A Rather Charming Invitation Read Online Free PDF

business of antique clocks, which fascinated me. While I was listening to Guy’s anecdotes, Aunt Sheila, sensing Jeremy’s confusion, began to speak in low, soothing tones to him; so I suspected she’d deliberately gotten the conversation to break off into two, giving her some time to talk with her son.
    When dessert came, accompanied by an after- dinner liqueur of fennel and other delightful herbs, Aunt Sheila said, with a falsely casual tone, “Jeremy darling, your grandmother telephoned to say she’d like you to bring Penny to meet her, at a little party she’s throwing in your honor. Soon. Very soon.”
    To be honest, I’d completely forgotten about Jeremy’s English grandmother on his mum’s side. Possibly because, even after all these years, Aunt Sheila has barely been on speaking terms with her own family. Jeremy always acts as if he wants nothing to do with them, but he’d told me that, as a kid, he periodically had to put in an appearance whenever his wealthy grandmother summoned him, usually on landmark occasions, such as his graduation from Oxford. And, his previous wedding. And his divorce, which she tried to talk him out of, for appearances’ sake. Now, it seemed, his grand-mum wanted to look over his new bride. (That would be me.) Here in London. In a fortnight. I gulped.
    At this point we were standing in the front of the restaurant, waiting for our coats, and Aunt Sheila’s came first, so Guy was helping her into it, as they murmured companionably together. Jeremy and I exchanged covert, dismayed whispers.
    “I do hate to bring you to my dragon of a grandmother,” Jeremy said apologetically, “but if we refuse, we’ll never hear the end of it.”
    So here I said one of those things that women in love tend to spontaneously say, but really shouldn’t. “Oh, it’s okay,” I said philosophically, “after all, she is your grandmother.”
    “Thanks,” he said gratefully. “I’ll tell Mum to let her know we’ll come.”
    “You okay about Guy?” I asked him in a low voice.
    “Do I have a choice?” he inquired. Guy and his mum turned to us now, smiling.
    “It’s such a lovely night,” Aunt Sheila said to us as we stepped out onto the street. “Let’s all go for a walk together.”
    I was, by now, highly amused at her attitude, for she was still up to something. We soon found out what. As we turned a corner, she and Guy came to an abrupt stop in front of a locked clock shop with these words lettered in a fan-shaped curve: The Village Horologist. Clocks Bought, Sold and Repaired. I thought it was touching that she wanted us to see Guy’s business, perhaps to convince Jeremy that Guy was a solid, reliable character.
    Guy pulled out a jingling key-ring from his pocket, inserted the key in the lock, and pushed open the door. “Come in, come in!” he cried. “Look around, look around!”
    The shop was home to an amazing family of clocks, each with its own personality. Grandfather clocks, carriage clocks, pocket watches, table clocks . . . some with their movements encased in glass so you could see their elaborate mechanisms at work. Each were ticking precisely like the busy timekeepers they were, and every now and then one would suddenly start chiming from its corner, startling us with its tinkling or tolling, for they were set to various time zones around the world.
    “Penny, have a look at this one, and tell me what you think,” Guy said, taking my hand and drawing me toward a table where a remarkable fireplace mantel clock stood.
    Its case was made of partly gilded silver, with a clockface of champlevé silver and black Roman numerals above a base of rose-wood and tortoiseshell, with a movement of brass and steel. The top of the case had thin, flat, overlapping circular discs, looking like silver DVDs, that stacked upon one another like a wedding cake. Seen from overhead, the largest, bottom disc represented the seasons, topped by a smaller disc for the months of the year, which in