Her carpetbag remained clutched in her fist the entire time, except when her hand would wander into its depths to palm the tiny pistol she always carried. By now, however, they were both painfully aware she needn’t take four stops to read two letters. He’d attempted polite conversation at first, which she’d rebuffed with equal civility by feigning interest in her correspondence. The second, she could no longer afford a first-class, private railcar, and had, for the last several tense hours, been forced to share her vestibule face-to-face with a rough-featured, stocky man with shoulders made for labor. The terse, vague note Alexandra now held was more of a warning than the message contained therein. The first, she had been unable to stop fretting for Francesca, who tended to give more than the appropriate amount of context. Maynemouth, Devonshire, 1890Ten years laterĪccept the invitation to Castle Redmayne.Īlexandra Lane had spent the entire train ride from London to Devonshire meticulously pondering those fourteen words for two separate reasons.
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