Bridal Favors

by Connie Brockway

  “The label is as clear as day,” Mr. Silsby said. “And you’re the only one what’s been getting crates and such.”

  “But I’ve already received everything I’ve ordered thus far, and I only telegrammed in my latest orders yesterday afternoon. They couldn’t possibly be shipped so quickly.”

  The man in the trilby hovered nearby, waiting patiently.

  Mr. Silsby shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. But these have the abbey address posted on them and that’s where they need to go. Here. Take a look, why don’t you?”

  “All right,” she agreed. The blond man leapt forward to hold the door open for her, drawing Mr. Silsby’s attention. “Oh, Mr. Blumfield. I got your shipment inside. If you can just wait for a few minutes, I’ll have you sign for it.”

  “Please,” Mr. Blumfield agreed. “You must, of course, see to this young lady first.”

  A foreign accent flavored his speech. Evelyn smiled at his excellent manners as he doffed his hat to her, thinking that Justin might have retained at least some of the more charming aspects of a Don Juan. Not that this young man seemed in the least bit slick. He looked shy and eager. Which was very nice.

  She preceded both men into the station, where four square crates stood stacked against the wall. Beyond these was a tall wooden box.

  “There’s your order, Mr. Blumfield,” Mr. Silsby said, nodding toward the wooden box and pointing to a large flat label on top of one of the crates. “See, Lady Evelyn? Clear as day. North Cross Abbey, Henley Wells, East Sussex.”

  “Well, they’re not mine, so I suppose they must belong to Mr. Powell. He’ll have to send someone back for them.”

  The manager pulled out his pocket watch and tapped the face significantly. “That’s the problem. Mr. Powell has left explicit instructions that if anything, and he said anything, arrived addressed to him I was to straight off send someone to fetch either him or Beverly. Now, this ain’t addressed to him, but you say it ain’t yours, and the station’s closing in half an hour.”

  “Tomorrow, then.”

  “Have to wait ’til Monday, I’m afraid. I’m taking my wife to see her mum tomorrow, and the next day be Sunday.”

  She hoped Justin didn’t need whatever these crates contained. She hesitated. “Perhaps you could stay open a bit later today?”

  “My Elsie’d have my skin. Today’s Friday.” At her flummoxed expression he explained. “Sausage day.”

  Heaven forbid that she should come between a man and his sausage, Evelyn thought, eyeing the manager’s girth.

  “Excuse me.”

  Evelyn and the manager looked around. Mr. Blumfield had taken off his hat again and was turning it by the brim in his hands. “I cannot help but overhear that perhaps the young lady is in some difficulty?”

  “No. Just a spot of inconvenience, is all.”

  “It has to do with transporting these crates?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But I can remedy!” His smile transformed his ordinary features. “I have a wagon, by which means I will transport my own shipment. I would be most honored if you allowed me to be of assistance.”

  “You are very kind, but I couldn’t impose on you.”

  “But it is no imposition. Perhaps you hesitate because we are not properly introduced? Then let us remedy this. I am Ernst Blumfield, who has, with my brother Gregory, rented the Cookes’ charming cottage. And you are Lady Evelyn Cummings Whyte of North Cross Abbey.”

  “How did you know that?” she asked.

  His gaze fell to the floor, disarming her. “Because I have seen you, Lady Evelyn, sometimes when I am walking by the abbey, and I made so bold as to inquire.”

  He looked up, as eager to please as a spaniel pup. “So you see it will be my very great pleasure to offer you this small aid.” He glanced at the stacked crates. “Though I fear my wagon is not sufficient to hold all of these. Two, perhaps. But there will be room for your bicycle, too.”

  “If you’re sure it won’t be too much trouble?”

  “Not at all.” Ernst Blumfield’s face lit with delight. He replaced his hat. “If you please, Mr. Silsby, will you have these loaded into my vehicle?”

  “Aye.” The manager pulled open the door and shouted that he had a quid’s worth of loading to do. A minute later two teenage boys slunk into the office, looking about warily, as if the odds of their being in trouble were about as likely as their being hired.

  While they loaded the wagon, Ernst picked up her bicycle and stowed it behind the seat. Then, bowing, he gestured for her to precede him.

