Sinfully Ever After (Book Club Belles Society) (9 page)

“’Tis not fear. ’Tis good sense. For their sake as well as mine.”

“Yes, I used to think I’d rather be alone too. But life’s successes, I’ve found, are so much more fulfilling when you have someone to share them with.”

Luke gave a sudden, loud, very wide yawn. “If you don’t mind, Handles, you can save the preaching for tomorrow. I’ll go to my bed now. It’s been a long journey.”

Darius’s eyes narrowed further and his lips twisted in the faint hint of a smirk, but he merely nodded. “Of course. I’ll show you up to a room.”

The old Luke would have teased him further, kept up the pretense of being back for his inheritance, but if he was going to make up for past mistakes, he’d have to curb that instinct for mischief. Especially mischief at his brother’s expense.

As he undressed for bed later, Luke found, tucked down inside his greatcoat pocket, a large slice of pork pie wrapped in a handkerchief. As he opened the surprise package to share with Ness, he paused. There, in one corner of the linen, was an embroidered letter
R
.

Smiling, he ran his thumb over the silky shape of her initial. Of course, she had no idea that he was still in the village. Expecting never to see him again, she was probably preparing him as one of her amusing anecdotes—like the hat-stealing orangutan and the many-fingered, monocled passenger of a mail coach. He could imagine her chattering to the next poor fool who leant her an ear.

Once
I
met
a
man
with
a
limp
and
an
odd
sense
of
humor, who groped me in my own kitchen, made me a chicken stew, and kissed me in a very peculiar place…

Groaning, he lay back on the bed, his arms cradling his head.

Odd that he hadn’t seen her in his dreams. The Sherringham woman clearly had some sort of dangerous hold upon him. She was the one thing he should have avoided, but he’d followed her home like a lost pup and then let her talk him into kissing her.

She was in for a shock when she found out who he was, but he hadn’t lied. Just left out a few facts. He
was
a rogue and a scoundrel. About that much he’d tried to warn her.

The Book Club Belles met the next morning in Diana’s front parlor. This location was chosen for their meetings primarily because it had a convenient window that overlooked not only part of “the Bolt”—the lane running along the front of this row of cottages—but also a good portion of the High Street, since the Makepieces’ gate was situated directly at the point where both thoroughfares joined. Almost everyone in the village was sure to pass that window at least twice a day, and an eager observer could keep track of all business to-ing and fro-ing. As, indeed, Mrs. Makepiece usually did.

Anyone using the Bolt also had to pass that window, but a lot of folk who took the shortcut did so not just to save themselves steps and time, but rather to linger at the tail end of the path where trees had grown to arch overhead and where no one could see what they did. The Bolt was a popular walkway for lovers and those who were, in Mrs. Makepiece’s words, “up to no good deed.” It had been named for its narrowing shape, but since many who used it did so to dash away and hide from others in the High Street, it was a fitting title in many ways.

Today Becky stood at that parlor window and drearily counted the layers of gray that made up her view. So far there had been no sign of Mrs. Kenton. She must have taken her donated parcels to Manderson early that day and perhaps she was not yet back. Once she was, undoubtedly she would spread the tale of whatever she saw last night through the Sherringhams’ kitchen window. Until then, Becky’s chance to explain herself was delayed, her nerves in a state of agonizing suspension.

Meanwhile, behind her in the room, Diana poured tea for herself and Lucy Bridges, the tavern-keeper’s daughter.

“I do wish we had something stronger,” Becky exclaimed with a disheartened sigh, still watching through the window. “Does your mother not have a bottle of sherry somewhere?”

“Really, Rebecca,” Diana scolded her. Yes, she was always Rebecca within the walls of that house, for Mrs. Makepiece did not approve of shortening names. She might not be present in the room, but her rules lingered, along with the cloying sweetness of dried rose petals from an overabundance of potpourri. “Sherry at half past ten in the morning? With breakfast?”

