Tour: THE WRONG ENVELOPE by Liz Treacher


The Wrong Envelope book cover (1)

Summer 1920. Two worlds are about to collide.Evie Brunton loves her job. Twice a day, she spins along the narrow lanes of Devon on her bicycle, delivering letters from a heavy post bag. When the flamboyant London artist, Bernard Cavalier, drops like a meteor into her sleepy village, everything changes. Bernard is supposed to be painting for an important exhibition, but the countryside has its own charms, in particular his young post lady…Light and witty, and full of twists and turns, The Wrong Envelope is a charming romantic comedy. It captures the spirit of another age – when letters could change lives.

Liz Treacher (1)

About the Author
Liz is a writer, a Creative Writing teacher and an Art photographer. She lives in the Highlands of Scotland with a view of the sea. Her love of images influences her writing.

Her debut novel, ‘The Wrong Envelope’, is a romantic comedy, set in 1920 in Devon, England. It tells the story of Bernard, an impulsive artist and Evie, his beautiful post lady. You can watch the trailer on this page, under ‘Videos’. Light and witty, and full of twists and turns, ‘The Wrong Envelope’ captures the spirit of another age – when letters could change lives.

The sequel, ‘The Wrong Direction’, follows Evie and Bernard to London, and charts their further adventures in Mayfair’s high society. Wild parties, flirtatious models, jealous friends – Bernard and Evie must negotiate many twists and turns if they are to hold on to each other.

Twitter: @liztreacher



‘You’re not a ghost then?’

Mrs Wilson heard the bottom stair creak, but she didn’t bother turning round from the sink where she was preparing vegetables. Bernard came meekly into the kitchen, smiling sheepishly at her bent back.

‘Mrs Wilson,’ he began, ‘I’m so sorry about last night.’

‘You certainly make the mess of a poltergeist,’ she continued, ignoring his apology.
Bernard felt really awkward. He had been here nearly three weeks and it was the first time he was up early enough to meet his housekeeper, but she had her back to him and her voice had an edge to it that was both sarcastic and tetchy, the sort of voice only a mother could do well.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

‘Sorry you got punched or sorry you bought the drinks?’ she retorted, not looking round, peeling the potatoes with great ferocity.

He was surprised at how frank she was with a paying guest, and yet this frankness gave him permission to offload his guilty feelings. He seized the moment. ‘Sorry I upset your son.’

Bernard’s voice had a tone of real contrition in it and this seemed to incense Mrs Wilson. She threw the potato peeler down and swung round to face him. ‘And are you sorry he lost his arm too?’ She glared at him, dark brown eyes flashing in her tanned, lined face. She was small in size yet she seemed to tower over him in the tiny kitchen. Bernard was silent, worried she might send the potato peeler flying in his direction.

‘I wish I could have done my bit and contributed in some way,’ he said eventually.

‘Really? And which bit? What would you have given the cause? A leg, an ear, an eye perhaps?’

Bernard tried to change tack. ‘I’m a lazy oaf,’ he mumbled.

‘Yes, and a romantic one,’ she replied, steering the conversation back into dangerous territory.

Bernard took in her tired face, her thin dark hair scraped up into a bun, the circles around her eyes. He wondered how many other jobs she did besides this one.

‘I wish I could have gone, instead of your son.’

‘And how long would that have lasted? Five days, five hours, five minutes?’

Bernard felt the force of her comments in his chest and was winded by the truth of them. He stood miserably in the kitchen, looking down at the floor, unable to meet her eyes.

‘To be honest, I wish you had,’ she said, half to herself. ‘I mean I wish you’d gone instead, any mother would.’ A pause. ‘But I wouldn’t want you to go as well.’ She turned away from him, back to the sink and, picking up the potato peeler, gazed out of the window. She was thoughtful for a minute as if reviewing what she had said. ‘I’m not needing the work here mind,’ she muttered, glancing at his reflection in the window.

Bernard caught her eye in the glass pane. ‘Well I need you, Mrs Wilson, I couldn’t paint without your help in the house.’

As he said it, he realised how lame it sounded. How many pictures had he actually finished? One? Two at the most?

He gestured to a saucepan simmering on the range. ‘The soup smells nice.’

‘It’s chicken,’ she said and a smirk crossed her lips. ‘But you’re not one, Mr Cavalier.’
She put one hand into the bowl and one hand under it and drained the water out, deftly catching the peel with her fingers; then she added the chopped potatoes to the simmering pan.

‘You need to get over your good fortune, stop tripping over your lucky star and get on with your painting.’




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