The Spinster's Secret (21 page)

She stowed the cat in the basket, shutting the lid against a meow of protest.

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have a home at the end of this.”

We all will
.

She climbed carefully down the ladder, balancing the heavy basket, and hurried back out to the stable yard.

The dark shape of Creed Hall loomed ahead of her. Above, thin streams of clouds scudded in the sky, and an almost-full moon shone down coldly. An icy wind whistled over the rooftops and snatched at her cloak. This was it, the moment she’d dreamed of for months, the start of her new life.

There was no joy, no excitement. Instead she felt only grief and regret.

“Good bye, Edward,” Mattie whispered, as tears choked in her throat.

“I’m sorry.”

And basket in one hand, bandbox in the other, she set off for Gripton.

…

Anger stewed in Edward’s chest. He felt as if a coke mound smoldered there, giving off black and stinking smoke. The anger was as much at himself as at Mattie.
Fool for being so easily duped!
It kept him awake long past midnight. He heard the clock strike one o’clock, and then two o’clock, and then three, before sleep claimed him. It was almost noon by the time he woke. His head was heavy, his mood foul. He rang for Tigh.

The bâtman bustled in with hot shaving water and a fresh towel. “Good morning, sir.”

Edward grunted sourly. He glanced out the window. The sky was that peculiar light grey that signaled snow.

Mattie would be gone by now. She’d probably hired a post chaise to convey her to London. The writer of Chérie’s
Confessions
could afford such a luxury.

Anger kindled in his chest again as he remembered the gingerbread he’d bought for her, the kisses they’d shared. She’d played him, used him—and fool that he was, he’d fallen for it. Her poverty had been as much an act as everything else about her.

Edward picked up the razor and shoved thoughts of Mattie aside. His stomach growled as he shaved.

“Have the curricle sent round in fifteen minutes,” he told Tigh. “We’ll eat in Soddy Morton.”

“I believe one of the horses has been taken into the village to be re-shoed, sir.”

Edward’s mood became even more sour. He was too hungry to walk into Soddy Morton, which meant that he had to eat here.

“Griggs said to tell you that there’s a letter for you in the breakfast parlor. From Miss Chapple.”

Edward’s hand tightened around the razor.

“Shall I fetch it for you?”

“No.” Edward said.

You can burn it.
But he didn’t say the words aloud.

He shaved slowly, despite the urgings of his stomach, and took his time dressing. No letter from Mattie was going to make him hurry. In fact, it would serve her right if he
did
burn it.

The clock struck twelve o’clock as he made his way downstairs. The breakfast parlor was shrouded in shadows and so cold that he could see the ghost of his breath with each exhalation. Edward tugged the bell pull before turning to the table. Tigh was correct. A letter lay on one of the place settings. His name was written on the front, and in the top right-hand corner was a date.

He stared at it.
Damn it
. He didn’t want anything to do with Mattie Chapple, didn’t want to read her excuses, didn’t want . . .

The date on the letter was five days ago.

Edward frowned and picked it up. Five days ago?

Another letter lay underneath it, also addressed to him. It was dated yesterday.

Edward hesitated.
Which to read first?
He broke the seal on the older letter and opened it. The writing was familiar. Chérie’s. He involuntarily crumpled the paper.

Edward, there is something that I wish that I could tell you, but I can’t. It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s that . . .

Edward smoothed the paper, trying to erase the creases.

It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s that if I tell you, you’ll have to tell my uncle or break your word to him, and I don’t want you to have to make that choice.

This is what I want you to know. I am Chérie. And I know it is Chérie that you are looking for.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and then re-read the sentences. They still said the same thing.

“Shit,” Edward said, under his breath.

His anger was gone. In its place was a sick feeling in his stomach.

He read the letter swiftly. It covered two closely-written pages, detailing how Mattie had found the Countess’s diary, and then later
Fanny Hill
, and her decision to try to support herself through writing.
When I first set pen to paper, I knew that I would be destroying my reputation past repair should my secret ever be discovered. But I judged the reward—my independence—to be worth the risk. I don’t expect you to understand that decision, Edward. How can you? You are a man. You have always had your independence.

Edward rubbed his brow with hard fingers, feeling the ridges of the scars. He read further. Mattie described how she’d written the first confessions, how the husband of a friend had found a publisher for her, and how, at the publisher’s urging, she’d embarked upon a memoir.

I wish I could tell you my secret now, Edward, and I hope you can understand why I haven’t.

Mattie.

Edward re-folded the letter slowly. He opened the second letter. It was short.

You are right to be angry with me, Edward. You may say that I have deceived you, that I have betrayed you, that I have taken something precious and private and exposed it to the world—and you would be correct in all those things.