“Why not? I don’t see what difference the hour makes.” After all, last night she’d kissed a strange man in her kitchen, fully aware of the impropriety. Who knew what she might do next? First lacy chemises and now this.

“I wish you would stop pacing before that window, Rebecca. I’m sure you’re wearing a hole in the carpet and Mama has just turned it to hide the faded part.”

Becky stopped and folded her arms, but only a moment later she resumed her restless motion.

When she looked at those fragile china teacups on the tray, she wanted to pick one up and throw it at the wall, just to see what the reaction would be. To discover whether Diana Makepiece was capable of expressing any unladylike emotion. She and Justina had often speculated on what it would take for Diana to lose her temper.

“I wonder why Justina is late today,” Lucy Bridges exclaimed. “I hope she is not ill. Or Sarah has not caught a chill after the play last night.”

“That barn is drafty,” Diana agreed. “Next year we really ought to move the play to Midwitch Manor as Mr. Wainwright suggested.”

Next
year
, thought Becky sullenly,
you
won’t even be here because you’ll be married to that wretchedly uninspiring William Shaw
. But she stayed silent, reminding herself that Shaw was the best choice for Diana, the most practical choice, even if he was a dreadful “jaw-me-dead,” as Justina called him.

“Sarah Wainwright is a bony little thing,” pronounced Lucy. “She eats like a sparrow and claims only a meager appetite.” Having no such problem herself, Lucy was already tucking into a toasted, buttered crumpet. “I have made it my mission to see her fill out her clothes by the spring. She has some very lovely frocks, if somewhat plain, but they are utterly spoiled by the lack of a good bosom.”

Diana replied primly, “Some ladies have a naturally elegant, balanced figure, and Sarah Wainwright is perfectly proportioned. One hardly notices…
that
…which is just as it should be.”

“I don’t think a man would agree with you, Diana.” Lucy giggled. “Ask your fiancé.”

Becky’s gaze suddenly focused on the guilty face reflected back at her in the window and she realized her own bosom was not behaving in its usual calm manner. Lucy’s breathy giggles had reminded her of Lucky Luke’s fingers exploring. Her breath misted up the window so much that she had to rub it clean again with her sleeve.

Behind her, Diana’s voice became another degree sharper. “Lucy, you have spent far too much time around the militia. I certainly would not discuss such a subject with Mr. Shaw.” She lowered her voice. “And kindly do not speak of it in this parlor. A lady does not speak of…
bosoms
…while sipping from the best china.”

Becky watched desperately for Justina—the only one to whom she could confide her story of Lucky Luke. She couldn’t bear Diana’s disapproval today, and Lucy couldn’t keep a secret even if she was warned that the telling of it would cause every bouncing ringlet to fall from her head. If Justina didn’t come soon, Becky feared she might burst her seams and splatter all over Mrs. Makepiece’s spotless panes.

The scene through the parlor window was grim. Last night’s fragile, fairy-tale snow was now an unprepossessing slurry, mixed with thick brown clots because Mr. Gates had driven his herd along the Bolt not half an hour ago. The romantic scene of the snowy lane from last night was gone—like Lucky Luke, nothing but a memory.

She felt a little like Sleeping Beauty, awoken by a single kiss. But without the beauty part. Or the handsome prince. Or the happily ever after.

At last, she spied a figure hurrying toward them down the High Street in a hooded cloak.

“Here comes Jussy,” she cried. “Alone, however. No Sarah.”

“Aha!” Lucy speared another crumpet on the toasting fork. “I knew Sarah should not have been out last night in the snow. She is a mere wisp without a bit of good fat on her bones, poor thing! She is probably deathly ill.”

A few moments later, Justina burst open the door and dashed into the parlor. Her face flushed, her eyes bright, she exclaimed dramatically, “He is back from the dead!”

The three young women stared at her.

“My husband’s elder brother, Colonel Wainwright, is alive and has come home,” she added, rushing to the fire to warm her hands. “Oh, blast! I had meant to make you all guess. But I couldn’t keep it in.”

