Death at Thornburn Hall Book Blog Tour, Excerpt, and Giveaway #LoneStarLit

EXCERPT: Chapter One, Part One

From Death at Thorburn Hall by Julianna Deering

 

Madeline Farthering gripped her husband’s arm a little more tightly as they made their way through the mass of people crowding Waverley Station, certain that if they were separated in this chaos she’d never be able to find him again. Drew said something to her, but she could only shake her head and shrug.

He repeated whatever it was he had said, but the crackling announcement of a delayed train arrival blaring through the station made it impossible to make out.

She pressed closer to his side. “What did you say?”

By then the announcement had ended, and her shouted question drew the attention of several passersby. A blush heated her cheeks.

Drew’s gray eyes were warm and laughing. “Having fun, darling?”

She pursed her lips. “Not yet. Is Edinburgh always like this?”

“It’s a fairly busy place most of the time, I expect, but people come from all over for the tournament.”

She smiled, enjoying his excitement. “I’ve always wanted to see the British Open.”

“The Open, darling,” he corrected. “Ever and always, the Open.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” She managed to keep from rolling her eyes. “Anyway, I’ve been to our Open, the U.S. Open, and I’ve been to the PGA. They started a new tournament in Georgia, too. Last year.”

“Ah, yes, at Augusta. I remember reading about that one. Well, if they’re still having it in the next year or two, perhaps we’ll toddle on over to the States and have a look. How would that be?”

She beamed at him. As much as she loved her husband and his beautiful country, she sometimes missed the sounds and sights of her native land. “That would be—”

“Monstrous!”

Madeline blinked, and she and Drew both turned toward the heavily accented voice.

“Monstrous,” the man repeated, this time on a heavy sigh as an elderly porter, obviously ill at ease, looked at him. “And yet it must be borne, must it not?”

He was somewhere in his late thirties, tall and slender, with a pencil-thin mustache and a look of pale tragedy about him. An actor or artist, Madeline decided. His ivory silk suit was flawless and quite expensive. He must be extremely successful. Either that or he had a wealthy patron. She couldn’t decide exactly what sort of accent he had. Perhaps Russian.

“Can you believe, madam,” he said, catching her eye, “I come here to this great country to escape oppression and corruption, and what do I find?”

Yes, the accent was definitely Russian. Madeline shook her head. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

He opened his mouth and then stopped short, a look of pure delight suddenly on his face. “Ah, you are American, no? I am certain such things never happen in your country.” He swept the stylish hat from his pomaded head and held it over his heart. “Not to so heavenly a creature as you, madam.”

There was only the slightest tension in Drew’s smile. “Is there some way we might be of help?”

“You are too kind, sir, but I fear there is no help to be had.” Again the foreigner heaved a tragic sigh. “One can only grieve and carry on.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” the porter said, a Scottish burr in his voice and his rheumy eyes anxious. “We have looked everywhere. Once the train has emptied, we’ll make another search and send it along to you the minute it’s found.”

The Russian pursed his lips. “And what until then? I present myself for dinner this evening looking as if I have just come from the jungle? From being three weeks lost at sea? It cannot and must not be done.”

“But, sir—”

“Misha! Misha!” A portly little woman in her mid-fifties waved from a few feet away and then bustled up to them, puffing with exertion but still triumphant. “Look what I have,” she singsonged, and she presented the foreign man with a small leather toiletry case.

The porter heaved a sigh of relief as the Russian clasped the case to his chest with one elegant white hand and used the other to bring the woman’s heavily ringed fingers to his lips. “Oh, madam, once again you have saved me from utter ruin.”

“Will there be anything else, sir?” the porter asked as the woman stood simpering.

“That will be all, my good man.” The Russian gave him what could only be described as a regal nod of dismissal, and then he faltered when the old man stood looking expectantly at him. “Ah, er . . .” He patted his breast pocket and looked with some distress at the woman. “I hesitate to trouble you, madam, but it seems . . . uh . . .”

She looked at him for a moment, obviously puzzled, and then realization dawned in her eyes. “Oh. Oh, yes. Yes, of course.”

She popped open her beaded handbag and rummaged through it, finally coming up with an assortment of small coins that she pressed into the porter’s gnarled hand. “There you are. We’re so sorry to have caused you any bother. My husband had accidentally put it with our things. Such a silly mistake, isn’t it, though it does look rather like his. But no harm done in the least. You’ve been a great help.”

The little man touched his fingers to the brim of his blue cap and then wove his way into the crowd.

 

(Click to read Chapter One, Part Two, on 12/3/17, on A Page Before Bedtime blog’s tour stop)