Mail Order Bride: Winter (Bride For All Seasons 4)

Hannah decided to stop in and meet the owner. After all, some advertising must be done to make potential customers aware they could walk through the door. A Grand Opening might be arranged. Not that she had any experience in the field, but it would be worth a try. If she failed, the project could always be turned over to her employer.

“Good day,” a plump but cheerful woman said in greeting, as a bell jangled at the door to announce Hannah’s entrance. “I’m Abigail Fitzsimmons, proprietor of Table of Contents.”

“And a good day to you, as well,” Hannah, stepping up, returned the smile. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Fitzsimmons. My name is Hannah Burton. What an imag

inative title you’ve chosen for your enterprise. And—oh, my. Oh, my!”

Stunned, she had barely gotten herself over the threshold before taking in her surroundings.

The almost palatial room might have been lifted, intact, from some British nobleman’s castle. How on earth had Mrs. Fitzsimmons managed to keep such richness hidden for so long a time? And how had she managed to put this fairy-tale place together in such secrecy?

What she saw before her was a parlor, complete with an elaborate fireplace built in rococo style, its flames curling up in welcome, this cool day, behind a screen. The walls had been papered in a soft green whose design held a multitude of pale pert mums, and the deep cornice molding, with its white paint, provided a soothing contrast. Floor to ceiling draperies of satin cream, complete with jabots, hung at every window, no matter its size or shape.

Comfortable furniture filled the space. Settees upholstered in purple velvet, side chairs covered in purple damask, wing chairs decorated in purple brocade, all accompanied by small marble-topped side tables and larger tables draped in white linen. Underfoot, plush Persian carpets lay scattered across the walnut floor.

Nor had accessories been forgotten. Painted ceramic lamps galore, candle sconces, a glittering crystal chandelier, sideboards holding a generous supply of precious china and silver, only enhanced the overall impression. And books. Beautifully bound leather books, stamped in gilt, rested everywhere, within easy reach, and stood neatly aligned upon the mantelpiece and several tall mahogany shelves. Almost like a library, in a separate section set off by a half-wall, behind which reposed a number of parlor chairs, wooden rockers, footstools, and the like.

Bedazzled, Hannah turned to her hostess. For that was the effect: not as shopkeeper, but as lady of the manor. Who could not help responding to such friendliness, in comparison to the abstracted or rather surly greeting from Wally Knaack, at the Sarsaparilla, or the absence of any greeting at all from Ezra Draper, at the Sittin’ Eat.

“My goodness, this is absolutely wonderful. I’d like to toast my toes in front of that hearth, sip some tea, and stay for hours. But what exactly are you selling, Mrs. Fitzsimmons?”

The cluster of blonde curls bobbled a little, the brilliant blue eyes twinkled. “Why, everything, of course, Miss Burton.”

“Everything? I don’t understand.”

“You just described my little enterprise very well, and I thank you. That’s exactly the sort of atmosphere I had hoped to offer. Will you join me in sharing a nice pot of Earl Grey so we can chat a bit?”

A slight gust of autumn wind tinkled the overhead bell again, and Hannah hastily closed the door behind her. “I would, indeed. However, I might be accepting your kind offer under false pretences. Recently I became employed by the Turnabout Gazette, and—”

Mrs. Fitzsimmons clapped her hands together like an excited child, despite the very adult and very distinguished emerald green dress she was wearing, with its square neckline and its embellishments of black filigree.

“And you would like permission to interview me? Why, what a splendid idea! I would be delighted to answer any questions you have. Here, you take that seat by the fire, as you mentioned earlier, and I’ll see about fetching refreshments.”

There must be a small kitchen tucked away somewhere in the back, Hannah realized, as she removed her coat and gloves to lay aside. Then she chose one of the fine parlor chairs and settled in.

The prevailing air was one of sensuous comfort, with the soothing crackle of the flames, and a feeling of luxury, and the perception of escaping the cares of an ordinary, possibly unpleasant world for a little taste of grandeur on the other side. Even the fragrance of lavender sachet and beeswax candles added to the ambiance.

“You have created a beautiful distraction from everyday woes here, Mrs. Fitzsimmons,” Hannah said, as her hostess rejoined her carrying a tea tray and all the accouterments.

“Oh, please, my dear, call me Abigail. Yes, I think I have,” the lady murmured with an expression of pride, looking around as she took another chair opposite. “It’s the vision I had in my head, and things seem to have turned out very well. Very well, indeed.”

Her speech held the faint hint of an accent. Quite upper class, and sprinkled with words not normally used in the rougher, sometimes saltier talk of the American west.

“Mmm, the tea is delicious. Thank you. Now, tell me—what was your vision for this place, Abigail?” Hannah set aside her cup and saucer to reach for the pencil and pad of paper without which she never left the office.

“One that, quite frankly, I hadn’t even considered until I landed here.” Abigail took a sip, closed her eyes as if in recall, and continued. “But perhaps I ought to start at the beginning, oughtn’t I?”

“Yes, that would probably be—”

“Why, Miss Burton, what a surprise to see you.”

Hannah, distracted, looked up. And stifled a groan as Dr. Gabriel Havers wandered out from the archives with a book in his hand and one finger marking the selected page. Truly, the man had proven himself to be an unbearable nuisance! Just when she was about to find out the nitty-gritty of Abigail Fitzsimmons’ trek from somewhere else to here—and why—there emerged the bane of Hannah’s existence to interrupt and delay. From Molly’s wedding to Cole’s funeral to Letty’s wedding, he had shown up to participate in the ceremonies as if he were a valued member of the expanding Burton family.

Well, by all rights, she must somewhat aggrievedly concede that, in a way, he was. His friendship with two of the new husbands was of many years’ standing, so she supposed she would have to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Pasting a false smile upon her too-readable face, she replied in much the same vein, then turned to her hostess. “You’re already open for business, Abigail?”

“Not quite yet, but I—”