bachelors."
"I was taunting you that morning, Mr. Tremayne. I don't actually expect you to write one out."
They pulled up in front of the cottage. "The question is whether to include myself."
Rachel wanted to drop through the floorboards. Had he been reading her mind? She tried to sound offhand. "Well, you are a bachelor. Theoretically, there's no reason why your name couldn't be included. But it's not of any significance, as I'm still in mourning."
He walked her to the porch and reached for his set of keys. "There are several reasons why my name should not appear. I'm your employer as well as your landlord. You seem to prefer the company of chimney sweeps and wayfarers. You refused my offer of supper, lest you be tempted to hurl insults and victuals at me. And there's the fact that you won't address me by my Christian name."
She slid past him into the house. "Tell Mr. Atkinson I'll finish the posting in the morning. I won't let on you deceived him into meeting with the masons, though I'm sure Chrissy will want to thank you. Good evening, Mr. Tremayne."
"Morgan," he corrected as she closed the door. "Good evening, Rachel."
Chapter 6
Long October shadows slanted across the floor of the office. Chrissy's pale hair shone like a halo as she chattered about the upcoming dance, bubbling with excitement. Rachel wrote out the last page of the correspondence Morgan had requested to be completed that day. She set the documents on his desk alongside the sealing wax, then breezed past Chrissy to collect Boyd's teacup. Chrissy pursued her to the tiny rear kitchen area.
"It sounds like a marvelous evening," Rachel sighed, "but I really can't go."
"You don't plan to wear black and sit home alone for the rest of your life, do you? Surely you've been widowed nearly a year, Rachel."
"Long enough to stop wearing weeds," Rachel admitted.
"Then what on earth are you waiting for? Good heavens! The Harvest Dance is the perfect opportunity to rejoin the living."
Rachel frowned slightly. Rejoining the living was just what she wanted to do, but not here. "You forget that I'm an American, Chrissy. I needed to get away after my husband died, but my father will send for me soon. It's better if I wear black until I return to the United States."
"Pooh! I think you're nervous about being courted again," Chrissy argued. "So what if you sail back to America one day? You can still have a social life in the meantime. Pull out one of your colorful gowns and come along. I've already spoken to Boyd and he's agreed to bring you as our guest."
"I did, and I'd be honored, Rachel. Ready, sweetheart?" Boyd had found the two women talking. He joined them, smiling at Chrissandra. They bid Rachel good evening and disappeared into the twilight.
Chrissy and her dreaming about colorful dresses... Rachel shook her head. There were none in her wardrobe. She'd fled Philadelphia with a single trunk, holding only the trappings of death. She could sew, of course, but wasn't about to set foot in the mercantile again to purchase fabric. Not after those horrible forged letters!
She didn't need to go to a dance. But the last time she'd been among happy people at a large gathering had been...God, literally years ago. What could it hurt to go and watch others having fun? But she'd have to make a trip somewhere to get a gown. There were several dressmakers in Newcastle. Chrissy mentioned that Pamela's gowns were made by women there. But Rachel didn't have transportation or time for fittings. If she took a few days off and went to London, she could purchase a finished gown and see her aunt again. She missed Violet.
And perhaps Violet would have news about Papa's investigations. The last letter Rachel received from him had depressed her. His men had located the desk clerk and the land speculator, whose statements only supported the case against her. The marshal maintained their testimony proved Richelle Nash had both motive and opportunity for the gambler's murder.
"I was taunting you that morning, Mr. Tremayne. I don't actually expect you to write one out."
They pulled up in front of the cottage. "The question is whether to include myself."
Rachel wanted to drop through the floorboards. Had he been reading her mind? She tried to sound offhand. "Well, you are a bachelor. Theoretically, there's no reason why your name couldn't be included. But it's not of any significance, as I'm still in mourning."
He walked her to the porch and reached for his set of keys. "There are several reasons why my name should not appear. I'm your employer as well as your landlord. You seem to prefer the company of chimney sweeps and wayfarers. You refused my offer of supper, lest you be tempted to hurl insults and victuals at me. And there's the fact that you won't address me by my Christian name."
She slid past him into the house. "Tell Mr. Atkinson I'll finish the posting in the morning. I won't let on you deceived him into meeting with the masons, though I'm sure Chrissy will want to thank you. Good evening, Mr. Tremayne."
"Morgan," he corrected as she closed the door. "Good evening, Rachel."
Chapter 6
Long October shadows slanted across the floor of the office. Chrissy's pale hair shone like a halo as she chattered about the upcoming dance, bubbling with excitement. Rachel wrote out the last page of the correspondence Morgan had requested to be completed that day. She set the documents on his desk alongside the sealing wax, then breezed past Chrissy to collect Boyd's teacup. Chrissy pursued her to the tiny rear kitchen area.
"It sounds like a marvelous evening," Rachel sighed, "but I really can't go."
"You don't plan to wear black and sit home alone for the rest of your life, do you? Surely you've been widowed nearly a year, Rachel."
"Long enough to stop wearing weeds," Rachel admitted.
"Then what on earth are you waiting for? Good heavens! The Harvest Dance is the perfect opportunity to rejoin the living."
Rachel frowned slightly. Rejoining the living was just what she wanted to do, but not here. "You forget that I'm an American, Chrissy. I needed to get away after my husband died, but my father will send for me soon. It's better if I wear black until I return to the United States."
"Pooh! I think you're nervous about being courted again," Chrissy argued. "So what if you sail back to America one day? You can still have a social life in the meantime. Pull out one of your colorful gowns and come along. I've already spoken to Boyd and he's agreed to bring you as our guest."
"I did, and I'd be honored, Rachel. Ready, sweetheart?" Boyd had found the two women talking. He joined them, smiling at Chrissandra. They bid Rachel good evening and disappeared into the twilight.
Chrissy and her dreaming about colorful dresses... Rachel shook her head. There were none in her wardrobe. She'd fled Philadelphia with a single trunk, holding only the trappings of death. She could sew, of course, but wasn't about to set foot in the mercantile again to purchase fabric. Not after those horrible forged letters!
She didn't need to go to a dance. But the last time she'd been among happy people at a large gathering had been...God, literally years ago. What could it hurt to go and watch others having fun? But she'd have to make a trip somewhere to get a gown. There were several dressmakers in Newcastle. Chrissy mentioned that Pamela's gowns were made by women there. But Rachel didn't have transportation or time for fittings. If she took a few days off and went to London, she could purchase a finished gown and see her aunt again. She missed Violet.
And perhaps Violet would have news about Papa's investigations. The last letter Rachel received from him had depressed her. His men had located the desk clerk and the land speculator, whose statements only supported the case against her. The marshal maintained their testimony proved Richelle Nash had both motive and opportunity for the gambler's murder.
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