Mr. Brunton refused to accept the memoir without an episode detailing Chérie’s loss of virginity. If I hadn’t needed to write that chapter, I would never have been so bold, or so desperate, as to invite you to my bedchamber.

But it was more than that, Edward. Much more. You were someone I had dreamed of but never thought existed. You were the man that I fell in love with.

Edward had the sensation that someone had kicked him in the chest. For a moment he couldn’t breathe.
You were the man that I fell in love with
.

Fell in love with.

Edward squeezed his eyes shut.
Shit.

When he’d recovered his breath, he read the final few sentences.

I’m not asking you to forgive me, Edward. I know that what I’ve done is unforgiveable. I am very sorry. Please believe that it was never my intention to hurt you.

I hope that you will be most happy in Cornwall and that fortune smiles upon you always.

Mattie.

Edward re-read the letter, his attention lingering on the most important sentences.

“Coffee, sir?”

Edward almost leapt out of his skin. He turned hastily, hiding the letter behind his back like a schoolboy caught doing something wrong.

“Or tea?” the butler asked, his face utterly impassive.

“Er…yes.”

“Which one, sir?”

“Er…” Edward blinked, trying to gather his scattered wits. “Coffee.”

“Very good, sir.”

Edward served himself from the dishes arrayed on the sideboard and sat down at the table and read both letters again. He didn’t notice that the food was cold, that the eggs were rubbery and the toast brittle. Mattie’s words consumed him. Each one was like a needle being driven into his skin. He’d judged her too harshly, had leapt to conclusions, had allowed his dented pride to fuel his anger.

“I have to find her.” His hand clenched around the second letter. “I have to!”

But where had she gone?

He frowned and read the first letter again, looking for clues. Mattie said she was saving to buy a boarding house and that her solicitor had opened a bank account for her in London into which her earnings were deposited.

Edward pushed his coffee cup aside. A bank account in London. That was a good starting point. All he had to do was. . .

The full importance of the sentence hit him. Mattie’s money was in London. So how had she paid for her fare from Soddy Morton?

“Shit!” Edward pushed to his feet so fast that the chair fell over behind him.

…

He ran the butler to ground in his pantry. “Did you see Miss Chapple leave?”

“No one did, sir,” Griggs said woodenly. “She left before dawn.”

“But she had no money for her fare!”

The butler’s impassive facade cracked slightly. “She didn’t?”

“No, damn it, she didn’t!”
Shit
. “Send round to the stables. I want my curricle ready to leave in five minutes!”

“One of the horses is still at the farrier’s, sir.”

Edward clenched his jaw. He took a deep breath.

“As soon as the horse is back, then,” he said, holding onto his temper. “Have you seen Mrs. Dunn? Where is she?”

“I believe she’s upstairs, sir, with Lady Marchbank.”

Edward turned on his heel and strode back down the corridor. He took the stairs two at a time and met Mrs. Dunn nearly at the top.

“Did you see Miss Chapple before she left? Did she tell you where she’s going?”

Mrs. Dunn looked at him coolly. “What business is that of yours, Mr. Kane?”

“Aren’t you concerned for her safety? She could be dead in a ditch!”

Mrs. Dunn flinched. “Dead?”

“Yes!” Edward said fiercely. His hands clenched into helpless fists. “Dead!”

Mrs. Dunn touched the pocket of her gown. “Surely not . . .”

“It’s winter! She had no money for her fare to London!”

Mrs. Dunn fingered her pocket. Edward heard the crackle of paper.

“Mattie told me she was going to walk into Gripton and pawn her pearl necklace. From there she’ll catch the stagecoach.”

“Gripton?” He frowned. Gripton was eight miles distant. A long way on a winter’s night, alone. “And where is she headed after that? London?”

“I fail to see that that is any concern of yours.”

“I’m trying to help her!”

“Help?” Mrs. Dunn’s eyebrows arched derisively. “You?”

Edward resisted the urge to shake her. He took a deep breath, unclenched his hands, and tried to speak calmly.

“You are quite correct, Mrs. Dunn. I am the architect of Miss Chapple’s misfortune. Without me, her secret would never have been exposed. But you must believe me when I say that I’m trying to aid her!”

Mrs. Dunn looked down her nose from her position above him on the stairs. “Why would you wish to help Mattie?”

“Because…” Edward took a deep breath. “Because I want to marry her.”

Her brow creased. “You do?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Dunn studied his face. She must have decided he was telling the truth, for she pulled a letter from her pocket and opened it.

“I don’t know where Mattie’s going. She says that she’ll buy a boarding house and write once she has an address.” She held the letter out to him.

