Once Upon a Kiss (Book Club Belles Society) (7 page)

“Nellie? Why, that girl took off three years ago at least and no one’s seen her since. But that’s nothing new. I’ve worked at Midwitch since I were a young housemaid, back when Phineas Hawke still had two good legs, and no other servant has ever stayed longer than six months. Except me. I just put my head down and got on with it. Aye, and I think old Hawke respected me for it. Knew I was a hard nut.” She rapped her knuckles to her brow. “Like him.”

Again Darius thought of the fruit thief touching his forehead. Her hands were soft and quite comforting, he must begrudgingly admit. But he had never seen a pair of eyes so insolent, a face so impertinent, a mouth so ready to insult. Neither had he tasted lips that must be spiced with a dangerous herbal elixir because of the speed with which he became intoxicated by their merest caress upon the bristles of his cheek.

That same forward young woman had once leapt naked onto his bed, expecting a night of wicked sport. With pink ribbons around her thighs and her hair tumbling loose over her shoulders. Who was it she claimed to be looking for that fateful night in Bath? Captain Something-or-Other.

How would a girl of decent family get herself into such a predicament? Whatever would she do next?

He sincerely hoped fate would not put her in his way again, because he was a busy fellow and had far more important things and many other responsibilities with which to concern himself. Not that he could remember what any of them were at that moment. Her antics had shamefully muddled the neat order of his thoughts.

This must be a temporary fever that would soon pass; he was sure of it.

Frivolous pink ribbons. Tied up like bows on a present.

Whatever could he…Darius loosed his neckcloth with one rough tug and finally took a breath…whatever would she do next?

She dashed into Diana Makepiece’s parlor and slumped gracelessly onto the small sofa beside her sister.

Since Diana was in the midst of reading a chapter, no one spoke to Justina. Instead she received a worried frown from Catherine and several inquisitive glances from Rebecca Sherringham, during which she kept as steady and composed a countenance as she could manage under the circumstances. Fortunately Lucy was not there. Confined to her room at home after returning so late last night following the misadventure with Sir Mortimer Grubbins, the poor girl was not even allowed to send a note out. But Justina was relieved not to face her friend at that moment, for with her sly talent for ascertaining Maiden’s Palsy in others, Lucy would instantly see something amiss.

“I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its being created.”

“I am,” said he, with a firm voice.

“And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”

“I hope not.”

“It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.”

“May I ask to what these questions tend?”

“Merely to the illustration of your character,” said she, endeavoring to shake off her gravity. “I am trying to make it out.”

“And what is your success?”

She shook her head. “I do not get on at all. I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”

It was difficult to remain silent during Diana’s slow reading. Justina, having absolutely no interest in the character of Mr. Darcy, wished Elizabeth Bennet would simply crack the fellow over his fat head with a chamber pot and be done with it.

She was bursting to tell them all about the forbidden kiss and the dark, beastly stranger lurking at Midwitch Manor. They would probably never believe her; she could scarce believe it herself. Touching her lips, she was astonished to find them cold now, for they felt very warm inside.

When Diana finally finished the chapter, all three pairs of eyes then fixed upon Justina. And suddenly, just when the chance to shock them all was in her feverish grasp, she found herself unwilling to relay the story. It was as if she’d been enjoying a large, juicy plum, until she choked on the pit that lodged in her throat.

“Well?” her sister demanded. “What happened to you?”

“Naught, sister. I got the pears and took them to Mrs. Dockley.”

Catherine’s gaze meandered slowly downward. “Your frock is in ruins.”

“How you do exaggerate, sister. It is no more than a small rip. I’ll sew it tomorrow.”

“You’re very flushed, Jussy,” observed Rebecca, who had a habit of pointing out the obvious, especially when other people meant not to notice it. “Also quite out of breath.”

“I ran all the way here. Did not want to miss anything the wondrous Mr. Darcy might have to say.”

There was a short silence and then Diana said, “But you missed a whole chapter and now you’ll have no idea what’s happening in the story.”

“On the contrary. I wager I can tell you the entire thing already, including how it ends. Lizzie and Mr. Wickham will have several misunderstandings perpetrated by the evil menace Mr. Darcy, but finally love will win the day. There will be much uncertainty and heartache. The despicable Mr. Darcy will lock her in a cupboard at some point, intent on starving her to death. She will uncover a dark mystery about his family, but Mr. Wickham will ride to her rescue and all will end happily ever after, with him never even kissing her.”

