Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
T he next day, Adelia made a list of errands for Ewart and Abigail to run. Ewart looked it over once she handed it to him. “Print shop, book shop, tailors?” He glanced up at her. “Is there something we need to pick up?”
“Not yet,” Adelia said. “I want you to be measured for some evening wear. Unless, of course, you’ve brought your own?”
“I’m afraid not,” he admitted. “I wasn’t planning on attending balls or parties while I’m in America, but if it is part of my duties, I will certainly see it done.”
She smiled. “See that you do. I’m sure you’ll look rather enchanting in evening wear.”
He laughed. “My mother thinks so.” He left it at that. Back home, he was considered quite the catch. He returned his attention to the list. “After the tailors, you want us to…” He frowned, giving her a quizzical look. “Have lunch at Explore? I must ask, what does that entail?”
Adelia put a hand over her mouth and giggled. “Of all things!”
“I dare say, Mrs. Pettigrew…”
“What do you call me?” she cut in.
“Very well, Adelia,” he conceded. “I dare say this is an odd sort of list.”
“You’ll get used to it,” she replied.
Abigail entered the drawing room. She was dressed in her maid’s uniform and wore a long cloak, which she was tying beneath her chin. “Mr. Tugs gave me the money, ma’am. Mr. Bailey and I will be off now.” She gave Ewart an expectant look. “Are ye ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” He tucked the list into his coat pocket, then pulled on his gloves. That done, he smiled at Abigail. “Shall we?”
She gave him a curt nod and headed for the grand foyer and the front door. Outside, the sky was a clear blue with a few scattered clouds. There was a nip in the air, but that was to be expected at this time of year. A carriage jingled down the street, pulled by a magnificent white horse. Ewart took a moment to admire it as it rolled by.
“That’s the Simpson carriage,” Abigail informed him. “Chastity is engaged to Dalton Simpson, in case ye didn’t know.”
“I’m still learning everyone’s names,” he admitted.
They went down the walk and through the gate, and Ewart felt a sense of freedom. He had a job he anticipated enjoying, a large mansion to live in, and an interesting employer with an equally interesting staff. It was the perfect setting to write his novels, and in time, he was sure he’d have his current manuscript organized.
He cast Abigail a sidelong glance as she walked beside him. Adelia had been smiling an awful lot while writing out her list of errands, and he suspected she was plotting something—but he couldn’t put his finger on what. Of course, he was perfectly capable of handling the errands on his own, but perhaps she wanted to ensure they were done in a timely manner and that he became familiar with this part of town. It was new to him, and Adelia likely thought Abigail would be a good guide.
He gave the maid another sidelong glance. He fancied the way the sun glinted off her coppery hair. Her blue eyes stared straight ahead, and she walked with purpose, as if she couldn’t wait to get to the business district—or to get away from him? He quietly chuckled at the thought, then quickly sobered. What if she truly didn’t like his company?
She walked briskly, her head held high. Each step was precise, efficient. She was nervous. From what he’d observed so far, Abigail was made of quiet resilience, with a decent heart for children. Adelia had told him after dinner last night that Abigail often played with them, acting as both nanny and governess at times.
Abigail’s blue eyes scanned the street with a mix of alertness and curiosity. He wondered if that curiosity was aimed at him or at what might unfold during their outing. He supposed she was somewhat at ease, but also ready for anything.
It wasn’t long before they left the residential area and entered the business district. “May I see Mrs. Pettigrew’s note she gave ye?” she asked.
Ewart pulled the note from his coat pocket and handed it to her. She read it, then glanced at him with a knowing smile. “Detailed as always, but we’ll see if Mr. McBain follows her instructions this time.”
He raised an eyebrow in concern. “What do you mean?”
“The printer likes to move words around when it suits him. He’s done it more than once, and let me tell you, Mrs. Pettigrew is never happy about it.” She gave a curt nod and continued down the sidewalk.
Ewart could see the print shop up ahead and noticed how Abigail’s back went rigid, as if she were bracing for battle. Perhaps she was. He glanced at the list in his hand. “Adelia specified everything for the invitations. I don’t think there’s much room for deviation on Mr. McBain’s part.”
“Oh, trust me, he’ll try,” she said with a nervous laugh. “The man fancies himself an artist. For heaven’s sake, he runs a print shop, not a gallery of famous paintings!”
He smiled as they crossed the street. The business district bustled with activity. Carriages clattered past, and vendors hawked their wares—one with a flower cart bursting with blooms, another selling fruits and vegetables, and yet another showcasing puppets of all things.
Ewart, though accustomed to the busy streets of London, still marveled at the liveliness surrounding him. The business district was charming, colorful, and he noted, with pleasure, the light in Abigail’s eyes as she took it all in.
“My,” she breathed as she stared at the flower cart across the street. “Don’t those tulips look nice?”
“They’re very colorful,” he agreed. He also had to admit that Abigail’s company was pleasant. Ewart had always enjoyed sharing new experiences with someone, even if it was just venturing into an unfamiliar part of town. Maybe that was why Adelia had sent the two of them to complete her errands.
