After selling his ancestral estate, Archibald Colston decides to exchange the pastoral serenity of country society for a chance to make a new life for the Colston family in the wealthy elite of New York City. Upon their arrival, Archibald and his si...
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Archibald Colston had to admit, it was a strange sort of house with delicate gingerbread woodwork framing every window, eave, and gable, but that might be expected when the planning for living arrangements was left to a designer of women's underclothes.
"It's purple," Olivia Colston said. The small blonde of eighteen years, hung halfway out of the carriage, one foot planted firmly and safely inside. She gripped the door as if leaving it would mean that she couldn't have the carriage turned around and driven back to the port.
"Yes, Livie. It's purple." It wasn't just purple. The shingle siding was deep eggplant, the window trim a pale lavender, the doors a violent magenta, and the spandrels a faded shade of Iris. Event the transom windows were a collage of purple stained glass. Archibald furrowed his brow as he took a closer look at the effect of all the home's embellishment. In truth, he would have preferred to live in one of the simple brick townhouses that flanked the detached Victorian, but a house on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 17th was the closest they would get to the Millionaires Row. "We can have it painted," he said flatly. Regardless of the color, the location was too good to pass up.
"And it's so small," Olivia continued. "I just don't understand. How can a house be so small and still so loud?" It was the most she'd said since they'd left Liverpool.
Archibald had to laugh. "This is America, and it's the only house Harry could find for sale in this neighborhood. Considering we are foreigners with no one but Harry to recommend us to the bank, it's a miracle they sold it to us at all," he said.
He picked up his sister's tiny frame by the waist and deposited her on the sidewalk, safely away from the slush-covered street.
"Well it's very kind of Mr. De Rosier to lend us his good name," Olivia said with thinly veiled sarcasm before marching towards the house.
His mother, Lady Colston, followed. At the sight of the piles of the grey, half-melted snow in the street, she made a displeased clucking sound with her tongue.
"Don't make that sound, mother," Archibald said as he helped her through the gate and up the walk and the steps to the porch.
Lady Colston's lips formed a thin line as she got a closer look at the purple gingerbreading. Archibald ignored his mother's displeasure — a coating of white paint and no one would be any wiser. Inside the home, the sight was much improved. He removed his top hat and reset his black hair with a swipe of his fingers through it. The decor had been kept up well, but the style was decidedly more french that Archibald was accustomed to seeing — a proper English gentleman can only tolerate so much damask. As a result, the empire furnishings they'd saved from the country estate looked slightly out of place.
Olivia and her mother stood arm in arm in the circular foyer before venturing cautiously into the parlor. Archibald gave them a moment to silently judge the appearance of the room, but he gave them no time to formulate words to their criticisms. There would be plenty of hours in the new year to redecorate.