Diana looked appalled and then grieved by this brusque assessment of a book she’d acquired by sacrificing her best taffeta. She raised a slender hand to pat her ebony ringlets and remarked tightly, “Always so sharp, Jussy. Always so clever. I wonder why you bother to read at all, since you know everything and can learn nothing new from the pages.”

“But I wish I
could
learn from these pages! For once I’d like to read a story where it doesn’t all happen behind closed doors and off the page. How are we supposed to be prepared for men and life when we’re kept in the dark.
It’s not fair!
” In light of her most recent misadventure, Justina felt the inequality more than ever, and her unsettled emotion gave her speech extra passion.

Rebecca readily agreed, adding that she’d heard of a woman who was in such shock after her wedding night that handfuls of her hair fell out. Diana, newly engaged herself and keen to mention the fact as often as possible, scoffed at the likelihood of this claim. While the two other women proceeded to argue, Justina felt her sister’s eyes observing her closely.

“You didn’t meet anyone at Midwitch Manor, did you?”

“Not a soul.” Another fib destined for her diary tonight.

It was fortunate indeed that he didn’t mean to stay after tomorrow, she thought. A man like that was the last thing they needed in Hawcombe Prior. A single man, darkly handsome, well-dressed, and arrogant. Thought he knew all about her and how she should be managed. Ha!

With
no
beauty
at
her
disposal
a
young
lady
must
find
other
ways
to
be
noticed.

For some reason that had wounded her far more than it should. Justina knew she was no diamond, but hearing it fall casually from his lips last year in a crowded ballroom was almost like hearing it for the very first time.

As if that was not enough, he now proceeded to mock
her
village! How dare he? She might say that Hawcombe Prior was a very dull place and nothing ever happened there, but having lived in the place her entire life she was entitled to say it. He was not.

Then, despite all that, he’d kissed her.

He’d kissed her the way a man might if he thought he had some claim upon her.

One thing was certain: The puzzling stranger and his hot hands would definitely have caused a vast deal of trouble for her had he stayed.

***

Darius carried the lantern into Phineas Hawke’s library and found the solicitor waiting with papers at the ready for his signature.

“I believe we can arrange tenants for the place by the end of the year. Just sign here, Mr. Wainwright, and we’ll take care of matters for you.”

He took the quill in hand and placed the nib to the paper.

Something caught his eye. He glanced over at the window. A wood pigeon had settled on the ledge outside, carrying in its beak a ribbon, from which dangled a lady’s bonnet.

Hers
, it must be.

There was a small bunch of faux cherries attached to the ribbon and the confused bird began to peck at them.

Darius looked at the pen again, then at the bird.

He knew that what happened between himself and the owner of the bonnet could have put them both in a compromising position. Just because the encounter passed without witnesses did not make it any better. If he ever caught a man behaving in such a manner with his niece, Sarah, he’d knock the fellow out.

Despite flinging herself naked onto his bed once before, the way Miss Justina Penny had kissed him suggested innocence. Was that merely another performance or was it genuine? In the same way as the bird tapped his beak at those wax cherries, Wainwright’s mind picked tentatively at the very few things he knew about her.

“Sir? Is something amiss?”

He looked down at the paper and found that he’d still made no mark upon it. The quill would not move. “Do you know what happened to a scullery maid who once worked here? Nellie Pickles?”

“Pickles, sir?” The solicitor thought for a moment and then smiled. “Ah, the sturdy young woman who never spoke a word. She left to marry the gardener. Your great-uncle did not allow romance between the staff, so they had no choice but to leave his employ.”

“
Married?
”

“Indeed. Mr. Hawke sent me to Beaconsfield with a present of money for their wedding. Anonymous, of course. I rather think he liked his miserly reputation. Relished it, in fact.”

“So she was not murdered and buried in the orchard.”

“Good gracious, no. She’s alive and well and living in Beaconsfield with three children.”

“It seems certain people hereabouts have overworked imaginations of a lurid bent.”

“Ah yes,” the solicitor replied grimly. “There is much of that about these days, particularly among the young ladies of the local Book Society. I understand they plagued your great-uncle quite frequently while he was still living.”

