London and all that Emmy had left behind seemed remarkably distant. It was as if they were traveling back in time or maybe to an entirely different world. There were no sandbags here, no air raid shelter signs, no barrage balloons in this endless sky. Emmy wondered how anyone out in this vast countryside knew they were even at war.
She and Julia sat up front with Charlotte in a dusty blue jalopy that sputtered like a steam engine as she drove. It was a four-and-a-half-mile jaunt between the two towns, Charlotte said, but since she lived on the edge of Stow, it would seem more like five.
The woman filled the silence inside the car by tellingthe girls about herself, which allowed Emmy to sit back and memorize the route they were taking so that one day soon, if she had to, she could make her way back to London on her own.
Charlotte was sixty-six, a retired schoolteacher, and a widow of five years. She and her husband, Oliver, hadn’t been blessed with any children, but she had a younger sister, Rose, whose disabilities made her childlike in many ways, so Charlotte felt as though she’d been gifted the chance to mother someone.
Oliver, bless his soul, had owned a hardware store in Stow-on-the-Wold, as had his father before him, and his father before him. He had been quite handy and liked to build things. She had an indoor loo before anyone else she knew did, thanks to Oliver. The century-old house had been in Oliver’s family all that time, and had a lovely name, Thistle House. Many houses in the Cotswolds had names.
“What is a cot’s wold?” Julia asked.
Charlotte Havelock smiled. “The Cotswolds is everything you can see out the window. For lots of miles. A hundred of them. Think of England as a very large book. The Cotswolds would be an unfussy chapter in the middle somewhere where there is lots of limestone and even more sheep.”
“But what is a cot’s wold? I want to see one.”
“Oh, I know exactly what you mean. I’d like to see one, too. Here’s the thing. Everyone agrees ‘wold’ means ‘hills’ but not everyone agrees what the ‘cots’ are.”
“That’s easy,” Julia said. “Cots are little beds.”
“Indeed.” Charlotte’s smile was broad. “Right you are, Julia.”
Charlotte then told the girls that she had been bornin Cornwall, near the coast, and that she met Oliver at his brother’s wedding in Bristol in 1893. They fell in love, and married a year later, and she moved to Thistle House. It had been her home ever since. She and her husband took in Rose eighteen years ago when Charlotte and Rose’s mother died.
“I know I wasn’t born here in the Cotswolds, but I feel like I was. This place has a way of welcoming you in, even if you are a stranger.”
Her words were meant to convey welcome, but Emmy didn’t want to imagine she could belong there, even for a little while. Still, she sensed the subtle embrace of Charlotte’s seemingly warless world where everything appeared to be bathed in butter.
“I’ve never seen so many houses and buildings all made of the same yellow stone,” Emmy said.
“That’s Cotswold stone. We are sitting on a vast blanket of limestone here. Loads of it. They’ve been building with it for centuries. When it’s been out in the weather decade upon decade, it turns a lovely honey color, which is rather nice. Can you imagine if it turned pink with age?”
“I like pink,” Julia chimed.
“A lovely color for flowers, but not so much for houses,” Charlotte said.
“It’s—it’s pretty here,” Emmy said, unable to stay disconnected from her new surroundings.
The woman
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