Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“Time!” I shout, pretending to be scandalized as I announce, “You beat my record by two. What dark magic is this?”
She shrugs. “No magic. Just an excellent eye for detail, sir.”
“And excellent luck guaranteed for the year,” I agree, stepping over to the punch station to pour us each a glass. “Or so Featherswallow family lore would have you believe.”
“I like Featherswallow family lore, so far,” she says, shifting Nuggy to one arm as she accepts the drink. She glances around the room again with a stunned shake of her head. “I can’t believe places like this really exist. I mean, I know they do, I’ve toured lots of historic homes, but…” She sips her punch. “I don’t know, I guess I never imagined how modern life would play out for people who still live in places like this.”
“Would you like the tour?” I ask, nodding toward the far door. “Fair warning, it includes a lot of dead people in frames, an offensive number of knick-knacks, and at least one allegedly haunted chandelier. Grandmother’s had the electric people out to look at it five times, but they swear there’s nothing wrong, and it only misbehaves when Edward’s around. I think it’s because he looks like my great-great-grandfather, who was apparently a bit of an arse.”
“Knick-knacks and ghosts? Sounds like a good time to me.” She glances down at Nuggy, who’s fallen asleep against her chest. “Should I lay her down somewhere?”
“Not unless your arms are tired,” I say. “She seems quite happy.”
“They’re not. And I’m quite happy, too,” Emily says, holding my gaze for a beat. “Thank you so much for trusting me with your family.”
“Of course, Darling,” I say, voice gruffer than before. “You’re a delight. My family is lucky to have you here to calm the corgi hordes and keep me out of trouble.”
She arches a brow. “Oh, I don’t know about that. We seem to have a knack for trouble.”
“True.” I loop my arm around her shoulders. “But at least there aren’t any paparazzi here to take pictures this time.”
“No, just your grandmother,” she teases.
We slip away from the hubbub of the front rooms, and I guide her through one of the homes that shaped me. The Featherswallow country estate, with its grand history and faded furnishings, is my personal favorite, but I have so many fond memories of “The Little House,” as Grandmother calls it.
Of course, it’s anything but “little,” only little by comparison to the Plimpton manor home in Cornwall, and fifteen minutes later, we’re just getting to the back of the first floor.
“This is where I got drunk on Edward’s eighteenth birthday,” I say as we move through the warmly lit library. “I was only thirteen and terribly jealous of the big boys having their first pints.” I motion toward the window seat. “Then I was terribly sick over there, and Grandmother was terribly mad. But she didn’t tell my parents, for which I was grateful. She just made me clean it all up and go for a long, vigorous walk with her the next morning while I was hideously hungover.” I shudder at the memory. “Scared me away from alcohol for years.”
“Wise woman,” Emily murmurs, pulling in a deep breath. “It smells so good in here. I love the smell of old books.”
“Me, too, but I love the smell in the next room even more.” I lead the way around the corner, down a short hall, and into the glassed room where I played dinosaur hunter as a child, prowling my prey through the flowers and ferns.
The solarium unfolds before us, dark beneath the winter night sky. But even in December, it’s warm and muggy, humid with the breath of hundreds of plants. Orchids climb the walls. Palms brush the ceiling, and roses perfume the air with memories of summer.
“Oh, wow,” Emily breathes. “This is…”
“Mad? Excessive? A violation of heating efficiency standards?”
“Fantastic,” she finishes firmly. “It’s like stepping through the wardrobe into another world.”
She wanders deeper into the urban jungle, still carrying Nuggy like a spoiled baby. She stops next to a particularly large fern, studying its sprawling fronds in the moonlight. “I don’t pretend to know a lot about plants, but this looks old.”
“It is,” I say, doing my best to ignore the fact that she’s stopped beneath one of the many sprigs of mistletoe Grandmother has hung around the house every year.
Mistletoe isn’t reason enough to break the rules…
Is it?
“That fern was planted by my Great-Great something Aunt Cordelia,” I say. “It’s over two hundred years old.”
Emily turns to me, her eyes huge. “No way.”
I lean against the potting bench on the wall. “Yes, way. Cordelia had quite the green thumb. She was also beautiful, brilliant, and an exemplary horsewoman. Half of London was in love with her, and it was assumed she’d make a spectacular marriage.” I lower my voice dramatically, “Before it all came crashing down.”