Page 18 of The Secret Mistletoe Promise
‘She’s made of tough stuff – and love: those two things in equal measure. Dexter has raised her so well under incredibly difficult circumstances. He’s a treasure, and all the more so because he doesn’t realize it.’
‘I can see that.’ Imogen sipped her fennel tea to clear the roughness in her throat, then almost spilled it when there was a knock at the door. ‘That’s late. Shall I go?’
Birdie’s knitting didn’t falter. ‘It’s probably some minor village emergency. Ermin has lost the keys for the village hall or Felix is somewhere he shouldn’t be.’
‘I already love Felix,’ Imogen said with a laugh. ‘And Harry seems so sensible, but he has this soft spot for a naughty goat.’
‘Everyone has a soft spot for him,’ Birdie called, as Imogen opened the door, blinking into the night.
There was nobody there.
She looked left and right, but the road was quiet, gilt-edged sketches of houses visible under the streetlamps, dark whorls of nothing in-between. There wasn’t even the sound of footsteps, just the distant whoosh of waves against thesand, a solitary blackbird that had mistaken the artificial light for the sun singing its confused little heart out.
‘There’s nobody …’ Imogen’s foot nudged something. There was a brown paper package on the doorstep. She crouched and picked it up, feeling the solid shape beneath the paper. ‘Ooooh.’
She took it inside and handed it to Birdie, who peered at it, then lifted the tag that was tied to the brown string the package was wrapped in. ‘For Imogen,’ she read, and handed it back.
‘What? I’ve been here two days.’
‘And already made an impression, by the looks of things.’
Imogen felt a rush of excitement that was quickly consumed by dread. ‘What if it’s from Mum? Or Edmund? What if this is some kind of a trick?’
‘How would they have got it here – on a Sunday?’
‘Couriers can do that,’ Imogen whispered. ‘Amazon delivers on the same day.’
‘Not round here, it doesn’t. Besides, if your mother or Edmund knew you were here, don’t you think they would have mentioned it when you spoke to them? Made a comment to show they were ahead of you?’
‘Yes, they would.’
‘And did they?’
‘Nope.’
‘There you go, then. Open it.’
Imogen turned it over, undoing the string and then the brown paper. Whatever was beneath had a slightly rough texture. As she discarded the paper, the shimmer of foil caught the light: bronze foil dandelions on a deep blue background. It was a hardback book, slim but sturdy, itscloth cover embellished with shimmering details. She turned it over and saw the wordsNorthanger Abbey by Jane Austenrunning down the spine.
‘It’s beautiful.’ She touched all the different parts of it, the smoothness of the pages, the shine of the foil and burr of the cloth. ‘Isn’t it a gothic mystery?’
‘More a gothic parody,’ Birdie said. ‘And a love story. About a young woman who stays away from home for the first time, her head full of bookish mysteries, and when she meets a delectable young man, the stories she’s been consuming lead her to some rather outlandish assumptions and into quite a lot of trouble. It’s very funny, and romantic.’
‘I’ve never read it. We had to doEmmaat school, but I’ve neglected the classics since then.’
‘Here’s your chance to make up for it. A book to read while you’re here.’
‘But why …?’ A postcard slipped out of the pages. It was a classic seaside image, a shot of a beach taken from above, a view that Imogen had been looking at earlier in the day, albeit in very different conditions. Below was the word ‘Mistingham’ in candy pink writing.
She turned it over. ‘There’s a message!’
‘What does it say?’
‘“Dear Imogen,”’ she read, ‘“welcome to the seaside. Life might feel unsettled right now, but believe that the things you want are not out of your reach. Listen to your heart, don’t worry too much about anyone else’s. Love, The Secret Bookshop.” Oh my God!’ She laughed and leaned back on the sofa. ‘Whatisthis?’
‘A gift from The Secret Bookshop, obviously.’
‘Do you know what that is? How do they know—?’ Her laughter faded as she reread the note. ‘How do theyknow?’
