The Ripper's Wife by Brandy Purdy Read Free Book Online Page B

giggled and slapped Edwin playfully upon the knee. “I do declare, Brother Edwin,” I said, my voice full of syrupy sweet Southern charm, “you’re as gossipy as an old woman!”
    “ Brother Edwin.” He pursed his lips and shook his head dolefully. “You make me sound like a monk, though if any woman could drive a man to such despair he would contemplate entering a monastery I daresay it’s you. Oh, Florie”—he gripped my hand hard and stared deep into my eyes—“if only I had met you first!”
    This was no joke or frivolous, flirty banter; he was serious! There was such an intensity in his eyes, and the way I felt his thigh burning mine through my skirt I was afraid he would forget I was his brother’s wife and pounce upon me right there in the parlor in front of everybody. I squirmed, trying to fight the vivid picture that suddenly filled my mind of Edwin on top of me, kissing me.
    I suddenly felt very hot, flushed and flustered, and guilty, even though I hadn’t actually done anything. I loved my husband! How could I be entertaining such thoughts about his brother? I bolted up quickly and went to join Jim, linking my arm possessively through his and darting a warning glance back at Edwin, who merely smiled at me and pulled a big bright yellow silk handkerchief out of his pocket and began toying with it, forming the folds into a shape with a pair of ears that very much suggested—if I am not mistaken, and I don’t think I am—a bunny.
    I tried to engage Mrs. Briggs in conversation about how beautiful the house was, but she simply stood there stiff backed and stared at me, and I soon felt like a perfect fool standing there babbling. I might as well have been talking to a statue. Mercifully, I was able to catch Jim’s eye and he smiled and came to my rescue. He might not have been a knight in shining armor, only a middle-aged Englishman in a black broadcloth suit, with the buttons on his waistcoat straining from all the rich, decadent dishes we had enjoyed in France and Italy, but he was my hero and, best of all, mine . In that moment, I fell in love with him all over again.
    I wished he would banish them all, so that we might be alone on this, our first night in our very own home. But, of course, that was impossible and would have been awfully impolite, since Mrs. Briggs had taken such pains over the house and Edwin and Michael were, after all, family and it was Edwin’s home too, so I could hardly turn him out; I just hoped he wasn’t going to be difficult.
    Jim kissed my brow and said I looked weary and asked if I wouldn’t like to have “a little lie-down before supper.” I was on the verge of uttering a grateful, heartfelt yes when Mrs. Briggs insinuated herself between us, prying my arm, with a grip like a wrestler’s, away from Jim’s. Before I even thought about going upstairs, she said I simply must meet the staff. There was steel beneath the silk of her voice that made me fear the consequences of refusing. After all, this was England and she knew how things were done here better than me, so I nodded, smiled, and said I would be delighted and let her lead me to the kitchen.
    It was spacious and well ordered, everything polished, bright, shiny, and new, white tiles, black iron, and brilliant copper, delicious aromas emanating from inside the mammoth black stove and the pots on top, the women all clad in black dresses with spotless white linen collars and cuffs, frilled caps and aprons, and the men in immaculate black suits and white gloves.
    When we came in they all stopped what they were doing and lined up like soldiers for inspection. There was a housekeeper, Mrs. Grant, who was also the gardener’s wife; Mrs. Humphreys, the cook; Bessie and May, the downstairs and upstairs maids; Jeffrey the coachman; and Mr. Grant, the gardener, who also looked after the horses and dogs.
    I smiled and spoke a few words to each of them, finding some little compliment to bestow or a question to ask,