“How close is the town?” she asked.

“Just about ten minutes away. It’s an easier commute than when the Queen is in London or Windsor, that’s for sure. The traffic from here to there—especially at this time of year—is almost nonexistent.”

“Commute?” She realized she hadn’t thought of that. “Where do you stay when you’re working out of Sandringham?”

He glanced down at her, and a smile spread over his face. Was he smiling because of how she looked in her hat? She knew she shouldn’t have put this thing on.

“At a nearby hotel,” he said. “I’ve stayed in one of the rooms in the house once before, and never again. That was the most uncomfortable few days in my life.”

She laughed at the look of reminiscent horror on his face.

“Why? What was so terrible about it?”

He held up a hand.

“You feel how cold it is right here, outside, walking into the wind? That’s how cold it is inside that house at night when you’re trying to sleep. It was built in the 1800s, there’s no central heating, and every window somehow has at least four drafts in it, even though that doesn’t make sense. I knew all of that going in, of course, but I didn’t understand what it would feel like. I even brought an extra blanket, but I should have brought an entire tauntaun to cut open and get in the middle of.”

When she laughed, he shook his head.

“Oh, I’m not done. It’s worse during the holidays, because the whole family comes for Christmas, so any staff who has to be up here—and even some of the family members—get assigned to old servants’ quarters. And one thing that people really did not care about when building homes in the 1800s was the comfort of their servants.” He led her into a small parking lot. “Now, I stay in a nice, small hotel in town, where the woman who owns it loves the royal family and therefore treats me with an overwhelming amount of respect because I work for the Queen. Normally, I hate that, but for a hotel, it’s ideal. I’m never bothered when I don’t want to be, the temperature in my room is always perfect, and I can get meals whenever I want, which is all I need from a hotel.”

He unlocked his car and smiled at her.

“How are you enjoying your stay at Sycamore Cottage? Other than Julia’s delicious food, of course.”

She laughed.

“You can’t separate those two things—I’m sure I’ll be talking about Julia’s delicious food for years to come. She made ham and cheese croissants for breakfast today—just because! I had one warm out of the oven.” She could still taste that first flaky, savory, buttery bite. “But everything has been lovely—the Duke and Duchess are very kind, and it’s a quite comfortable house. If only I didn’t have jet lag, this trip would be perfect so far.” She laughed. “But at least I can text my family and friends back home in the middle of the night.”

When they got into his car, he flicked on the heated seats on her side.

“Ah, but you’re on vacation,” he said. “You can supplement those middle-of-the-night wake-ups with a nice afternoon nap. I’ll get you back just in time for it.”

She grinned at him.

“First the nap, then more tea and more of Julia’s treats—I could get used to this kind of vacation.”

Malcolm drove off the estate and toward the town. He suddenly realized he was actually alone with Vivian for the first time—every other time he’d seen her, they’d been surrounded by the many visible and invisible people who lived and worked on the Sandringham Estate. But now they were off the estate and alone in his car. It felt freeing.

“There’s a pub right in town that’s perfect on a chilly day like today, if that’s okay with you.”

She nodded.

“That sounds wonderful. Though I may need a translator. You have all sorts of food here in England that I’ve never heard of in California.”

He laughed.

“Separated by a common language indeed,” he said. “But yes, I’ll be happy to translate for you if needed, though there will absolutely be some recognizable things like fish and chips and chicken pie on the menu.”

She turned to him and pursed her lips together.

“Chicken . . . pot pie?”

He bit his lip.

“Maybe not so recognizable after all!”

She took her gloves off and tucked them into her pocket.

“Well, this could be a very educational lunch.”

They walked into the pub a few minutes later and were quickly seated at a small, round table by the fire. The chairs were positioned close to each other, both facing the fire. The table was just snug enough that their arms almost touched.

Vivian took off that knit hat that had made him smile and tucked it into her purse. Her hair went every which way; he wished he knew her well enough that he could brush it back for her. She quickly unpinned her bun and smoothed her hair down with her hands before she picked up the menu.

“Hmm, okay, yes, there are certainly some things I know on this menu. Fish and chips—you promised that, and you were right. Sandwiches—I know what those are, and those also come with chips, which I imagine are of the ‘fish and’ variety, and not the ‘bag of’ variety that we have in America. Ooh, and shepherd’s pie—that sounds like a very cozy-by-the-fire kind of December meal.”

Her eyes twinkled at him over the menu. He smiled back at her and congratulated himself for having the good sense to ask her out to lunch.

“I’ve had the shepherd’s pie here, and it’s delicious,” he said.

She wasn’t done.

“But then you have the aforementioned chicken pie—that could be anything, honestly. And there are pasties, which . . .” She pressed her lips together and looked up at him with a sly look on her face. “Well, I don’t think of food when I hear that word, let’s just put it that way.”

He tilted his head.

“What in God’s name do Americans . . . ?”

She went on.

“Scotch eggs—I think I know what those are, but I have no idea what a ploughman’s board is. Mushy peas—does that literally mean you take some peas and mash them like potatoes? Is that like baby food? And . . . oh yes . . . it’s here! Bubble and squeak. I thought that was one of those things that only showed up in books that got exported to America as a joke the entire United Kingdom played on Americans, but it’s really on the menu!”

He put his hand down on the table.

“Okay, look. I know you’re having your fun about our food, but you have a great deal of odd food where you come from, too. I’ve seen what you people do with sweet potatoes for your Thanksgiving dinners—how did marshmallows get there?”

She let out that infectious chuckle of hers again.

“No, you’re right, that’s disgusting, but I swear, we don’t do that in my family!”

They grinned at each other.

He knew why he liked Vivian so much now. Or, at least, one of the reasons. It was because she talked nonsense with him in a way no one else did. Everyone else (well, everyone except for his nephew) wanted him to be serious and sober and thoughtful. Sure, of course, he joked around with his mates, and he went out for drinks with his old friends from his Parliament and consulting days, but they all still groused about work, or took the piss out of one another, or bragged about themselves in that way where they tried to pretend they weren’t bragging, but everyone at the table knew they were.