Edward read the letter swiftly and handed it back. “I’ll look for her in Gripton and then in London. If I fail to find her, will you . . .”

“I shall give you her address when she writes,” Mrs. Dunn promised.

…

It was past one o’clock when Edward finally put Creed Hall behind him. His frustration had built almost to a bursting point. His imagination gave him a dozen different scenarios. Mattie being robbed or abducted or raped, Mattie being run down by a carriage, Mattie lying frozen to death in a ditch.

He sprang the horses as soon as he reached the road. The clouds sat low and grey just above the hilltops. Flakes of snow began drifting down before they’d gone a mile. Edward didn’t slacken the horses’ pace.

The wind picked up, and the snow fell more briskly. Edward squinted, trying to make out the road.

“Sir!” Tigh remonstrated, clinging white-knuckled to the curricle as he took a corner too fast.

It’s not going to help Mattie if you break your neck.

Edward eased the horses back to a trot. “Keep your eyes peeled for her!”

Ten minutes later he was forced to slow the curricle to walking pace. Snow gusted in dense flurries, the flakes spinning and whirling, half blinding him.

“We have to turn back, sir.”

“The devil we will,” Edward said grimly.

He drew the curricle to a halt and thrust the reins at Tigh. “Take them. I’ll lead the horses.”

“No, sir. I will.” The bâtman jumped down. “I got two good legs and you don’t.”

They progressed half a mile, fighting the wind, fighting the snow. A farmhouse loomed out of the whiteness. Edward didn’t need the bâtman to tell him that they could go no further.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

Where was Mattie? Had she made it to Gripton? Was she outside in this blizzard?

Edward squeezed his eyes tightly shut.
Let her be safe
, he prayed.
Please God, let her be safe.

Chapter Fifteen

Mattie glanced up from the seam that she was stitching. Outside, a February gale howled. If she opened the window, she’d hear the roar of the waves beating against the Ramsgate coast, but here, in her kitchen, all was warm and cozy and scented with the smell of baking bread.

This was it, the dream. Every block of stone, every tile on the roof, every flagstone on the floor was hers, just as the smell of bread was hers and the sound of logs crackling and popping as they burned.

She rested her gaze for a moment on the half-grown kittens asleep in their basket, on Mama Cat stretched out beside the fire. Then she turned her attention back to the gown that she was sewing. The fabric was a shade of slate-blue—not too bright a color, in keeping with a widow not long out of mourning.

Her hand faltered as she remembered a wintry lake shore and Edward uttering the words,
you should wear red.
For a moment she saw his scarred face, heard the baritone of his voice. With the memory came a familiar pain in her chest, a wrenching sense of loss, a grief so intense that it closed her throat and made breathing impossible for a few seconds.

Mattie shoved the memory aside. She cleared her throat, blinked her eyes several times, and resumed sewing. But instead of blue-grey cloth, she saw Edward’s face as she’d last seen it, in the parlor at Creed Hall. It wasn’t his anger that had been so devastating. It was the hurt she’d seen in his eyes.

Distantly, she heard the sound of the door knocker, heard Hannah, the maid-of-all-work, bustle to answer the summons. A chill blast of wind buffeted down the hallway, bringing with it the salty tang of the ocean. A moment later, Hannah appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“A gentleman to see you, ma’am. I showed ‘im into the parlor.”

“Thank you, Hannah.”

Mattie laid aside her sewing and stood, twitching her apron into place, smoothing the creases. As she left the kitchen, she glanced at the wedding band on her finger, fixing in her mind who she was. Mrs. Brown, soldier’s widow, boarding house proprietor.

She sent up a silent, hopeful prayer as she entered the parlor.
Let him be looking for a room
.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

Her visitor stood looking out the window, dressed in a greatcoat with a multitude of capes. He was gargantuan in the room, his head nearly brushing the ceiling, his height and breadth completely obscuring the window.

He turned at her entrance. For a moment, he was nothing more than a hulking silhouette, and then Mattie made out his features.

Everything stood still. The clock on the mantelpiece didn’t tick, the gale outside didn’t blow, her heart stopped beating.

Eons passed as they stared at each other, and then her visitor spoke. “Good afternoon, Mattie.”

His voice broke the spell. Mattie took an involuntary step toward him.

“Edward!”

His face was exactly as she remembered it, the scars, the strong, square contours of jaw and cheekbone.

She swallowed convulsively, clutching her hands together. “Won’t…won’t you sit down?”