They reached the print shop, a small brick building wedged between a bakery and a milliner. The front windows were filled with samples of pamphlets, wedding invitations, broadsides, and even a few small books. Ewart opened the door and bid Abigail to step inside with a wave of his hand. A bell tinkled above the door as she did, and Ewart was curious to see how she would handle the rogue printer, Mr. McBain.
Abbey marched up to the counter while Ewart took in his surroundings. The space was cluttered with stacks of newspapers and pamphlets, each piled haphazardly along one wall. Drawers of metal type sat behind the counter. A man with spectacles perched on his nose looked up from a press behind the drawers.
Wiping his ink-stained hands on a cloth, he smiled at Abigail. “Well, well, what does Mrs. Pettigrew want now? Has she got the specifics for her wedding invitations?”
Ewart handed the list to Abigail, who held it up before her. “She does,” Abigail declared. “And they’re to be followed to the letter.”
Mr. McBain took the list from her and read over the text. He glanced up once, giving Ewart a curious look, then returned his attention to Adelia’s instructions. “She doesn’t want these improved?”
“If by ‘improved,’ ye mean changing everything, then no, absolutely not,” Abigail snapped.
Ewart tried not to cringe. “What Abigail means is that Mrs. Pettigrew would very much appreciate it if you followed the text exactly as written. Should you change anything, you will be required to redo the invitations at no cost. Is that understood?”
Abigail’s eyes flicked to him, then to Mr. McBain. “Aye. That’s what she said.”
Ewart smiled. “Mrs. Pettigrew is very clear in her instructions. As I said, I strongly suggest you follow them.”
Mr. McBain adjusted the spectacles on his nose. Ewart did the same out of habit and waited for the man’s response.
Mr. McBain looked over the instructions again, muttering to himself. “Let’s see… silver trim, ivory cardstock. I can have these ready by week’s end. I’ll send a messenger when they’re done.” He narrowed his eyes at Abigail. “I’m running on time currently.”
Abigail lifted her chin higher. “And it’s a good thing, too,” she said sharply. “Last time Mrs. Pettigrew had invitations printed, you were a month behind.”
Ewart chuckled. “I suppose being forewarned is being forearmed. We’ll not say a word and wait for the messenger to arrive.” He looked at Abigail. “Are we done here, then?”
“Aye.” Without another word, she spun on her heel and left the shop.
Ewart lingered a moment to take in his surroundings once more. He loved paper, pens, anything he could write on. He’d have to return to the shop alone sometime so he could browse at leisure and speak with Mr. McBain properly.
Outside, Abigail stood with her arms crossed, tapping her foot.
“Impatient to get going?” he asked.
“The things on that list aren’t going to get done with you lollygagging. We’ve got the bookshop next—let’s go.” She started off at a brisk pace.
Ewart chuckled at her steadfastness and followed. He delighted in the way the morning breeze caught a loose strand of her hair, lifting it from her cheek. He could do with a new story himself and wondered what kind of books Abigail liked to read.
The bookshop was nestled a block away from the print shop. Inside, it was cozy, with shelves stretching nearly to the ceiling. Ewart breathed in the scent of leather bindings and parchment. To him, this was home. He had a feeling he’d be spending much of his free time here.
“Good morning, Miss O’Connell,” said a middle-aged man behind the counter. “Picking up a book for Mrs. Pettigrew?”
“Aye, and browsing a bit.” She moved to the nearest shelf and began scanning the spines. Then she glanced back at the shop owner. “This here is Mr. Bailey, Mrs. Pettigrew’s new assistant.” She smirked. “He fancies himself a writer.”
Ewart caught the teasing tone in her voice and frowned. Striding straight to the counter, he placed his hands on it. “Tell me, do you have a copy of Murder in the Glen ?”
“I do, actually. I’ve read it. It’s not bad. You like mysteries, do you?” the shop owner asked.
“I do. Could you fetch me the book?”
“Indeed. I’ll be right back.”
Abigail looked over her shoulder at him, a book in her hand. “Is that the sort of story you want to write?”
He smiled and leaned against the counter.
“Well?” she prompted.
His smile widened just as the shop owner returned, book in hand.
“Give that to Abigail,” Ewart said.
The shop owner shrugged and handed it to her. “So, you like mysteries too, eh? I thought you preferred romance.”
She blushed and took the book. “What am I to do with this?”
“Well,” Ewart said, “if you want to see whether or not I can write, you might read it.”
She looked at the cover, then the spine, then began leafing through the pages. “You wrote this? But that’s not your name on the cover.”
“Charles Driscoll is a nom de plume . But I have the original manuscript with me, as I’m working on a sequel.”
She gaped at him, then at the book. “Very well. I’ll read it.” She tucked it under her arm, then turned stiffly back to the shelves.
Ewartshouldn’t smile. But he couldn’t help himself. Part of him wanted to know what she thought.
Pulling the list from his pocket, he handed it to the shop owner. “We’re not only picking up books—Mrs. Pettigrew would like to order some as well.”
The shop owner took the list, quickly perused it, and got to work.