“Hey now, missy—you disappear for months on end and there’s no telling what might change.” He gave her a wink. “Want one?”
“Two. But one’s for him.” She hooked a thumb at Peter and grinned. “Look after this one for me for a minute, will you, Pauly?”
Curiosity lit his eyes, but he only said, “Sure thing.”
Peter smiled. “I know my . . . my cue.”
Well then. Showtime. And perfectly timed—Willa was just finishing up her song, and the pub erupted in applause. Rosemary added a whistle to the mix, which nabbed her sister’s attention, and shouted out, “Irish, right?”
Eyes wide, Willa lunged for her. “Rosie! You’re home!” They held each other tight, Willa’s violin thumping Rosemary’s back, digging in.
She didn’t care. “Of course I’m home.”
“I’m sorry we fought.”
“Well.” They pulled away, and Rosemary smiled. “You were right—a bit. And wrong a bit.”
Willa set the violin on her stool on the little stage. “Care to explain that one?”
Rosemary just motioned for her to follow her toward their table.
Retta was the first to spot her, then Lucy. Soon they were all there, clamoring for a hug, talking over each other, shouting out questions and answers and laughter. She hugged them all and laughed along with them, then leaned against the table when Barclay told them all to sit down and let her get a word in.
He, naturally, sat in his usual place in the center and gave her that grin that bordered on too-handsome. “Well, I’d ask how the job went, Rosie-Posy, but given all those crisp pound notes Mr. V delivered a week ago, we already know that. And we’ve been waiting to spend it until you got home, I’ll have you know. Thought you deserve a say.”
She laughed. “Winter coats for everyone. Decent shoes. And, I think, a bottle of champagne. To celebrate.”
Barclay nodded his approval. “I am all for celebrating a job well done—and you certainly did it.”
“Oh, we’re not just celebrating the job. We’re celebrating the bet, Barclay Pearce.”
Beside her, Willa grabbed her arm. “You didn’t. You couldn’t have.”
“Oh, I did. I could.” Rosemary reached into her ever-present handbag, fished around for the metal, and dropped it onto the table in front of Barclay. The key ring fell with a happy clatter. “The keys to Kensey Manor, Penzance, Cornwall, sir. My new home.”
Barclay rolled his eyes. “Good try, Rosie, but those could be keys to an old steamer trunk, for all I know.”
“Hence why I didn’t just come with keys. I came with paperwork.” She pulled out the local Cornwall rag, already open to its society pages, and slapped it down in front of him.
Barclay’s brows knit. “Marriage announcements?”
“Because I didn’t just steal the manor, Barclay. I stole the master of the house too.”
For a moment, there was only silence within the pub’s din. Then . . . then, not silence.
“He married you?” Willa’s shrill squeal was in tandem with her jerking Rosemary’s hand from the table, nearly sending her sprawling. Her eyes went wide at the diamond and gold that sparkled in the light. “He married you!”
“He married me.” She may stop grinning about it eventually. Perhaps.
Retta leaned across the table to have a look too. “That was awfully fast, wasn’t it?”
“Well, I had to act before he changed his mind, you know.” Her eyes went to the bar, where Peter was straightening, and straightening the satchel on his shoulder. “He’s all the time changing his mind. Moving to the next new thing. Never can stick with a thing, can Peter Holstein, as Willa can attest to, having ridden in his vehicle of choice.”
Willa snorted a laugh. “His ancient horse and carriage, you mean? Oh yes. Obviously very fickle, that man.”
His eyes were smiling at her as he made his way through the crowd toward them. Rosemary settled on the edge of the table. “Then there was the other woman I had to contend with. Elowyn—pretty as you please but no match for my wiles, of course. And when we told her Peter and I were getting married, she cried for thirty . . . whole . . . seconds.”
He was only a few steps away now, his lips grinning along with his eyes. “Until she . . . she realized she got to keep . . . you around.”
“And you promised her a new dolly while you were in London.” She lifted a finger, pressed it to his chest. “You spoil that girl.”
He just chuckled.
Willa gave him a friendly punch in the arm. “You married her.”
“Now wait just a minute.” Barclay stood again, pushing his chair back with a clatter. “First of all, it’s not stealing a manor if he gives it to you.”
“I think it’s even better,” Georgie declared from his seat. “Takes far more skill, if you ask me.”
“Hear, hear!” Retta lifted her coffee mug.
Barclay just glared at them. “And moreover . . .” He turned that glare on Rosemary. “You can’t just go off marrying a man we’ve never even met. How am I supposed to know if he’s good enough for you?”
She glanced to Peter, who smiled and said, “You must be . . . be Barclay.”
“Yes, I am, and as the head of this family, it’s my responsibility to . . .” He frowned as Peter opened his satchel and started emptying it onto the table. “What are you doing?”
Peter didn’t look up. “B-Bribing you.”
