Free Bridal Favors by Connie Brockway

Francesca’s buttercream wool serge had been made over in order to achieve its chic while Mrs. Vandervoort’s dark blue lace dress featuring the new pigeon-breast style was brand new.
    Both were quiet women, but where Francesca Whyte’s stillness evoked a sense of tranquility, Edith Vandervoort’s offered only silence. Francesca’s looks charmed and invited; Edith Vandervoort’s beauty held one at arm’s length.
    “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Marchioness,” Mrs. Vandervoort said.
    “And I yours, Mrs. Vandervoort.” Francesca tucked her tatting back in her chatelaine and stood. “Evelyn, dear, I am so pleased about your good news.” She turned to Merry. “Merry, if I might have a word with you outside, we can leave these ladies to their business.”
    “Of course, madame,” Merry said.
    “Good day, then. And,” Francesca paused on her way through the door and pinked up prettily, “may I wish you every happiness on your upcoming marriage, Mrs. Vandervoort.”
    “Thank you, Marchioness.”
    After Francesca and Merry left, Mrs. Vandervoort turned to Evelyn. “Your mother is a charming lady.”
    “Thank you,” Evelyn said proudly, gesturing toward a chair. “Won’t you be seated? May I ring for some tea?”
    “Thank you, no.” In one fluid, economical movement, Mrs. Vandervoort took the offered chair and placed her jet-beaded purse in her lap.
    “I have wonderful news,” Evelyn began without preamble, retaking her seat behind her aunt’s desk. “Mr. Powell is willing to let us rent the abbey for April.”
    Mrs. Vandervoort nodded calmly. She was a woman used to having her wishes granted. It probably seldom occurred to her to wonder about the difficulties she posed for those to whom she gave the task of fulfilling her wishes. “Excellent.”
    “There is only one caveat.”
    “And that is?”
    “Mr. Powell insists he be allowed to remain at the abbey.”
    Mrs. Vandervoort betrayed no discernable reaction. “I see. And you have explained that this is my wedding?”
    “Yes, but Mr. Powell is an ornithologist.”
    Her brows angled sharply up. “Is he? I fail to see the connection. There are presumably other areas in Great Britain where one might see birds?”
    “Not the bird Mr. Powell is interested in, a very rare species he discovered himself.”
    “Oh? And what is the name of this newly discovered species?”
    Luckily, in spite of not actually knowing Latin, Evelyn had an excellent memory.
“Bubo Formosa Plurimus.”
    Mrs. Vandervoort, in the process of opening her purse, looked up, startled.
    “You have heard of it?”
    “I? No, indeed.” She did not offer an explanation for her look of surprise and, after a second, Evelyn went on. “Mr. Powell is adamant that he must be at the abbey for the spring migration, but he promises to be completely undetectable.” He’d actually promised nothing of the sort, but she’d see to it that he remained out of sight even if she had to lock him in his room herself.
    “I see.” Mrs. Vandervoort tilted her head. “What is your opinion of Mr. Powell’s offer, Lady Evelyn?”
    “I think it is very likely your only option if you wish to be wed at North Cross Abbey.”
    “A hardheaded man, then? Rude, domineering, arrogant? His grandfather was.”
    Evelyn did not hesitate. “No. I found him quite amiable, actually.”
    “Surely, if he’s so easygoing he might be . . .” Mrs. Vandervoort trailed off suggestively.
    “Amiable, not tractable,” Evelyn said. “I don’t think he’s likely to change his mind once it’s made up.”
    “Then we shall accept his terms.” Mrs. Vandervoort opened the small beaded bag and from it she withdrew a bank cheque. She held it out to Evelyn. “This should cover your expenses for the next few weeks.”
    Evelyn stood and reached across the desk. “Thank you. And please, don’t concern yourself with Mr. Powell. Everything will be lovely.”
    Mrs. Vandervoort stood, also. The interview was at an end.