  He had a lovely way about him, so respectful and modest. And while his dress was inconspicuous, it was well cut and the fabric good.

  He assisted her into the seat and climbed in after her, visually checking the arrangement of the articles in the back. Then he clucked to the pony and they were off.

  “It is a most beautiful day for bicycling,” he said after a few minutes. “I, too, am an enthusiast. In fact, the box in the back contains my newest acquisition, which is a bicycle.”

  “Really?” she asked.

  He nodded excitedly.

  “Well, then, I would be most interested in hearing just what manufacturer you chose. I am considering the purchase of a new machine, myself.”

  He smiled again, quite clearly tickled that she wanted his opinion. “I would be pleased to be of whatever service I can. You have simply but to ask.”

  “Ah. Then let me begin. Is it an American machine? Because I have heard that . . .”

  The drive back to the abbey went quickly. Ernst was quite scholarly on the subject of bicycles and had done a good bit of research before committing to the purchase of a Dursley Pederson machine that she was simply dying to see. Not only was it the newest thing in bicycle manufacturing, but it cost a small fortune.

  They were still discussing the pros and cons of his new bicycle’s triangulated tubing construction when they arrived at the abbey. Ernst reined in the pony. “We are here.”

  “So we are,” Evelyn said.

  He climbed down out of the carriage and looked around. There was no convenient place to tie the pony. “If you would kindly wait with the beast, I shall go find some men to unload these things.”

  “Of course.” She picked up the reins, though she seriously doubted whether the pony, who stood head down, desultorily swishing its tail, was thinking of bolting.

  Idly, she flicked the reins back and forth across her lap, chasing an annoying fly. She wondered if she would be too bold if she asked Mr. Blumfield if, after he’d unpacked his bicycle, she might come by and see—

  “Plotting the overthrow of some nation?”

  Startled, she looked around. Justin had emerged from the edge of the forest. His jacket was slung over his shoulder, and his binoculars swung from a strap around his neck.

  “Oh. Hello, Justin.”

  “’Allo, Evie.” He walked to her side of the carriage and took the reins from her hand, wrapping them around the brake. “Want out of there?”

  She nodded absently and stood, reaching down to place her hands on Justin’s broad shoulders. He was warm under the white shirt, and the sun-toasted scent of bleached linen rose like perfume, bright and pleasant. He put his hands around her waist and lifted her straight off her feet, holding her aloft as he looked around for a likely spot to deposit her.

  She waited, suspended in midair.

  He’d done it before, picked her up when a simple hand to offer balance would have sufficed. Knowing him as she now did, she believed he did that sort of thing because he just didn’t see the difference between a friendly hand and this far more substantial effort. He really was, as her mother had suggested a few weeks ago, a bit oblivious.

  At first she’d been a shade uncomfortable with such physical familiarity. But it soon became clear it was only his way, like the laxity of his dress, the rumpled locks, the easygoing manner. If she were to resist his friendly overtures, she’d look a silly, prudish spinster.


  And as for holding her aloft, well, in spite of his lackadaisical manner, Justin was an extremely fit man. He walked to the edge of the grass and set her on her feet. He peered down into her face.

  “What?” she said, touching her cheek and wondering if she’d driven with Mr. Blumfield all the way from Henley Wells with a smudge on it. “What!”

  He moved closer, bending so that he was eye level with her. His breath was warm on her mouth, and sweet. He’d been chewing mint leaves. “Is that dirt on your nose, or are they freckles?”

  “I do not have freckles.”

  He laughed at her huff of indignation. His eyes danced, his smile broadened. He adored teasing her.

  “Lady Evelyn?” Mr. Blumfield’s voice startled her. She’d forgotten him.

  “Here I am, Mr. Blumfield,” she called cheerily. She had to stand on tiptoe to look over Justin’s shoulders. She waved. Justin went quite still.

  “Ah! My dear Lady Evelyn, I was worrying that perhaps I had imagined our delightful drive, and that you were but a happy figment of my imagination,” he said, his tone jocular.

  “Mr. Blumfield?” Justin whispered, his back to Ernst. “Now, where did you find Mr. Blumfield? And however did you manage in so short a time to become his dear Lady Evelyn?”

