Royal Valentine by Jenn McKinlay

Author:Jenn McKinlay
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: JMO Ink
Published: 2022-01-04T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

Having Tristan with us on the journey proved to be a stroke of genius. As a neighbor of the Whitmores, he knew exactly how to get the crated-up collection and us from London to Bath with the least possible fuss.

Tristan hired a van and a driver while he took Bri and me in his rented Bentley all the way to the estate. What should have been a beautiful scenic drive was spent with me keeping an eye on the van just in case the driver decided to make off with hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of rare Austen materials. I mean, there was a reason they’d asked for the registrar to escort the collection home, wasn’t there? I was not about to let anything happen on the last leg of the trip.

“Molly, I promise the items will be perfectly safe,” Tristan said. He was in the front seat with Bri while I was twisted around in the back, staring out the rear window with my gaze trained on the van.

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said. I didn’t turn around and yet I somehow knew they were exchanging an exasperated look about me, as if I were a kid in a car seat refusing to nap. Whatever.

I noticed that the terrain became small hills delineated by hedgerows and large copses of trees. Broad sweeps of yellow crested the hills and caught the corner of my eye. I glanced out the window and sighed. The fields practically glowed in the late morning sun. It was lovely.

“That’s rapeseed,” Tristan explained. “It’s a break crop.”

“What does that mean?” Bri asked.

“It’s planted as a break between crops to help enrich the soil with nitrogen,” he said. “The Whitmore Estate is also a working farm. My friend, Lord Insley, and I worked the land when we were young. Our parents felt it was important for us to appreciate the natural world.”

Bri practically purred at the revelation that her successful businessman also had a streak of earthy manly-man to him. I rolled my eyes and returned my attention to the landscape.

I’d only ever visited London before, and realized it’d be a shame to miss this quick tour of the English countryside.

“The Whitmore Estate is six kilometers outside of Bath,” Tristan said. He turned onto a narrow route that led away from the town I could see in the distance. “We should arrive in time to freshen up before the luncheon.”

Another reason that I was grateful Tristan was with us. As a family friend, he would smooth out any awkwardness during the meal. The awkwardness being me and my tendency to be an introvert.

As ambassadors of the Museum of Literature, Bri and I were staying at the estate for several days to unpack the books and make certain everything was accounted for and in proper condition. We’d also been invited to several events hosted by the Whitmore family. Again, being a wallflower by nature, I dreaded it, especially since the director of the museum Claire Macintosh

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