“I can believe it. I met one of them.”

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry, sir.”

“So am I.” He sighed and looked at the paper again. The quill almost slipped from his fingers when, for just a moment, he thought the words he read there had changed into an accusatory scrawl.

Darius Wainwright, you are a cad. A rotten scoundrel. What were you thinking to act that way with a young girl, innocent or not?

He blinked rapidly and the words on the paper changed back to what they should be. But a shy voice repeated them inside his head. It was a tiny sound, but insistent. And it clung to him, just as her small, impertinent hands had gripped his jacket sleeve.

“I can’t see what all the fuss is about.” Justina blew out her words with such angry force that she misted the glass window pane before her. “It will be the same harvest dance we’ve attended every year, with the same faces, the same conversation, and the same music.” After a pause, she added grandly, “I’ve a good mind not to go.”

Her sister fluttered about in the corner of her eye like a distressed butterfly. “Of course you’ll go. You always enjoy yourself, Jussy.”

But this year she did not view the forthcoming annual village dance with the usual anticipation. There was a time when any excuse to misbehave while the adults drank too much cider and forgot themselves was something she looked forward to for weeks beforehand. Now nineteen, however, Justina began to see the futility of it all. She felt the dreadful weight of maturity pulling the corners of her lips down as Father Time marched her inexorably toward old age and decrepitude.

“What ails you lately?” her sister exclaimed. “You’re like a pillow with all the goose down knocked out of it.”

What
ails
me? Oh, you wouldn’t want to know, sister dear.

She hardly knew herself, although she had done her best to diagnose the problem and found a handy scapegoat.

“I have an intestinal colic brought about by Clara’s cooking. I am wasting away with it. I daresay I shall not last much longer. If only I had more than my collection of pressed flowers and that ugly sampler to leave behind.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the framed handiwork hanging on their wall—
Children
Shewed
Be
Seen
And
Not
Heered
—sewn haphazardly across calico a dozen years ago when she was set the task by her annoyed mama.

Catherine laughed. “Before you take your last breath, do look at this gown and help me decide how I can trim it. Somehow I must make it look new again.”

Laid across the window seat on her belly, feet in the air, chin in her upturned palm, Justina was more interested in the view of the rain-washed lane below than she was in assessing her sister’s old frock. “There goes Martha Mawby looking dreadfully pleased with herself.” She watched the stout figure leave their front gate and waddle up the lane with much more than her usual amount of purpose. The sight of that broad, jostling backside made Justina yearn for her trusty old catapult, confiscated five years ago at least, yet still sadly missed and remembered with fondness. “She must have had scandalous news to impart. That always makes her vastly contented and silly. Here comes Barnabas Rooke. Today he has two…no, three pieces of frayed string holding his breeches up. He must have gained in girth. I am quite sure he has more holes than patches. ’Tis a wonder how the seams of his coat hold together. His breeches too for that matter, although we must be exceedingly grateful for whatever magic keeps them up.”

“While I appreciate the commentary of events in our lane, Jussy, I would much rather you look at my gown, the shortcomings of which are of more import to me, at present, than the sartorial failings of Farmer Rooke. Should I purchase some dye?”

Justina finally turned her head away from the window and assessed her sister’s appearance. “Looks well enough to me. Save the four shillings. Remember what happened last time we dyed one of your gowns? The stitches all fell apart and the color was more mottled than a jester’s suit.”

Cathy sighed. “Yes, but—”

“As I said already, this is only the village harvest dance, the same as it is every year.” But she was obliged to admit that even on that grim day, in gray and dismal light, her sister was a graceful figure standing at the long mirror in her blue muslin. “How you do worry about naught, Cathy,” she added in a gentler tone. “You could wear a grain sack and still be the most beautiful girl in Hawcombe Prior.” As their mother had reminded them all that morning at breakfast, Catherine was wasted in that village.

“True,” Justina had replied drily. “We might have got a far better price for her carcass in a big place like Manderson.”

This comment was ignored, as were most things Justina exhaled at breakfast when her family was too preoccupied with their own thoughts about the day ahead. As the least significant person in the room, she was seldom paid any attention, but, since this often had its advantages too, she did not complain.