  Smiling determinedly over his shoulder, she said between her teeth, “Behave!”

  Mr. Blumfield was coming toward them, a tentative smile on his face, as though he were uncertain of his welcome. Behind him, a man began unloading the cart.

  “I am. That’s the problem, damn it,” Justin replied with a hint of frustration before turning. He eyed Ernst pleasantly enough, but Evelyn wasn’t comfortable. There was something off about the way Justin regarded him.

  He looked rumpled and mild enough, and yet Evelyn could not get rid of an impression of—she grappled with a word to express what she sensed—danger. He didn’t look dangerous; he felt dangerous.

  Which was totally and completely mad. Justin Powell was the least dangerous man she knew. He was an ornithologist, for heaven’s sake. And oblivious, nonchalant, bohemian. A one-time ladies’ man who’d most likely given up the endeavor as being too strenuous.

  Dangerous, indeed! She was going to have to stop reading those penny dreadfuls she’d found in the library.

  “Justin, this is your neighbor, Mr. Ernst Blumfield,” she said. “He generously offered me, and these crates,” she pointed at the boxes, “a ride home.”

  “Did he, now?” Justin asked.

  “Yes, and a good thing, too. Mr. Silsby has closed the office for the next few days. As it is, there are two more crates still down there. But they’ll have to wait until Monday now to be fetched.”

  “Did you need them, Evie?”

  “I don’t think they’re mine,” she admitted. Nothing in his manner or expression changed, but she could have sworn her words startled Justin. “I thought they might be yours.”

  He shrugged. “Doubtful. Unless . . . One of them might be some taxidermy equipment I ordered. Fancy it’s getting here so soon. I guess I owe you my thanks, Mr. Blumfield—”

  “Taxidermy equipment!” Evelyn gasped. “Justin Powell, if you think I’ve had this abbey scrubbed top to bottom so you can fill it with the vile scent of chemicals—”

  “Please, Evie,” he said, holding his hand up and shooting an apologetic look at Ernst, “not in front of the kinder. Besides,” he added, “there are no chemicals.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief before noting the look of confusion on Ernst’s face. She forged on with introductions. “Mr. Blumfield and his brother have rented the next cottage down. Regrettably, his brother is unwell. It was suggested that the cool, damp evenings and warm days of the countryside might aid his recovery.”

  “Ah! Jolly damp nights, jolly warm days,” Justin said, nodding wisely. Evelyn could have throttled him.

  “Mr. Blumfield, this is Justin Powell. He owns the abbey.”

  Ernst stuck his hand out and Justin shook it. “I am so pleased to finally make your acquaintance, Mr. Powell. You are spoken of most highly in Henley Wells.”

  “As well I should be,” Justin replied lazily. “The local scoundrels at the pub tap me for a round of drinks every time I venture into town.”

  Ernst blushed, unused to Justin’s odd humor. “No, no,” he demurred. “Everyone says only good of you, sir. The Powell family is most august. Most respected.”

  “You must have been chatting the lads up after closing time, when they were feeling all friendly and congenial,” Justin commented.

  “Chatting up? I am unsure of your meaning,” Ernst replied, looking to Evelyn for guidance.

  “He’s being tiresome. Ignore him. He doesn’t mean any harm,” Evelyn explained. “He fondly imagines that by rebutting any suggestion his family is respected, he might be perceived as modest. Despite appearances,” she shot a telling glance at the open throat of Justin’s shirt, the rolled-up sleeves, and the scuffed shoes, “he has a most lofty opinion of himself.”

  During the course of Evelyn’s explanation, Justin had leaned against the wagon and was smiling at her encouragingly. Poor Ernst only looked more and more confounded. He glanced appealingly at Justin.

  “She knows me too well,” Justin admitted cheerfully.

  “You are maybe her brother?”

  “Good God, no!” Justin burst out, causing a sharp jab of pain somewhere in the vicinity of Evelyn’s . . . pride.

  “No, no,” she added her voice to his denial. He looked at her strangely.

  “I did not think so,” Ernst said. “But when I saw how—”

  “How cavalier I was with her, you imagined that the relationship was fraternal?” Justin suggested mildly.

