“You must be Nicole,” she exclaimed, beaming at me. “I’m glad you made it safely. There’s some filthy weather headed our way. You are the last one to arrive, actually,” she said as she reached for the case the driver had set on the gravel of the drive. “I’m Lisa Prentiss,” she added.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lisa. Sorry I’m late,” I said apologetically. I paid the driver, thanked him, and followed Lisa into the house.
“Oh, you’re not late. The others were early. Our official check-in time is actually three o’clock, but people are always eager to get started, and who am I to stand in the way of creativity?” She laughed merrily. “Welcome to Lockwood Hall. Let me show you around and then you can settle into your room.”
A young woman of about seventeen, who could only be Lisa’s daughter, appeared through one of the arched doorways and reached for the case, albeit with great reluctance.
“This is Brittany, our daughter,” Lisa said. “She’s helping out at the retreat now that she’s done with school. Take the case to the green bedroom,” Lisa instructed her daughter. “We’ll be right along.”
Brittany wordlessly took the bag and lugged it up the stairs as if it weighed a ton, which it didn’t, since I’d packed light. I kept my computer bag as I followed Lisa to the first room, admiring the seamless blend of old and new that was Lockwood Hall. There were medieval-looking tapestries, polished weapons, and paintings in gilt frames alongside comfortable sofas, a well-stocked bar, and a flatscreen TV that hung above the stone fireplace, its screen now dark. The lower half of the walls was covered in dark brown wood paneling that gave the room a rather glum appearance. The top portion was papered in dark green wallpaper that was meant to look authentic but had probably been hung recently, given the lack of fading.
“This is the main sitting room,” Lisa said. “This is where everyone meets for drinks before dinner. We encourage our writers to socialize, but, of course, what you do is entirely up to you. If you are one of those people who emerges only for meals and prefers to spend the time writing, we will be happy to supply endless cups of tea, snacks, and complete privacy.”
Lisa led me to the next room, which was dominated by a long, polished table in the same dark wood as the paneling. There were twelve hardback chairs and an old-fashioned sideboard that must have been assembled once it was inside the room, since it wouldn’t have fit through the doors and looked to weigh a ton.
“This is the formal dining room. We serve a buffet lunch at one and dinner at eight. If you have any dietary restrictions you forgot to mention when you made the booking, please let me know.”
“I don’t,” I said.
“Excellent. Neither does anyone else. Makes my life easier,” Lisa said with a happy smile. “We do all the cooking on the premises,” she added. “Breakfast is served in the morning room from seven till nine, and we serve tea there at four. There is a library, and we’ve converted what used to be the reception rooms into small parlors, so everyone can have a quiet place to work. You can set up wherever you wish, assuming it isn’t already occupied. Everyone usually finds a place they prefer and sticks with it for the duration. There’s also the carriage house. There are two rooms there, if you prefer to write away from the house.”
Once back in the foyer, Lisa headed toward the grand staircase. The wood smelled of polish and must, and the black-and-white tiles beneath my feet were worn by countless feet. The carpet runner on the stairs was threadbare with age and frequent use, but the steps didn’t creak as I would have expected them to. Solemn-looking men and women followed our progress up the stairs with painted eyes, their faces gray beneath the layers of grime the portraits had accumulated over the centuries.
“There are eight bedrooms upstairs. We refer to them by their color,” Lisa said. “I thought it was nicer than assigning numbers, like in a guest house. You’re in the green room, which is one of my personal favorites. Alastair, Brittany, and I have rooms on the other side of the house, accessible by a private entrance. If you need anything afterhours, just ring us.”
“Is it just the three of you?” I asked, wondering how they could manage to keep a house this size running smoothly.
“There’s also Colin. He looks after the garden and does odd jobs. He’s worked here since he was a young man,” she said. “He knows this place better than I do.”
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” I said once Lisa threw open the door and I stepped into my room, which was papered in cream and gold wallpaper and not the oppressive dark green I had been expecting. Apple-green bed hangings matched the curtains at the windows, and a green, apricot, and cream carpet covered most of the dark-wood floorboards. A charming landscape hung above the fireplace, and a lovely desk positioned in front of the window offered a view of the back garden and the woods beyond. Sadly, or perhaps thankfully, I couldn’t see the reservoir or the church tower rising above the still water.
“I’m glad you like it. I always save the prettier bedrooms for the female guests, since they tend to appreciate them more, unlike our male writers, who only want them to be serviceable. We do have a few simple rules,” Lisa announced, now more businesslike than
