Afternoon tea by the fire in the library

Rebecca has always been one of my favourite books. The richness of the prose is delightful and the thrilling murder made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck when I first read it as a little girl. However, what I really remember is reading it in front of the fire in my house in Portugal when I was younger because that was when I fell in love with the idea of traditional English country life. Long walks in the country, weekend balls, stables attached to every home and afternoon tea served every day. We had afternoon tea at home (my mother doing her best to raise us as nice English girls) but Portugal had a sad lack of crumpets. In fact, I remember following my mother around with my dog-eared copy of Rebecca and reading her the following passage before demanding to know why on earth we couldn't have them shipped from London:

"I think of half-past four at Manderley, and the table drawn before the library fire. The door flung open, punctual to the minute, and the performance, never-varying, of the laying of the tea, the silver tray, the kettle, the snowy cloth. While Jasper, his spaniel ears a-droop, feigns indifference to the arrival of the cakes. That feast was laid before us always, and yet we ate so little.

Those dripping crumpets, I can see them now. Tiny crisp wedges of toast, and piping-hot, flaky scones. Sandwiches of unknown nature, mysteriously flavored and quite delectable, and that very special gingerbread. Angel cake, that melted in the mouth, and his rather stodgier companion, bursting with peel and raisins."

I can't wait to move out of central London to somewhere with enough space to afford me a library. Mark my words, five years from now that is where you'll find me at the stroke of 4.30pm: buttering crumpets and throwing stray bits of cake to the cat and dogs in front of the fire whilst curled up in an enormous leather armchair. On a dreary cold day like today, that thought keeps me going.

Pictures via JMInteriors and Eclectic Revisited.