Free Bridal Favors by Connie Brockway Page B

Ultimately she was left murmuring, “Thank you.”
    For the briefest instant something akin to compassion flickered in the arctic blue depths of Mrs. Vandervoort’s eyes. “Good. Three day dresses, two skirts, five waists, and two—no, best make it three— evening gowns. That should do,” Mrs. Vandervoort said, opening the door.
    Francesca and Merry were sitting on the small divan in the outer office, their heads together in a profoundly conspiratorial manner. Doubtless, they were plotting Francesca’s new autumn wardrobe.
    Francesca gracefully unfolded from her seat. “And you’ll keep me well apprised of how things get on?”
    “You will be as if on my shoulder,” Merry assured her.
    “Good.” Francesca smiled before turning her attention to Mrs. Vandervoort. “Ma’am, I hesitate to act on such short acquaintance, but would you care to join me for lunch?”
    “Why, Marchioness,” Mrs. Vandervoort said, “how kind. I’d be delighted.”

Chapter 6
     

     
    NORTH CROSS ABBEY occupied a small fold in the forest on the East Sussex–Surrey border. The church itself was gone except for a few skeletal arches and only the monastery still stood, expropriated long ago to the domestic purposes of the Powell family.
    Looking at it, Evelyn wondered about the original opportunist who had finagled Henry VIII out of this prime piece of real estate. Now, however, time and taxes were finally having their way. The house was built roughly in the shape of a
U,
the moss-covered eastern façade housing the main entrance before which she stood.
    “Isn’t it lovely?” Merry breathed. “Isn’t it?” she insisted, clambering down to stand beside Evelyn and staring round-eyed. Merry felt keenly that all romance was better shared. In spite of being raised by stolid Parisian parents, Merry was prodigiously impressionable. It had been her curse.
    Unfortunately, Evelyn had no romantic inclinations. She eyed the structure critically. Having spent her childhood in similarly picturesque places, she had a good idea of what to expect inside: Cold and dark. Maybe mold. She studied the green base again. Definitely mold.
    Still, there was no reason to disillusion Merry. She put her hands on her hips and nodded. “I am confident we’ll be able to produce a wedding worthy of the Whyte name.”
    Though just how they were to accomplish that remained to be seen. Only a bit over thirty miles from London’s outskirts, North Cross Abbey might as well have been two hundred. The area was severely depressed. For years the farming population had been migrating to the city, lured by the promise of work. She hoped Justin Powell had a decent staff—though, as the stairs were upswept and leaves piled against the outer walls, that seemed unlikely.
    “Where’d you like your luggage, Miss?” Buck Newton, their driver, asked.
    “That depends. Do you know whether Mr. Powell has arrived yet?”
    “Aye,” Buck replied.
    “Ah. Good. Wait here, while I find him,” she said, “and then you can bring those inside. If you’ll wait with Mr. Newton, Merry?”
    Merry bobbed her head and giggled, drawing Evelyn’s alarmed glance. Ever since Mr. Newton had met them at the railway station, Merry had been primping and tittering. Now Evelyn, in spite of a dearth of firsthand experience, wasn’t naive. Merry was, she recognized, in the process of winning yet another “admirer.” Apparently men were fatally drawn to women who acted feeble-minded.
    She only hoped Merry would keep her priorities well established. But as there was nothing Evelyn could do about it now, she approached the front door, her step muffled under a layer of decaying leaves. She rapped sharply. She waited. No one answered. She rapped again.
    Five minutes later, when there was still no reply, she took hold of the handle, twisted, and shoved. The door swung inward on a groan. Apparently, country habits dictated that doors remain unlocked. How charming!
    “’Allo!” Evelyn called. Her