Tilby, Lincolnshire, 1811. Miss Sophia Landon is the daughter of an impoverished clergyman. Her father's health is failing fast, but who wants to marry a woman without birth, beauty or wealth? Her prospects are limited indeed - until her friendship...
Well, now, an' how was that fer a wild tale? Ye wouldn't think so much could happen in a place like Tilby, but every word is true—that I swear.
Matters quietened a great deal afterwards, an' a good thing too. The fine people o' Tilby are much like the rest o' their kind: they like their peace an' quiet. An' who can blame them? I like a little quiet meself.
Miss Sophy left Tilby, as you might ha' guessed. Took herself an' Mary an' Thundigle off t' Grenlowe. Oh, they are fine an' thrivin' an' happy indeed—thanks fer askin'! Ye may be able to find them there, if ye would like to visit: just ask fer Silverling—thas the name o' Miss Sophy's shop.
Tilby got theirselves a new parson. His name is Mr. Reed, an' I can't say as I've taken to him all that much. Oh, he's popular in these parts: a young gentleman, and unmarried. Richer than poor Mr. Landon, too; they say he has other income o' some kind. Ye may imagine the delight felt by some o' the young ladies. He courted Miss Adair fer a time, an' when she proved too high-an'-mighty fer him he transferred his affections, as he is pleased to term them, t' Miss Ellerby. I hope she'll have better taste. He is a fine, pompous chap, everso pleased wi' himself and none too pleased wi' the rest o' mankind—or fae-kind neither. He won't have a brownie anywhere near his house! He needn't ha' worried, for they dislikes him every bit as much.
Grunewald is still about. He likes tha' Hyde Place, I suppose, or perhaps there's somethin' else as keeps him by. He has yet to delight the Tilby folk by marryin' any one o' their daughters. Nothin' has ever been seen o' Mr. Stanton, of course, nor Aubranael; not in Tilby, anyhow. Miss Adair is said to be inconsolable; but her Mama is takin' her to London soon enough, an' there she will find many a rich gentleman to mend her wounded heart.
Oh, ye'll no doubt be pleased t' hear that Miss Daverill is married. Yes! She is an odd little thing, an' can be a tiny bit tirin', I'll not deny; but still I was pleased as punch when she became Mrs. Ash. They's said to be quite the happy couple.
Well, but I'm ramblin' on, an' all ye really want to hear about is Miss Sophy and Aubranael! So hearken t' me just a few minutes more, an' I'll tell all...
Sophy sat in her favourite rocking-chair in the front parlour of her shop, a pile of sewing in her lap and a cup of steaming tea at her elbow. The late summer sun shone through the open window, bathing her in golden light; she could not help smiling. Not since before the death of her father had she felt such blissful contentment.
Ουπς! Αυτή η εικόνα δεν ακολουθεί τους κανόνες περιεχομένου. Για να συνεχίσεις με την δημοσίευση, παρακαλώ αφαίρεσε την ή ανέβασε διαφορετική εικόνα.
There was a kitchen in the back of the building, and Mary was hard at work within it; Sophy could hear her singing. Thundigle was helping her, whistling along with her song as he did so. They were making delicate pastry tarts, filling them with a jam made from the strange and delicious fruits that grew among the orchards of Grenlowe. Later they would pack them into a basket and wander the streets of the town, selling the contents. The basket would be empty within half-an-hour, in all likelihood, for Mary and Thundigle's confections were becoming legendary.
