joke with her, and she wasn’t so self-important that she couldn’t join in on the fun. Ha-ha. See?
After all, she was twenty-five years old. She’s been around a bit herself. Well, maybe not
herself
, but she’d been around women who’d been around. Like Merry, she thought, as the Frenchwoman emerged from the house and dimpled at Buck Newton.
Merry had been around, well, a lot. And from all appearances, it looked like she was ready to take another turn. The trouble with dear Merry was that, while she owned a Frenchwoman’s passion, she had none of a Frenchwoman’s practicality. It had been because of this, being so often at the mercy of an undiscriminating heart, that Merry had been expulsed from M. Worth’s Parisian workrooms.
Luckily, Evelyn’s mother had been in Paris acquiring a new wardrobe at the time of Merry’s dismissal and, thinking of her sister-in-law’s new enterprise, had snatched up the budding designer and shipped her back to London. That had been ten years ago. Since then Merry had been “in love” with a florist, a pastry chef, a draper, a haberdasher, and who knew who else.
“Did you find Beverly, Miss Molière?” Justin Powell broke Evelyn’s reverie. She looked around and found Merry had approached.
“Yes,” Merry said, coyly swishing her hem back and forth.
“And?” Justin prompted.
“And? Oh! And he said,” Merry frowned in concentration, “he said that he didn’t prepare any rooms for us because he knew that as soon as Miss Evelyn arrived she would only go snooping about and take the ones she wanted anyway.”
Evelyn’s skin warmed. “I suppose that as he is a legacy from your grandmother, you must keep him?” she asked Justin.
“It’s kind of you to be so understanding.”
“Well,” she allowed, graciously letting go of the hope that Beverly would be sent packing, “I have been accused of my own set of idiosyncrasies.”
“No!” Justin’s face registered satisfying incredulity.
Behind her Merry snorted. There was no use asking her what was so amusing; the French had the oddest notions about humor.
Evelyn turned back to Justin. “May we have a look at the available bedchambers?”
“By all means,” Justin answered. “If I might lead?”
“Please. And, Merry, could you find a place to use as a workroom while I go see about the sleeping arrangements?” She glanced at Buck. “Perhaps Mr. Newton might be persuaded to wait and, once you find a place, take your things there?”
“Oh, aye, ma’am,” Buck agreed. “Pleased to oblige.”
“Splendid.” She turned. “I am ready, Mr. Powell.”
He led the way into a corridor where the dust had been collecting for years. Dust motes climbed and swirled in the thin light as they walked and Evelyn carefully took stock of the abbey.
They passed what looked like a library of sorts on their left, while on their right was a closed door. They continued down the hall, past various disreputable-looking rooms, Justin explaining that this corridor contained the public rooms and the opposite side contained the sleeping chambers.
Near the end of the hall he pointed to a corridor that led to the other wing. They proceeded a short way and he turned and led the way down a few wide, shallow steps into a tall, cavernous room that he called the great room. It had once been the monastery dining hall, he told her. Evelyn looked around, trying to imagine a wedding reception here.
It was bright but grimy and drafty, clusters of mismatched furniture standing on threadbare carpets. On one side, wide French doors looked out on a dilapidated courtyard and weed-filled fishpond. Evelyn craned her head and looked up. Dark beams crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling like a fat spider web.
It was going to be hell to clean.
“Can we find women to come in?” she asked.
“I should imagine so, though I’ve never asked.”
She bit back the word “obviously.”
“Economy’s so rotten, I wouldn’t be surprised if even some of
After all, she was twenty-five years old. She’s been around a bit herself. Well, maybe not
herself
, but she’d been around women who’d been around. Like Merry, she thought, as the Frenchwoman emerged from the house and dimpled at Buck Newton.
Merry had been around, well, a lot. And from all appearances, it looked like she was ready to take another turn. The trouble with dear Merry was that, while she owned a Frenchwoman’s passion, she had none of a Frenchwoman’s practicality. It had been because of this, being so often at the mercy of an undiscriminating heart, that Merry had been expulsed from M. Worth’s Parisian workrooms.
Luckily, Evelyn’s mother had been in Paris acquiring a new wardrobe at the time of Merry’s dismissal and, thinking of her sister-in-law’s new enterprise, had snatched up the budding designer and shipped her back to London. That had been ten years ago. Since then Merry had been “in love” with a florist, a pastry chef, a draper, a haberdasher, and who knew who else.
“Did you find Beverly, Miss Molière?” Justin Powell broke Evelyn’s reverie. She looked around and found Merry had approached.
“Yes,” Merry said, coyly swishing her hem back and forth.
“And?” Justin prompted.
“And? Oh! And he said,” Merry frowned in concentration, “he said that he didn’t prepare any rooms for us because he knew that as soon as Miss Evelyn arrived she would only go snooping about and take the ones she wanted anyway.”
Evelyn’s skin warmed. “I suppose that as he is a legacy from your grandmother, you must keep him?” she asked Justin.
“It’s kind of you to be so understanding.”
“Well,” she allowed, graciously letting go of the hope that Beverly would be sent packing, “I have been accused of my own set of idiosyncrasies.”
“No!” Justin’s face registered satisfying incredulity.
Behind her Merry snorted. There was no use asking her what was so amusing; the French had the oddest notions about humor.
Evelyn turned back to Justin. “May we have a look at the available bedchambers?”
“By all means,” Justin answered. “If I might lead?”
“Please. And, Merry, could you find a place to use as a workroom while I go see about the sleeping arrangements?” She glanced at Buck. “Perhaps Mr. Newton might be persuaded to wait and, once you find a place, take your things there?”
“Oh, aye, ma’am,” Buck agreed. “Pleased to oblige.”
“Splendid.” She turned. “I am ready, Mr. Powell.”
He led the way into a corridor where the dust had been collecting for years. Dust motes climbed and swirled in the thin light as they walked and Evelyn carefully took stock of the abbey.
They passed what looked like a library of sorts on their left, while on their right was a closed door. They continued down the hall, past various disreputable-looking rooms, Justin explaining that this corridor contained the public rooms and the opposite side contained the sleeping chambers.
Near the end of the hall he pointed to a corridor that led to the other wing. They proceeded a short way and he turned and led the way down a few wide, shallow steps into a tall, cavernous room that he called the great room. It had once been the monastery dining hall, he told her. Evelyn looked around, trying to imagine a wedding reception here.
It was bright but grimy and drafty, clusters of mismatched furniture standing on threadbare carpets. On one side, wide French doors looked out on a dilapidated courtyard and weed-filled fishpond. Evelyn craned her head and looked up. Dark beams crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling like a fat spider web.
It was going to be hell to clean.
“Can we find women to come in?” she asked.
“I should imagine so, though I’ve never asked.”
She bit back the word “obviously.”
“Economy’s so rotten, I wouldn’t be surprised if even some of
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