Murder on Black Friday (Nell Sweeney Mysteries, Book 4) by P.B. Ryan

Author:P.B. Ryan
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: romantic suspense, mystery, historical fiction, gilded age, love story, amateur sleuth, boston, americana, historical novel, beach read, women sleuths, mystery series, historical mystery, governess, boston irish, nell sweeney, boston history

Chapter 8

Uncle Will!” Gracie exclaimed when she opened the lid of the big, iron-banded trunk she’d just unwrapped. “Oh, thank you! Thank you!” Her little friends, gathered around her like a bouquet of spring flowers in their frocks of taffeta and satin, contributed a chorus of oohs and ahhs.

The velvet-lined trunk, which bore the label M. Jumeau - Paris, housed six exquisite bisque fashion dolls, each wearing a traditional provincial costume. “They represent different regions in France,” Will explained as the dolls were passed from one enraptured little girl to the next. “That one with the lace bonnet and the blue neckerchief is from Poitou. The one you’re holding, Gracie, with the blue skirt, is from Brittany. The others are from Provence, Alsace, Pyrenees, and Bourgogne.”

The trunk yielded up a vast collection of accessories, as well—hats, fans, shoes, stockings, gloves, brushes, combs, jewelry, baskets, purses, mirrors, even pets, one for each doll; two dogs, two cats, a duck, and a lamb.

“Look!” said one of the girls as she turned the head of the Burgundian doll to the side. “It moves!”

This innovation inspired a new flurry of excitement. The girlish squeals put Nell in mind of a skyful of bats. Nurse Parrish awoke with a start from her armchair doze in the corner, looked around blearily, and went back to sleep.

“They’re wonderful! Oh, Uncle Will, I love them. I love you.” Gracie opened her arms to Will, who knelt to return the embrace.

“I love you, too, ma petite.” Will kissed his daughter’s cheek and pulled her close, burying his face in her hair.

Nell felt a fist close around her heart, squeezing, squeezing... She noticed Viola, watching Will and Gracie from her Merlin chair in the doorway of the festively decorated front parlor. The older woman looked up and met Nell’s gaze. Even from across the room, Nell could see her eyes glimmering wetly in the sunlight sweeping in through the windows.

Viola reached into her sleeve for her handkerchief, but Max Thurston, standing behind her with his hands on the grips of her chair, swiftly produced his own and shook it out for her. The elderly playwright had met the Hewitt matriarch only about an hour ago, when he arrived for Gracie’s birthday tea with a picnic hamper containing a beribboned poodle pup for Gracie and a flagon of Martinez cocktails for himself, but they seemed to have taken to each other with remarkable speed. Not that surprising, really, when Nell thought about it. Max and Viola were both iconoclasts in their own way, both outsiders stuck, for better or for worse, in the gilded cage of Boston aristocracy. They would have much in common, once one scratched the surface—and they were both, despite their upper-crust veneers, not above a bit of scratching now and then.

Max bent to Viola and whispered something. Nell read his lips: “Are you quite all right, my dear?” Only Max could get away with calling a lady he’d just met—one of the most venerable matrons in Boston, no less—“my dear.

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