Susan gave her sleeping husband a final glance, then made her way downstairs for breakfast. It was a typically chilly English morning, and the wind had a tendency to whistle right through the walls and windows of Uncle George's old house.

The stout housekeeper was reading a romance paperback by the fire when Susan descended the steep, creaky stairs. "No, don't get up, Emma. You look so comfortable. I'll make my own breakfast."

"Bless you, dear, but it's no bother." The older woman steered Susan to the table. "You just sit down right here and have a cuppa to take the chill off." Steaming tea appeared as if by magic. "I'll be right back with some warm oatmeal and some eggs for you, just as you like them."

Stirring her tea, Susan sighed. Uncle George was so seldom home that the poor old woman was alone in the house most of the time; Emma had told Susan that she had thoroughly enjoyed these two weeks with, as she put it, "someone to care for again."

She sipped, allowing the tea and the fire to warm her.

Two weeks. And it had been marvelous. She'd been away from England for far too long, and when Uncle George had offered them plane tickets and a month's use of his country house, she'd jumped at the chance.

Maybe that was my mistake, she thought. I should have asked Bob before I accepted. But who would have thought that he'd have any objections to a free month in Britain?

Not that his objections had been sensible, any of them. Neither of them had any trouble scheduling vacation time from work, and it was easy enough for his parents to take care of the apartment while they were gone. He seemed to be against the holiday, simply for the sole reason that she wanted it.

She drained her cup and poured another from the ancient teapot beneath its quilted cozy. Lately, Bob had been objecting to too many things, and all for the same lack of reasons. If she said it was night, he would insist that the sun was up.