“No, thank you.” Edward took a step toward her, his face perfectly blank, perfectly expressionless, and then the mask slipped and fury erupted from him. “Damn it, Mattie! How could you leave like that? In the middle of the night! It was
winter!
You could have
died!
”

Mattie opened her mouth and then closed it again.

“And you left no address!” Edward bellowed. “How the devil was I supposed to find you?”

Mattie looked down at the wedding band on her finger. She twisted the ring. “I didn’t think you would want to.”

There was a long pause. She heard Edward breathing—a harsh, angry sound—before he turned and walked back to the window.

“I apologize,” he said in a constricted voice. “I didn’t mean to lose my temper.”

“You have every right to yell at me,” Mattie said, twisting the ring around her finger. “What I did to you was unforgivable . . .”

“Unforgivable? Do you think so?”

Mattie lifted her head. “I deceived you, Edward! I…I
used
you! I wrote about something that was private between us, for all England to read . . .”

“You re-wrote the first chapter.” Edward reached into the pocket of his caped greatcoat and pulled out a calf-bound volume.

Mattie flinched as she recognized the red marbled covers.

She stepped back a pace. “You bought Chérie’s memoir?”

“Of course. It’s selling well. Everyone of my acquaintance has a copy.” He paused and qualified this statement. “Every man, that is.”

Mattie watched in utter astonishment as Edward opened the book and flicked through the first half dozen pages. “Why did you change the beginning?”

Because I couldn’t bear myself
. The words choked in her throat. She shook her head silently.

“It doesn’t read as well.” Edward closed the book and placed it on the table. He reached into his pocket again and pulled out a string of pearls. “I believe these are yours.”

Mattie was speechless.

Edward laid the pearls on top of the book in a neat coil. “We need to talk.”

“Edward…” She felt almost dizzy, as if the room spun on its axis. “Why aren’t you angry?”

His eyebrows lifted. “Should I be?”

“Of course you should! You
must
be!”

A flicker of a smile crossed his scarred face. “Must I?”

“Yes! I deceived you, Edward! You can’t hate me any more than I hate myself!”

The smile vanished. His expression was suddenly grave.

“I don’t hate you.”

Tears filled her eyes. She shook her head.

“You
must
.”

Edward reached into his pocket again. This time he withdrew two creased letters.

He looked at them, placed one on the table, and unfolded the other. “Did you mean what you wrote to me?”

Mattie nodded. If she spoke, she’d cry.

Edward walked across the parlor, stopping in front of her.

“This.” He held the letter out and pointed with a scarred finger. “Did you mean this?”

Mattie read the sentence.
You were the man I fell in love with.

She blinked back tears and nodded, unable to look him in the face, unable to speak.

“Mattie . . .” Edward clenched the letter in his fist.

His voice became fierce. “Mattie, how could you . . . how
could
you write such a letter and then leave!”

She fixed her attention on the floor.

Edward threw the letter aside. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

“You talk of unforgivable behavior.
That
was unforgivable.” He shook her again. “Utterly unforgivable!”

His grip was painful, his voice vibrating with anger, and then his fingers relaxed.

“Mattie…” he said softly.

She glanced up. They stared at each other for an endless moment, and then Edward released her shoulders.

“Marry me, Mattie.”

Mattie recoiled and took a step backwards. “You can’t want to marry me.”

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “Can’t I?”

“Not after what I did to you!”

“I understand why you wrote the confessions, Mattie, and I understand why you didn’t tell me.” He stepped toward her and took possession of her hands. “Mattie…I love you.”

Mattie swallowed. She wanted to believe him so desperately that it hurt. She fastened her gaze on the buttons of his greatcoat.

“You said at Creed Hall that you weren’t looking for a wife.” Her voice trembled. “You said you were trying to do the right thing.”

“Forget what I said at Creed Hall.”

“No, Edward.” She tried to pull her hands free.

“At Creed Hall, I offered for you because I felt that I ought to.” Edward tightened his grip on her hands. “But that’s not why I’m offering now. Mattie…look at me.”

It was safer to look at Edward’s buttons than his face. When she looked at his face, she became caught, like a trout on a barbed hook.

“Mattie…please.”

She took a deep breath and looked up and found herself caught—again.

“This isn’t about your virtue. It isn’t about Toby. It isn’t about rescuing you. It’s about you and me, Mattie. It’s about
us
, about how good we are together. Mattie…I want to spend my life with you.”

She stared at him, unable to speak, scarcely able to breathe. The truth was plain to see on his face, it shone fiercely in his eyes, she heard it in the quiet intensity of his voice.

“I knew the first night that I was in London, Mattie, and I’ve had nearly three months to think about it since then. I haven’t changed my mind.” Edward paused. His grip on her hands tightened. “Have you?”

