Page 3 of The Magical Bed & Breakfast

“I like that. Mayfield, a May field, all in bloom. That blend sounds like springtime. Hmm, now I have an idea to work with. Do you have a color scheme for the inn?”

“A warm color palette, I think, with dark wood furniture, or, well…I’d like the furnishings to reflect the era of the inn.”

A lively discussion ensued over colors and furniture. Ivy had great suggestions and promised to hook Kate up with the docent at the Hazard Historical Society, who had great leads on where to find historically accurate items. “You should also speak with the members of the historical society. They’ll have great stories to share with you about the inn. You may already know some of them.”

“I would love their input.”

Icy clapped her hands, “Excellent, they should be arriving in just about…”

There was a commotion at the door, its little bell tinkling wildly as a tall, stooped elderly man with a shock of floppy white hair entered along with a diminutive old woman in a jaunty straw hat adorned with a dark blue ribbon tied in a floppy bow on the side. They appeared to be in the midst of a lively disagreement.

“…Now,” laughed Ivy. She rushed over to help with the door just as another woman with brightly dyed red hair arrived, followed by a rather thin, bespectacled woman with dark hair pulled austerely back in a bun.

“Meet the Hazard Historical Society,” said Ivy with a motion of her hand, “Seymour Throckmorton, Hazel Bestwick, Marjorie Hopewell, and my great aunt, Lydia LaFleur.”

“Oh, yes, we met at the fundraiser,” said Kate, “last spring.”

“Come sit with us, dear,” said Hazel, “and tell us about the progress of the inn.”

Kate did as she was told, and while Ivy bustled back and forth catering to their every whim, Kate leaned back to listen.

“So, you know about the love story, do you not?” Hazel said, her lips pursed primly.

“I’m sorry?”

“During the Revolutionary War, the owner of the house, which is now the Hazard Inn, was Franklin Worthy. He was a smuggler for the American rebels, but the British occupied his home, and he had to be very, very careful.”

Marjorie eagerly picked up the tale. “Especially when his daughter, Prudence, fell in love with one of the British soldiers stationed in the house. They planned to marry and return to England.”

“Of course, her father forbade it, so they decided to elope,” added Seymour in dour tones.

“It is possible she betrayed her father.” Lydia’s lips pinched in dire disapproval.

“Hard to say,” said Marjorie.

“Yes, well, it didn’t end well. Such a tragedy,” said Seymour.

“The only rectifying influence is my ancestor Edwin Hazard, who saved the day—and the town—from going up in flames. Of course, it’s where we get the Hazard Blessing.” Hazel folded her hands on the table.

Kate tried to follow the conversation, as one member of the historical society interrupted another, and the tale slowly began to unfold before her of a young woman in love with her father’s enemy stationed in their home. And that home was now hers. Mind-boggling.

What must that have been like? Kate could imagine it. Teenage Prudence would have been impressionable and prone to romance; the red-coated soldier no doubt a handsome young man. “Yes, it does sound like the kind of story to end in tragedy.”

“Of course, Prudence’s cousin is the one who began the blessing, not Captain Hazard,” said Marjorie.

Before an argument could take off over who was really the originator of the blessing, Kate jumped in. “How does it go?”

Ivy popped in just then to sing the blessing in her clear high voice.

“Oh, my, that is lovely, dear,” said Lydia. “So pleased you can remember how your tune goes now.” Ivy gave a self-deprecating shrug but beamed at the same time.

“But, of course, Ivy made up that tune. She can’t know the blessing was ever sung,” said Hazel.

“Pure conjecture,” said Seymour.

“It’s not in the historical records,” Marjorie agreed.

“And the blessing?” asked Kate.

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