“Perhaps some new lace over the frayed cuffs and a fresh trim for the bodice might make it look less tired,” Catherine murmured, head on one side as she assessed her image in the mirror, holding up various silk and satin ribbons.

Justina glanced over at the bed where her own best frock lay in a crumpled knot. It needed letting out at the bosom and the hem, but sewing was one thing she always put off as long as she might. There were far more interesting things to do, and who cared what she looked like when all eyes would turn to her sister anyway?

At that moment the door to their bedchamber burst open and their mother dashed in, her breath in shreds and her face crimson. “Oh my goodness, girls, you will never guess what has happened.”

“Someone left a newborn baby on the parson’s doorstep and claimed him to be the father?” Justina volunteered hopefully. “Captain Sherringham has married a scarlet hussy, an adulteress twice his age with an eye patch, a gin habit, and six bastard children?”

Their mother had her mouth open to speak, but paused, flustered by the interruption. “What?” She looked askance at her youngest daughter. “Heavens no! Such a shocking imagination you have. I cannot think where you came by it.”

“I must be a changeling.”

“I shouldn’t be at all surprised. No, no…
this
is my news.” Their mother clasped her hands together and turned her full attention to the elder daughter. “Martha Mawby says there is a new resident at Midwitch Manor. A handsome gentleman of means.” Then came the master flourish, the cherry atop the trifle, “
A
bachelor
.”

While their mama went into giddy fits of delight following her announcement, Justina hastily resumed her perusal of the lane through their window. Her heart felt like a fist pounding in her breast and her former lethargy melted away, but she forced herself to remain in her careless pose. Only her fingertips—one set rapidly drumming away on the seat cushion and the other upon her cheek—might have betrayed her altered state. If the other two women present paid her any attention, that is. This was another of those occasions when she was glad to be the matter of least consequence in the room.

“Apparently,” their mother continued, “he inherited the place from old Phineas Hawke, and although he had planned to sell it, he arrived a few days ago and quite suddenly decided to stay!”

While they could not see her face, Justina stared at her panicked reflection in the window and watched it slowly vanish behind another cloud of breath. Her mother’s words had rendered her suddenly full of more holes than Farmer Rooke had in his garments. And things might slip out of those holes if she was not careful. For two and a half days she’d managed to keep her encounter with the Beast of Midwitch Manor a secret.

Her fingertips tapped ever faster upon the seat cushion.

“Martha has been there to tend the laundry,” her mother continued. “Her aunt recommended her for the post, and I daresay we would have known of it sooner if Harriet Birch were not such a despicable deceiver and always looking to out-do everybody. She kept the news from me deliberately, of course.”

Harriet Birch and their mama had been at odds for ten years or more since they fought over the trophy for best marmalade at the county fair and each accused the other of sabotage. It was a bitter feud that no one else but the two of them had ever cared about.

“Martha says his name is Wainwright. He came up from London last Friday evening and was seen to eat his supper with only a meager appetite at the Pig in a Poke. His clothes are very well made and costly, but Martha says he has ten shirts all identical and the same in waistcoats. He rises early each day and spends long hours shut up in his great-uncle’s library. He keeps the windows sealed, and if he enters a room where one is open he closes it immediately. However, he does not like a large fire. He insists upon polishing his own boots every day and has already set about mending all the clocks in the house, for none of them, it seemed, were working with enough accuracy to please him. He reads a vast deal but does not yet require spectacles. His hair is very dark without a sprig of gray yet to be seen. So although he has no female attachments at present, it seems likely he is young enough still to want some.”

Justina rolled her eyes at the window. “He sounds a precious ninny. We might have a shortage of bachelors in this village, but we’re not that desperate, surely.”

“Of course, there is not much to be done with Jussy,” their mother continued merrily, “but you, Catherine, must have a new gown for the harvest dance. I have just come from your father’s library, and he agrees we may have a little extra this month for the haberdasher.”

“But Mama, is there time to sew a new gown? ’Tis barely a fortnight away.”

“We’ll make time for one, my dear. I knew a chance would come your way soon. I knew it!”

As she listened to the excitement in the room behind her, Justina quietly pitied the addled, naïve creatures. They could not know, of course, that the new subject of their romantic fantasies was an arrogant gentleman who looked down on that village and everyone in it. This Wainwright person was, in her opinion, a man best avoided. But there would be no telling Mama. To Mrs. Penny, any single man of wealth was a candidate for marriage, and where her eldest daughter was concerned, what man in his right mind would not fall in love?

