Place Called Bliss, A by Glover Ruth

Author:Glover, Ruth [Glover, Ruth]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Politics & Social Sciences, FIC014000, Religion & Spirituality, Genre Fiction, Philosophy, Theology, Atheism, Spirituality, Religious Studies, Historical, Historical Fiction, Christianity, Religious, Literature & Fiction
ISBN: 9781441239327
Publisher: Revell
Published: 2001-03-02T00:00:00+00:00

What loveliness! Whose art is this?

It leaves naught to desire!

Lewando’s name upon the box

Proclaims the Champion Dyer.

Her dark hair, so excessively curly that certain hairstyles were out of the question, was pulled back loosely and gathered at the nape of the neck with a large, pomegranate-colored bow. Slippers of the same shade peeped from below her hem line, and their French heel and satin strap buttoning across the instep proclaimed them handsome as well as expensive.

Margo’s natural vivid coloring was enhanced by the attention she was receiving as the men vied for her glance and smile. Before long, the expertise of Winfield Craven became clear. When Chester Fleer turned to direct a comment toward Hugh and the other gentlemen, Winfield skillfully engaged Margo in a conversation that kept her gaze turned his way; only with rudeness could she have interrupted the flow of the account he was telling not only verbally but with flashing hands and expressive face. Then, when Myron Dalton rose to replenish his drink, Winfield slipped from his position on the hassock at Margo’s feet to the coveted spot at her side, where the fascinating story continued. Nor did he move when Myron returned, to stand, fiddling with his drink, shifting from foot to foot and finally turning to engage someone else in conversation.

When the men rose to take their departure and Casper had brought their hats, canes, and coats—ankle-length, with or without velvet collars but macintoshes without exception, and all, without exception, including a detachable cape and made of the finest wool or cashmere—Winfield Craven managed to insert himself with his back to the men, facing Margo.

“Thank you for a most enjoyable evening,” he said, making it sound her personal accomplishment and taking her hand and holding it.

As Margo was responding to the usual banalities of the others, Casper opened the door. It was clear that the snow, which had begun earlier in the evening, was still falling and falling thickly.

“Miss Galloway,” Winfield Craven said, “it seems too golden an opportunity to miss the first sleigh ride of the year. Unless we have a thaw, would you do me the honor of accompanying me on a sleigh ride this coming Sunday afternoon?”

Seeing no reason not to . . . rather dreading the beginning of the long, quiet winter . . . and rather amused at the persistence of the man, Margo assented.

Parting to go to their separate quarters, Margo turned to her father and mentioned the invitation. “I don’t suppose you mind, Papa,” she added, and would have found her pulse leaping if he had so much as voiced an opinion—approval or disapproval, it mattered not.

But Hugh Galloway turned toward the stairs, to shut himself away until coffee time the next morning, with a murmured “fine, fine” that said, clearly, nothing at all.

Margo removed the autumn-tinted gown, prepared herself for bed, and gazed into a future that was as dark as the night itself.

Having nothing better to do, she turned her thoughts to the handsome face and polished manners of Winfield Craven.

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