  “Yes. That’s correct,” Ernst replied.

  “No. No blood relation at all,” Justin said with odd emphasis.

  Evelyn felt a betraying burn race up her throat. Impossible to pretend she didn’t understand. “Ha! It is purely a business relationship.”

  It dawned on her how this must look to an old-fashioned gentleman like Ernst Blumfield. “And, of course, I am chaperoned,” she ended, demurely dropping her gaze.

  “You are?” Justin asked incredulously, making Evelyn want to strangle him. “By whom?

  “Merry,” she said tautly.

  “Oh. Merry. Didn’t realize she was the chaperon. From the goings-on I’ve witnessed between her and Buck, I’d say she’s the least—”

  “Ha, ha,” Evelyn interrupted, forcing a laugh. “Mr. Powell is a great tease.”

  “Not I. Now, Merry . . .”

  She turned her back on him, her skirts snapping. Securing Mr. Blumfield’s arm, she dragged him away from Justin and whatever other horrible, indiscreet things he’d been about to say.

  Ernst beamed. “Lady Evelyn, perhaps you might do me the honor of coming to our cottage tomorrow afternoon that I might show you the bicycle?”

  “Without a chaperon?” Justin asked from close behind. The scoundrel was following them! “I shouldn’t think that would be bloody likely.”

  Ernst turned beet-red and Evelyn swung around, mortified that Justin should have embarrassed Mr. Blumfield. “You have a very nasty mind,” she said. She turned back to Ernst. “I was hoping you would ask, Mr. Blumfield.”

  But Ernst wasn’t looking at her, he was gazing penitently at Justin. “I have made a terrible faux pas. My ignorance is unforgivable. Of course, she must not come unescorted. You are right to protect her reputation.”

  “You meant no harm,” Justin proclaimed magnanimously. It was too much.

  “Just when,” Evelyn said to Ernst in the calm, careful tones that would have alerted her family to a brewing storm, “did you first perceive that I had lost my reasoning abilities?”

  Ernst stared at her, round-eyed. “Lady Evelyn?”

  “Because clearly something must have alerted you to the fact that I am incapable of making decisions for myself and thus must rely on another.”

&nbs
p; “I . . . I . . .” Clearly, Ernst’s mastery of the language did not extend to sarcasm. He looked at her, unhappily detecting that she was angry. “May I ride the bicycle here tomorrow, perhaps?”

  “Oh!” She gave up being angry. It did little good when one was dealing with children; apparently the same was true of men. “Fine. Ride it over here. I shouldn’t take much time away from the bridal preparations, anyway.”

  Justin smirked. Ernst breathed a deep, heartfelt sigh of relief. “Good. I look forward to it, so much. And now, my brother awaits me. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Powell.” He bowed formally.

  Justin touched two fingers to his brow in a mock salute. Evelyn wanted to shake him and was so busy envisioning it that she was startled when Ernst suddenly clasped both her hands and lifted them, clasping them to his chest.

  “Until tomorrow then, Lady Evelyn. I bid you adieu.” He gave her hands a little squeeze.

  “Huh? Oh. Yes.” She smiled. “Adieu.”

  He didn’t let her hands go, but stood gazing into her eyes. “I am so glad we met.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I wish my brother could meet you. He would find you as charming as I.”

  “That would be the brother that’s waiting?” Justin asked loudly.

  “Yes. Gregory. I am reminded he awaits.” Ernst released her hands. “Until then.”

  He climbed aboard, snapped the reins lightly, and waved. “Good-bye!”

  “Good-bye!” Evelyn said, waving back.

  Justin stepped away from the wagon and lifted a hand in farewell. “Must be Prussian,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth, watching the cart disappear.

  “Now, why do you say that?” Evelyn asked, turning to him, her hands on her hips.

  “They never leave until they’ve said good-bye at least half a dozen times. Must be a national trait.” He screwed his face up, clearly in love with the idea. “In fact, if you consider it in that light, Mr. Blumfield’s reluctance to be the first to turn around might be culturally ingrained.”

  He’d piqued her curiosity. “And why would that be?”