This Miss Reynolds was a different class of woman altogether.
She sat across from Boothroyd, her back ramrod straight, and her elegant, gloved hands folded neatly on her lap in a pretty attitude. She regarded the curmudgeonly steward with wide, doelike hazel eyes and when she spoke, she did so in the smooth, cultured tones of a gentlewoman. No, Justin amended. Not a gentlewoman. A lady.
She was nothing like the two sturdy widows Boothroyd had interviewed earlier for the position of housekeeper. Those women had, ironically, been more in line with Justin’s original specifications—the specifications he had barked at his aging steward those many months ago when Boothroyd had first broached the idea of his advertising for a wife.
“I have no interest in courtship,” he’d said, “nor in weeping young ladies who take to their bed with megrims. What I need is a woman. A woman who is bound by law and duty to see to the running of this godforsaken mausoleum. A woman I can bed on occasion. Damnation, Boothroyd, I didn’t survive six years in India so I could live like a bloody monk when I returned home.”
They were words spoken in frustration after the last in a long line of housekeepers had quit without notice. Words that owed a great deal to physical loneliness and far too many glasses of strong spirits.
The literal-minded Boothroyd had taken them as his marching orders.
The next morning, before Justin had even arisen from his alcohol-induced slumber, his ever-efficient steward had arranged for an advertisement to be placed in the London papers. It had been brief and to the point:
MATRIMONY: Retired army officer, thirty-two, of moderate means and quiet disposition wishes to marry a spinster or widow of the same age. Suitable lady will be sensible, compassionate, and capable of managing the household of remote country property. Independent fortune unimportant. Letters to be addressed, postpaid, to Mr. T. Finchley, Esq., Fleet Street.
Justin had initially been angry. He’d even threatened to give Boothroyd the sack. However, within a few days he’d found himself warming to the idea of acquiring a wife by advertisement. It was modern and efficient. As straightforward as any other business transaction. The prospective candidates would simply write to Thomas Finchley, Justin’s London attorney, and Finchley would negotiate the rest, just as competently as he’d negotiated the purchase of Greyfriar’s Abbey or those shares Justin had recently acquired in the North Devon Railway.
Still, he had no intention of making the process easy. He’d informed both Boothroyd and Finchley that he would not bestir himself on any account. If a prospective bride wanted to meet, she would have to do so at a location within easy driving distance of the Abbey.
He’d thought such a condition would act as a deterrent.
It hadn’t occurred to him that women routinely traveled such distances to take up employment. And what was his matrimonial advertisement if not an offer for a position in his household?
In due time, Finchley had managed to find a woman for whom an isolated existence in a remote region of coastal Devon sounded agreeable. Justin had even exchanged a few brief letters with her. Miss Reynolds hadn’t written enough for him to form a definite picture of her personality, nor of her beauty—or lack thereof. Nevertheless, he’d come to imagine her as a levelheaded spinster. The sort of spinster who would endure his conjugal attentions with subdued dignity. A spinster who wouldn’t burst into tears at the sight of his burns.
The very idea that anything like this lovely young creature would grace his table and his bed was frankly laughable.
Not but that she wasn’t determined.
Though that was easily remedied. Folding his paper, Justin rose from his chair. “I’ll take it from here, Boothroyd.”
Miss Reynold’s eyes lifted to his. He could see the exact moment when she realized who he was. To her credit, she didn’t cry or faint or spring from her chair and bolt out of the room. She merely looked at him in that same odd way she had in the taproom when first she beheld his burns.
“Miss Reynolds,” Mr. Boothroyd said, “may I present Mr. Thornhill?”
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During the writing of this novella, one of my Siamese cats passed away quite suddenly. His name was Christmas Marzipan, but we called him Zippy. He was only ten years old and was the kindest, smartest, sweetest cat you could ever meet. After his loss, finishing this story was really hard. That’s why I’m extra grateful to everyone who supported and encouraged me along the way.
I owe tremendous thanks to Flora, Lauren, and Lena for reading early drafts of this story and providing such helpful feedback. Thanks also go to my wonderful editor, Deb Nemeth, who never fails to make my books better. And to my kind and very generous parents who always help me when things get overwhelming.