From beloved English author D.E. Stevenson who has sold more than 7 million books worldwide! The next heart-warming installment in the life of charmingly nosy writer, Miss Buncle, who won't slow down for things as simple as marriage or a sudden move to a new town. In this light-hearted follow-up to Miss Buncle's Book , Miss Barbara Buncle had just gotten everything sorted out. She married her publisher, became Mrs. Abbott, and set aside the distracting business of writing. But proper domestic bliss demands a change of scenery. The Abbots move to a new town filled with fascinating folks...who might just inspire her bestselling book, whether she meant to write it or not. Miss Buncle thought she wanted to settle down, but she's already discovered that married life can't do a thing to prevent her from getting into humorous mix-ups and hilarious hijinks. With the wit and charm of a Jane Austen novel and the gossipy, small-town delight of the Flavia de Luce series, D.E. Stevenson delivers a cozy, hilarious escape into the English countryside. "This book was a lot of fun" ― Shelf Love "It was nice to watch Barbara continue to grow and mature. The fact that she finally has some people in her life who acknowledge it and appreciate it is icing on the cake. " ― Dear Author "These books written by Stevenson are easy comfort reads that had me smiling the whole way through. " ― The Book Garden D.E. Stevenson (1892-1973) had an enormously successful writing career; between 1923 and 1970, four million copies of her books were sold in Britain and three million in the United States. Chapter One Mr. and Mrs. Abbott "We had better move," said Mr. Abbott casually. Mrs. Abbott's hand was arrested in midair as it went toward the handle of the coffee pot. Her gray eyes widened, her mouth opened (displaying a set of exceptionally fine teeth) and remained open, but no sound came. The pleasant dining-room was very quiet, a fire burned briskly in the grate, the pale wintry sunshine flowed in at the window onto the red and blue Turkey carpet, the carved oak furniture and the motionless forms of Mr. and Mrs. Abbott sitting at the breakfast table. On the table the silver glittered and the china shone―as china does when it is well washed and polished by careful hands. It was a Sunday morning, as could easily be deduced from the lateness of the hour and the unnatural quiet outside as well as inside the Abbotts' small, but comfortable, house. "I said we had better move," Mr. Abbott repeated. "Yes―I thought you said that," declared Mrs. Abbott incredulously. Mr. Abbott lowered his paper and looked at his wife over the top of his spectacles. It was a Sunday paper, of course, and Mr. Abbott had been glancing over the publishers' announcements. He was a publisher himself so the advertisements interested him very much, but did not deceive him. The news that Messrs. Faction 8c Whiting were publishing the Greatest Novel of the Century, crammed with Adventure, scintillating with Brilliance, and bubbling with Humor merely roused in Mr. Abbott's bosom a faint kind of wonder as to what they paid their advertising agent. He put down the paper without regret, and looked at his wife, and, as he looked at her, he smiled because she was nice to look at, and because he loved her, and because she amused and interested him enormously. They had been married for nine months now, and sometimes he thought he knew her through and through, and sometimes he thought he didn't know the first thing about her―theirs was a most satisfactory marriage. "Yes, I said ‘move,'" he repeated (in what Barbara Abbott secretly called "Arthur's smiling voice"). "Why not move, Barbara? It would solve all our difficulties at one blow. We could have a nice house, further out of town, with a nice garden―trees and things," added Mr. Abbott, waving his hand vaguely, as if to conjure up the nice house before Barbara's eyes, and the queer thing was he succeeded. Barbara immediately beheld a nice house with a nice garden, further out of town. The whole thing rose before her eyes in a sort of vision―lawns and trees and flower beds with roses in them, and a nice house in the middle―all bathed in sunshine. "Yes," she said breathlessly, "yes, why not? If you wouldn't mind leaving Sunnydene―there's no reason, I mean―" "Exactly," nodded her husband, "you see. There's no reason at all, and it would solve all our difficulties." They looked at each other and grinned a little self-consciously―their difficulties were so absurd. Had any two, apparently sane, people ever landed themselves in such a foolish, ridiculous mess? The human mind is a marvelous organism. While Mr. Abbott was still grinning a trifle self-consciously at his wife, he returned through time and saw the events of the last twenty-four hours in a flash. He helped himself to more marmalade, and thought, queer, if I hadn't drunk any of Mrs. Cluloe's port (and why did I when I knew it would be rubbish―you can't trust port in a wo