For Justina, on the other hand, no one had very high hopes, herself included. The only fellow she’d ever considered as husband material was Captain Sherringham, but that idea was nipped in the bud after the embarrassment of Bath and her reckless, failed scheme to seduce him. She now said a silent prayer of thanks, ironically grateful after all that she landed on the Wrong Man last year. Knowing Sherry, he would have ruffled her hair and laughed at her attempt to play the temptress.

After that near miss, Justina decided a husband would only get in the way and be a terrible drain on her patience, so she stepped into the role of future spinster. Without expectations heaped upon her, she had an easier life and a liberty her sister would never know.

Not that Cathy seemed to mind her role as the one upon whom all hope now rested. She bore the burden of her good looks with a solemn sense of responsibility, almost like a religious calling. Nothing Justina told her could dissuade her from the idea of marriage.

“When you marry,” she had warned Cathy, “a husband will dole out the pin money and tut-tut over ink-stained fingers.”

“Our father does that now,” her sister replied complacently.

“But a husband will expect you to manage his house, no matter how little you care about dust on the shelves or weeds in the garden. And be polite to his guests, even if you are not in a mood to make pointless chat and sip tea. He will lose things incessantly and expect you to find them for him.”

“Goodness, how dreadful!” Cathy had laughed. “Worry not, Jussy. You may yet find the perfect gentleman for you. One who would not mind a wife occasionally drifting off into daydreams of a somewhat bloodthirsty bent. A wife who would prefer tutoring her daughters in sword play with garden canes than teaching them at the pianoforte.”

Quite certain such a man did not exist, Justina let it be known, at every opportunity, that she would be a great nuisance in anybody’s life.

Now along came the Wrong Man again, with his dark eyes and stormy frown. The new owner of Midwitch Manor had fixed her in the stern rays of his perusal until she felt as if he’d tipped her upside down and emptied her out. He’d dared suggest she was a troublemaker who caused mischief because she was bored, had nothing more worthwhile to do with her time, and no one to punish her. Insufferable, conceited man!

“
…You are a young lady who doesn’t want to face her future. Part of you would rather be a child forever and have no responsibilities, no adult concerns…for you, life is always a game.
”

Remembering the heated way he’d looked at her while tapping a riding crop against his boots, Justina felt certain his sudden change of mind, his extended stay in the village, did not bode well for her.

Like a fool, she had felt the need to kiss his cheek and thank him for the fruit. She gave him an inch; he took a yard.

Teasing prickles breezed across her skin as she recalled the way he’d kissed her in return. How his tongue had tasted of cloves. How his firm lips took possession, stripped her of any chance to protest. The know-it-all had ravished her mouth, fondled her breast.

Justina squirmed on the window seat, wriggling on her belly as she felt that tightening begin again, the low, thudding pulse seizing her body in its heavy rhythm. Once the Maiden’s Palsy started, she had great difficulty making it stop.

As for the cheeks of her posterior, she was afraid to look in the mirror, but she was quite certain his fingers had left her bruised. She could not watch Clara knead bread dough these days without blushing and fanning herself with whatever came to hand.

She propped her trembling chin on her knuckles, still staring angrily through that window, her back turned to the other women in the room.

If the sly blackguard knew what was good for him, he would keep his arrogant lips shut in regard to their encounters. She certainly would never speak a word to anyone about it, or her mother would be ordering wedding clothes before she could run off with the gypsies. Usually every argument and every set-down Justina enjoyed giving was proudly and faithfully scribbled in her very full diary. Every shocking encounter with Mr. Wainwright, his stiff appendages and his firm hands, however, were markedly absent from the dog-eared pages.

She prided herself on being a lifelong citizen of Hawcombe Prior, one of its most outspoken residents and a tireless recorder of events, but Justina had learned there were certain happenings better kept to oneself. Not even worth risking to pen and ink in her diary. As a young lady who generally found news burning to be let out—especially if it was scandalous and might be embellished a little with her own imagination—the value of discretion was a new discovery for her. At nineteen, she realized with chagrin, it was probably an overdue one.