Stopped loving you? Never.
She shook her head.

“Will you marry me, Mattie?”

“Yes,” Mattie said, and then, to her horror, she began to cry.

Edward made a sound of dismay and gathered her in his arms.

Mattie buried her face in the rain-soaked capes at his shoulder, struggling to halt the flow of tears. She couldn’t. It was as if a door that had been bolted shut had burst open. All the pain of the past few months came pouring out.

“I’m sorry,” she said between shuddering sobs.

Edward held her until the tears finally stopped. The solidity of his body, the strength of his arms, was deeply comforting.

“I’m sorry,” Mattie said again.

She pushed away from him, groping for her handkerchief. “I hardly ever cry.”

No, that was a lie. She’d done a lot of crying in the past three months, lying in bed, alone in the dark, thinking of Edward.

“Don’t apologize.” Edward stripped out of the dripping greatcoat, tossing it over the back of a chair.

Mattie blew her nose and wiped her eyes. “I’ll ring for some food. You must be hungry . . .”

“No.” Edward took her hand and led her to the sofa. “I don’t need anything. Just you.”

He pulled her down to sit, settling her within the curve of his arm. Mattie leaned against him, laying her hand on his chest, above his heart. She closed her eyes. Heaven must feel like this.

“I have a special license,” Edward said.

She opened her eyes.

“We can marry as soon as you like.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Edward tilted her chin up with one finger and kissed her.

Mattie kissed him back shyly.

Edward made a low sound of pleasure in his throat. He gathered her more closely to him.

An eternity passed. Mattie lost all sense of time and place. The parlor, the boarding house, the storm raging outside, all vanished. The world consisted only of Edward and the sweet fierceness of his kiss.

Finally Edward pulled back. Mattie reached out to trace one of the scars that slashed across his face. This wasn’t a dream. Edward was real, as real as the ridge of scar tissue beneath her fingertip.

“How did you find me?”

“Your friend Cecily gave me your address.”

She lowered her hand. “Cecy? Have you seen her? How are they?”

“Extremely happy. You were right. Her regard for Gary is genuine.” Edward drew her into the warm curve of his arm again. “She’s an admirable woman. Gave me your address as soon as she had it. Your Mrs. Brocklesby didn’t. Nearly three months she gave me the run-around!”

“That’s my fault,” Mattie confessed, resting her head against his shoulder. “I asked Anne not to tell anyone where I was.”

Edward was silent for a moment. “Mattie, I tried to write to you so many times.”

He stroked her hair, a gentle touch. “But I haven’t your skill with words. I couldn’t say what I wanted to say.”

She took hold of his left hand, scarred, missing a finger, and clasped it between both of hers.
My Edward
.

“You were very eloquent just now.”

They sat in companionable silence. Mattie listened to the rain gusting against the window panes and the gentle
drip drip
of water falling from the capes of Edward’s greatcoat. She listened to the soft sound of his breathing, the faint, rhythmic beating of his heart. Joy gathered in her chest, so intense that it was painful.
This can’t be real
.

But it was. Just as Edward’s hand in hers was real and his heat keeping her warm.

Her gaze rested on the rain-streaked window, the white-washed walls, the colorful braided rug on the floor. Her own boarding house. It had been a good dream, but the one ahead of her—her future with Edward—was even better.

“May I bring Mama Cat and the kittens with me?”

Edward laughed. “You have them here?”

She nodded.

“Of course you may bring them.” He pressed a kiss into her hair, then pushed to his feet.

Mattie looked up at his face, scarred and infinitely precious. She had to curl her fingers into her palms to stop herself from reaching for his hand again.
Silly.
He won’t disappear if you don’t hold on to him
.

“Show me your boarding house,” Edward said, smiling down at her. “And then I’m taking you home to Cornwall with me.”

Home
. The word made her throat tighten. Fresh tears gathered in her eyes.

Edward lost his smile. “Mattie? What is it? Is it the boarding house? You don’t want to leave it?”

Mattie shook her head, blinking the foolish tears away. She could hand the boarding house with its few boarders and Hannah, the maid-of-all-work, over to a new owner without the smallest pang of regret.

“You don’t like Cornwall?”

“It’s not that. It’s just, you said…
home
. And I want a home with you more than anything in the world.”

“You don’t mind moving to Cornwall?”

“I’d live anywhere with you. Even a grass hut in Africa.”

Edward pulled her to her feet and hugged her. “I think you’ll find Blythe Manor much better than a grass hut.”

Mattie hugged him back. She inhaled his scent—horse, wet wool, clean male.

Home with Edward.

She could think of nothing better.