“With books? You can’t appease me with books.” Though he reached for one and ran a hand along the smooth, crisp edge. The uncreased binding. “Even my favorite books.”
Rosemary tried, and failed, to bite back a smile. “Open it, you idiot. Read the inscription.”
“Inscription?” He flipped open the cover, tilted his head. “‘To Barclay, a new brother I cannot wait to get to know. Branok Hollow.’” For a moment he just stared at it. Then stared at her. “You . . .” At Peter. “He . . . ? You married Branok Hollow?”
At her nod, he slapped down the book and yelled out, “Pauly, champagne! We need champagne!”
Laughter sounded again, and chaos, and the scraping of more chairs. Peter was pushed into one, and Rosemary to the one beside him, and Pauly emerged with a dusty bottle just waiting to pop its cork. He hadn’t the right glasses for it, and no one got more than a few bubbles poured in their mugs, but that hardly mattered.
Barclay stood, his mug raised. “A toast! To Rosemary, one of my eight favorite sisters, and to our new brother, Branok.”
“Peter.” Rosemary grinned. “His real name is Peter.”
“I don’t care what his real name is, the book says Branok, I’m calling him Branok. Now, as I was saying—” Barclay waited for the laughter to die down before lifting his mug another few inches. “To Rosemary and her new husband. May you enjoy many happy years together. May you never forget to invite your family down for the holidays, nor fail to pay for their tickets.”
More laughter. Rosemary reached for Peter’s hand, found it, and squeezed. Maybe they would let them help. At least a little.
Barclay met her gaze. Smiled. “May you never forget that with the greatest risks come the greatest rewards. Cheers!”
“Cheers!” She drank her sip of bubbly, held her husband’s fingers tight in hers, and looked up when a familiar hand came to rest on her shoulder.
Pauly stood there, smiling down at her. Accepting her, as he always had done, however she was. “Been a good girl, Rosie?”
She leaned her cheek against his hand. “I have, actually. And you know what?” She surveyed this world, this family, these people who were hers, no matter their faults. And she smiled. “It’s not so bad.”
A Note from the Author
Sometimes I can trace a book back to one discovery or question—and that’s the case here. In my research for my previous series, I ran across the information that, during World War I, King George V had his last name legally changed from the German-sounding Saxe-Coburg to the more English-sounding Windsor.
That stuck in my mind, and as I was exploring options for a new series, I started there. Which promptly led me to the question of, “What if someone else contemplated doing the same thing?” A little more reading, and I also discovered that some of England’s most popular novelists were recruited by the government during the war to include propaganda messages in their novels—many specifically targeting American readers. Within a few hours, I had my stuttering novelist of German descent, and a thief trying to steal his good name. And I was thoroughly enamored with them both.
I loved learning about the beautiful region of Cornwall and describing for you some of the breathtaking scenery to be found there, which I had the pleasure of seeing for myself while still editing this book. I loved giving you a glimpse of Prince Edward, who did indeed manage to visit the front lines during the war, earning himself a medal in the process—he was a prince who was sung as a hero, loved by his people . . . and was king only for a year, after which he abdicated the crown to his younger brother so that he could marry the woman he loved (a divorcée, which wasn’t sanctioned by the Church).
But most of all, I loved exploring the hearts and minds of these characters from two very different worlds and finding where they’d have common ground.
I can’t, of course, speak to the thought processes of all novelists, but I will tell you that Peter’s lapses into thinking about his novel are very much the way I go through my days when I’m actively involved in a story. You just never know what fleeting glimpse or random statement might trigger something for me. And though I don’t keep my office door shut (wouldn’t even if I had one), my family does know that they might have to ask for something two or three (or five) times before I actually hear what they’re saying and get up to respond. I once even shushed my children because my characters were trying to avoid detection. The mind of a writer can be a crazy thing—I hope you enjoyed diving a bit into Peter’s.
And I hope you join me for the rest of the series! Rosemary’s family is in for a lot of adventure during the war years, thanks to Mr. V.
And remember—with the greatest risks come the greatest rewards.
Roseanna M. White pens her novels beneath her Betsy Ross flag, with her Jane Austen action figure watching over her. When not writing fiction, she’s homeschooling her two children, editing and designing, and pretending her house will clean itself. Roseanna is the author of over a dozen historical novels and novellas, ranging from biblical fiction to American-set romances to her series set in Britain. She makes her home in the breathtaking mountains of West Virginia. You can learn more about her and her stories at www.roseannawhite.com.
Books by Roseanna M. White
LADIES OF THE MANOR
The Lost Heiress
The Reluctant Duchess
A Lady Unrivaled
SHADOWS OVER ENGLAND
A Name Unknown
Resources: bethanyhouse.com/AnOpenBook
Website: www.bethanyhouse.com
Facebook: Bethany House
Twitter: @Bethany House
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