The Last Night in London Karen White (books for students to read txt) 📖

all of it and try to put everything in date order as best we can.” He reached for the pile of newspaper clippings I’d pulled from an ancient manila folder.

“That’s so very Colin of you,” Arabella said. “All that organizing and analyzing of numbers and such.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m an analyst, Arabella. It is what I do for a living.”

I suddenly remembered that about him, how careful and methodical he’d been about everything, from deciding what to order from a menu to planning a route home from the pub. He’d always been the driver, too. It made me wonder now if it had less to do with him being the only teetotaler in our group and more with him wanting to be in control.

“I didn’t forget, Colin,” Arabella said. “It’s how you can afford those fancy holidays with your mates.”

He shot her a frown before examining the small stack of yellowed clippings. I watched as he carefully arranged them on the table in straight rows, faceup.

“Now that we’ve got that settled, I may as well get started with this,” Arabella said, pulling out a chair and settling into it. She slid the stationery box toward herself and carefully lifted the lid.

“I guess that leaves this for me.” I picked up the hatbox. A small stack of envelopes rested inside, and I scooped them up with the full intention of sorting them as best I could.

Most were addressed to Miss Sophia St. John, and a few to Mrs. David Eliot. A good number had a bold, masculine scrawl on the front, with the name D. Eliot in the top left corner. With the assumption they were from her husband, I put those in their own pile.

Quite a few of the envelopes, in an expensive heavy linen stationery, were postmarked from Surrey. The penmanship reminded me of the old letters from my grandmother, saved in my grandfather’s desk, each character perfect in its even slant. It was the kind of handwriting that was part of an older generation, now relegated to museums and attics, replaced with deletable texts and e-mails. I’d been lucky to be born before the advent of smartphones, and I had my own stash of notes and letters written by my mother, a solid reminder that she’d once been a part of my life.

I wondered if these letters might have been written by Sophia’s mother, and I put them in their own pile, too. Finding an assortment from different sources, I placed them together in a single pile and flipped through them, noticing an envelope with odd handwriting. The characters were small and precise, as if the writer—most likely a woman, I guessed—had spent time crafting each character. It made me think of how a child learned cursive, but this was the handwriting of an adult. An adult being very careful to demonstrate that she had beautiful penmanship.

There was no return address, but the postmark was dated 12 March 1939. The dark red stamp in the top right corner showed the profile of the king—although I couldn’t remember who was king in 1939. I’d seen Wallis & Edward, so I knew it wasn’t Edward, but I couldn’t think of his brother’s name. My curiosity quickly overrode Colin’s directions and I slid the paper from the envelope, then hesitated at the sound of a throat being cleared.

I looked up to find Colin’s serious blue eyes trained on me. Before he could ask what I was doing, I said the first thing I could think of to distract him. “How is it that Sophia’s son, your father, inherited Hovenden Park? Was she an only child?”

“No. She had two older brothers.” He paused, considering his words. “Twins, actually. I never knew them. The elder—by just a few minutes, I believe—William, was killed during the war. Not sure what happened to the other brother. He wasn’t really mentioned. My parents probably know more. Neither one of the twins had children, so Sophia ended up inheriting everything.” He looked pointedly at the opened envelope. “How is the letter sorting going?”

I smiled innocently. “Can we read just one for now? I’m intrigued by the handwriting.”

His mouth started to form the word “no,” but Arabella interjected, “Absolutely! What’s it say?”

If Colin weren’t British, he would have rolled his eyes. “Go on. It’s not like I can stop you.”

I unfolded the letter and, after clearing my throat, read out loud.

Dear Miss St. John,

Thank you for the lovely dinner party last evening. It was a pleasure to properly meet you, and I also enjoyed meeting your fiancé, Mr. Eliot, and your friends. They were a delight, as were the delicious food and wine, and I appreciate your extending the invitation to join you.

There was such a flurry of good-byes when we left that I neglected to remember my purse. It’s a small green box-shaped bag with gold embroidered leaves on it. I’d placed it under my chair in the dining room, and with all the wonderful conversation, I completely forgot all about it.

I would like to call on Thursday around noon to collect it, if that is convenient. I don’t want to intrude, so if you’d like to tell your maid that I will come for it, I will stop by the back door.

Thank you again for your kind hospitality.

Most sincerely,

Miss Eva Harlow

I looked up and grinned in triumph. “We have a last name! I’m sure Precious would have come up with it eventually, but it’s good to have corroboration.”

“That’s amazing,” Arabella said, and clapped. “It’ll make finding her a lot easier—that’s for certain.”

Colin actually smiled. “Good job, Madison.”

“Did you just compliment me?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

I didn’t bother to hide my smile as I refolded the letter and put it back into the envelope. I was reaching for another letter when Arabella slapped the table with her palm. I looked up to find her holding a photograph in her other hand.

“Oh, golly!” She seemed at a loss for words. Finally, she said, “Colin, was