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Authors: Connie Brockway
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make the time pass more enjoyably.”
Amelie looked over at her, interested.
“Mr. McGowan has returned from Edinburgh and sent word this morning that he has brought with him some newly published books. Should we stop at the bank now, or would you rather he send them over?”
“Oh. Let’s stop now,” Amelie replied excitedly. Amelie had recently developed a crush on Bernard McGowan, sole proprietor of the sole bank in Little Firkin, even though he had been in Little Firkin nearly as long as they had. Another sign that Amelie had reached womanhood.
McGowan had once been attached to Colonel Chase’s command, and after leaving the military he contacted the colonel soon after the colonel and his daughter had arrived in Little Firkin. In his letter, McGowan mentioned that he was looking to invest a small inheritance in the banking industry. Perhaps even open one himself, as his family had once owned a bank and he had some knowledge of them. Seeing a chance to keep his money near and help a former soldier, the colonel had suggested that McGowan consider opening a bank in the town. McGowan had not hesitated to do so.
By all appearances, the endeavor had been profitable, for it had not only allowed Bernard to buy Colonel Chase’s old hunting lodge for his own, but to pursue his passion for stamp collecting. It was apparently a very expensive pastime. Bernard had once let slip how much he’d paid for a particular stamp—an ugly little pinkish mauve square—and it had been what Fanny considered a staggering sum.
However, it wasn’t his wealth that Amelie admired. Bernard McGowan was a gentleman, the only gentleman in Little Firkin, and, therefore, the only gentleman of Amelie’s acquaintance. In his early thirties, he was handsome and fit, and Amelie had once opined that with his quiet, deferential manner he reminded her of Jane Austen’s Colonel Brandon—though Fanny had some trouble envisioning Colonel Brandon as a stamp collector. Still . . .
As they entered the bank, Bernard rose from behind a large, plain desk situated on the other side of a railed partition. His brown hair gleamed with pomade above his serious, intelligent face. His gaze immediately sought Amelie. Fanny suspected that Bernard, too, had recently begun seeing Amelie in a different light, and she perceived that he might have begun a wholly diffident, respectful, and glacially slow courtship of the girl. At least, Fanny assumed it was a courtship. With such a very circumspect fellow, it was hard to tell.
“Miss Amelie,” he said, coming around the desk. “And Mrs. Walcott. How nice to see you.”
“It’s been a long time, Mr. McGowan.” Amelie dimpled. “You were gone for weeks.”
He inclined his head. “I am flattered you noticed.”
Amelie gave him an arch smile. “It would be hard not to notice. You’re the only one who ever comes to and goes from Little Firkin.”
“I stand chastised,” he said, tilting his head. “But you are wrong, Miss Amelie. For only this morning Little Firkin is playing host to not one but two gentlemen. From London .”
He spoke like an uncle bestowing a particularly toothsome candy on a favorite child, and Fanny wondered if Amelie might not resent such treatment from a would-be beau. But Amelie was too excited by the prospect of visitors to notice.
“I know!” she said. “The lads from that artisan’s guild on their annual pilgrimage?”
Ever since Lord Collier had had analyzed the clay that lined the banks of Little Firkin’s river, a group of investors had been badgering the residents to sell their property adjacent to it. But since the amount of money each resident would come into upon Amelie’s reaching her majority exceeded anything the investors offered, and selling one’s land ensured that one forfeited one’s share of Colonel Chase’s endowment, no one had taken the gentlemen up on their offer.
It didn’t stop the guild from coming up here every year with
Amelie looked over at her, interested.
“Mr. McGowan has returned from Edinburgh and sent word this morning that he has brought with him some newly published books. Should we stop at the bank now, or would you rather he send them over?”
“Oh. Let’s stop now,” Amelie replied excitedly. Amelie had recently developed a crush on Bernard McGowan, sole proprietor of the sole bank in Little Firkin, even though he had been in Little Firkin nearly as long as they had. Another sign that Amelie had reached womanhood.
McGowan had once been attached to Colonel Chase’s command, and after leaving the military he contacted the colonel soon after the colonel and his daughter had arrived in Little Firkin. In his letter, McGowan mentioned that he was looking to invest a small inheritance in the banking industry. Perhaps even open one himself, as his family had once owned a bank and he had some knowledge of them. Seeing a chance to keep his money near and help a former soldier, the colonel had suggested that McGowan consider opening a bank in the town. McGowan had not hesitated to do so.
By all appearances, the endeavor had been profitable, for it had not only allowed Bernard to buy Colonel Chase’s old hunting lodge for his own, but to pursue his passion for stamp collecting. It was apparently a very expensive pastime. Bernard had once let slip how much he’d paid for a particular stamp—an ugly little pinkish mauve square—and it had been what Fanny considered a staggering sum.
However, it wasn’t his wealth that Amelie admired. Bernard McGowan was a gentleman, the only gentleman in Little Firkin, and, therefore, the only gentleman of Amelie’s acquaintance. In his early thirties, he was handsome and fit, and Amelie had once opined that with his quiet, deferential manner he reminded her of Jane Austen’s Colonel Brandon—though Fanny had some trouble envisioning Colonel Brandon as a stamp collector. Still . . .
As they entered the bank, Bernard rose from behind a large, plain desk situated on the other side of a railed partition. His brown hair gleamed with pomade above his serious, intelligent face. His gaze immediately sought Amelie. Fanny suspected that Bernard, too, had recently begun seeing Amelie in a different light, and she perceived that he might have begun a wholly diffident, respectful, and glacially slow courtship of the girl. At least, Fanny assumed it was a courtship. With such a very circumspect fellow, it was hard to tell.
“Miss Amelie,” he said, coming around the desk. “And Mrs. Walcott. How nice to see you.”
“It’s been a long time, Mr. McGowan.” Amelie dimpled. “You were gone for weeks.”
He inclined his head. “I am flattered you noticed.”
Amelie gave him an arch smile. “It would be hard not to notice. You’re the only one who ever comes to and goes from Little Firkin.”
“I stand chastised,” he said, tilting his head. “But you are wrong, Miss Amelie. For only this morning Little Firkin is playing host to not one but two gentlemen. From London .”
He spoke like an uncle bestowing a particularly toothsome candy on a favorite child, and Fanny wondered if Amelie might not resent such treatment from a would-be beau. But Amelie was too excited by the prospect of visitors to notice.
“I know!” she said. “The lads from that artisan’s guild on their annual pilgrimage?”
Ever since Lord Collier had had analyzed the clay that lined the banks of Little Firkin’s river, a group of investors had been badgering the residents to sell their property adjacent to it. But since the amount of money each resident would come into upon Amelie’s reaching her majority exceeded anything the investors offered, and selling one’s land ensured that one forfeited one’s share of Colonel Chase’s endowment, no one had taken the gentlemen up on their offer.
It didn’t stop the guild from coming up here every year with
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