Downton Shabby Novels & Stories

Some were actually using it. A man, who introduced himself as Radcliff, greeted us at the door and escorted us to our rooms. By his accent and skin color, I guessed him to be from Jamaica, but the formality of his dress and behavior intimidated me into not questioning him about it. I marveled at the breathtaking décor as he guided us through the grand house that still contained much of its original furnishings. It was just my taste. It made me think of one of my favorite period television mini-series, “Downton Abby.” It so reminded me of that show that, if it wasn’t for the fact that Downton Abby was filmed in another country, I would have questioned if this house was used to film it.

“Oh, that sounds like a lovely idea!” Princess Sophia coughs to cover a laugh, then sinks down on the chaise lounge next to me in my private sitting room. Sun streams bright through the windows, which should make the difference between ivory and cream obvious, I’m sure, but this is all so asinine. I can’t tell the difference. “Oh, what a lovely shade of eggshell, Mrs. Dotty,” Princess Sophia says, picking up a napkin. “Isn’t it, though?” Mrs. Dotty says proudly. “It was sewn by the finest seamstress in the kingdom…”

she sneered. She finished drying her hair and applying some lotion to her body. She opened her wardrobe and searched through her clothing and picked up a long red velvet dress with a split on the thigh and a very low back. She smiled and put the dress on. She put on some light makeup and admired herself in the mirror. Abigail had an alluring charm. The dress showed her perfect curves and made her more attractive. Satisfied with herself she stepped out of her room and went downstairs to the dining area. She found Mr Shawn and the baby sitting in a rocking chair. Mr Shawn was feeding the baby.

Shelly dropped her fork and knife to the table with a bang. “No member of the Tremont family shall ever deign themselves to someone this uncivilized,” she declared. “Whoever Smore’s bride may be, she will be nothing short of being prim, cultured, and of a standing befitting the Tremont prestige! She will not do anything close to what you’ve described!”

opportunity to look good infront of my close friends". Shyra sighs quietly, knowing she won't win with her husbands argument. She worries she might get another beating if she does so. Making her way out of the kitchen and up the flight of stairs, Shyra was busy in thought of what ifs. She closes the bedroom door and to her surprise sees a flowing white mid dress that was hung on the bathroom door. Attached to it was a note saying 'I love you - Shane', her heart ached knowing those words meant nothing to her anymore. She takes another look at the dress, it had full sleeve that can hide her bruises on her arm, and a transparent lace trim at the front to reveal a cleavage. She looks around if t

Sun setting on the horizon and rays cascading through the large balcony sliding doors cast an inviting glow to the room that took away the weariness. I glanced around the immaculate, cream-colored Sterling Suite; this is the finest, most costly accommodation on the Dorian coast. This is more than my six-month income for one night, but it's money well spent. If only I had mastered the art of saving money and adhering to a budget, both of which I have yet to master at the ripe old age of 30.

“Could be. I wouldn’t know. Maybe you’ve been with one?” “You want the details?” “Rather not.” We both kept to ourselves after that. He did not make any more offhanded comments about Damien, but his driving was still terrible. Downton Abbey was never a good part of town. It was where the less fortunate lived. Much of it consisted of old buildings, an abandoned factory, the largest cemetery in all of Elton, and dark alleyways that were favorite spots for crime. Still, nothing as serious as murder had ever happened here—or at least, I doubted it had. This was probably just a convenient place for the murderer to dump the bodies.

prompting them to display a hint of resistance before ultimately nodding curtly, realizing it's best not to argue. I stepped aside, granting Marilyn passage into my house. Her demeanor reminded me of Maggie Smith's character in Downton Abbey, as she moved cautiously, as if avoiding imaginary scorpions scattered on the floor. To my surprise, she glanced around and beamed with a warm smile. "What a delightful and cozy place," she remarked. "If I weren't so... affluent, I could easily purchase a small house and recreate this welcoming atmosphere." Her expression transforms into a whimsical one as soon as she noticed the look on my face. "Oh, please don't take offense. I didn't mean it in that w

Grant opened the can of 4X, and pulled the overflowing ashtray towards him, balancing it on the arm of the shabby sofa. He looked around in disgust this was no house for the son of a Duke. The wallpaper was coming off the walls, the kitchen stank of grease. He'd have a few words with Kylie when she came back, there were baby clothes all over the bloody place, and the bin was overflowing with dirty Pampers, and what was that digging into his back. He put his hand behind him and pulled out a bunny-shaped rattle. He threw it across the room where it landed amongst the ironing pile that was half-way up the wall. It wasn't Kylie's fault really, and she kept the flat as clean as she could.