At once, she was bombarded with questions from all but Becky, who had too much else on her mind and could not care a fig about old Colonel Wainwright’s return.

“What is the colonel like?”

“Is he handsome?”

“Is he well-mannered and amiable?”

“Does he mean to stay long in the village?”

Justina handled all the questions with one answer. “You may see for yourselves tonight, for we are having a party to welcome the colonel. Just a small gathering. You are all invited.”

As Justina took her teacup to the sofa, Lucy excitedly and loudly contemplated the possibilities of a new bachelor in the village, while Diana gently urged her to show a little more restraint and less desperation.

“It might not matter to you, Diana,” Lucy was saying. “You’re engaged. But for the rest of us who remain unattached, it is very good news. Is it not, Rebecca? So few new men ever come here. I sometimes think we might as well live on the moon.”

“I’m sure I don’t care,” Becky snapped. “I wish I
did
live on the moon. At least I could do what I wanted there and the likes of Mrs. Kenton wouldn’t be present to spy and lecture me.”

In the silence that followed this loud exclamation, she finally looked up from her feet to find them all staring at her.

“What?” she cried. “Why are you all looking at me that way? What have I done? What has that gossiping woman told you?”

Justina frowned slightly and then reminded her, “It’s your turn to read.”

She’d almost forgotten about
Sense
and
Sensibility
altogether. Packing her frustrated mood away as best she could, Becky dropped to the sofa with a heavy groan and opened the book to the beginning of a new page, wherein the fictional sisters, Marianne and Elinor Dashwood, had just settled into their new home and met the friend of their neighbors—a gentleman who had been teased regarding his supposed fancy for the younger sister.

In an effort to forget her own troubles, Becky read with spirit.

“…Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be my father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long outlived every sensation of that kind. It is too ridiculous! When is a man to be safe from such wit if age and infirmity will not protect him?”

“Infirmity!” said Elinor. “Do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my mother, but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of his limbs!”

“Did you not hear him complain of the rheumatism? And is not that the commonest infirmity of declining life?”

“My dearest child,” said her mother, laughing, “at this rate you must be in continual terror of my decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty.”

“Mama, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony.”

* * *

“Would you like to meet Sir Mortimer Grubbins?”

Luke rested both hands on his walking cane, bowed his head, and replied that he would indeed. With his brother watching him so warily, he was on his best behavior, and even the prospect of being introduced to a pig must be met with forbearance.

Sarah smiled pensively—which appeared to be her usual way of smiling—and led him through the orchard, carrying a bucket of scraps from the kitchen.

“Sir Mortimer is a very friendly fellow,” she explained, “and extremely intelligent.”

This young lady, who thought she was his daughter, certainly had a look of Sally Hitchens about her, but her manners were much more refined. Apparently his brother had raised her well, provided her with excellent governesses, and seen to it that she received every proper instruction. Luke had been told that she was quiet and shy but mature for her age—in that respect, she took after Darius, her guardian for almost a dozen years.

It was the young Mrs. Wainwright’s idea that he spend the morning with Sarah, and Luke had agreed, although he didn’t believe it would take the entire morning to get to know her. The girl was not quite sixteen. How much, as he’d said to his brother’s wife, could there be for him to find out? Mrs. Wainwright had smiled broadly, patted his arm, and hurried off, leaving him to it.

“I’m sure Sir Mortimer is very lucky to be looked after this well,” he remarked to Sarah as they neared the large sty beside the orchard. The fence, he noted, needed some fortification. Someone not terribly handy with a hammer had made an effort to bang a few nails into some old door panels, but he could do a better job of it. Behind him, he heard Ness approach with his usual ambling gait, and he looked back to warn the dog. “You be respectful. The pig was here first.”

Ness trotted up to the fence, sniffed warily, and then sat, staring between the slats. The pig trotted over, paused, and twitched its moist snout.

“I’m sure they’ll soon be good friends,” said Sarah, ignoring the low growl coming from Ness and the sultry grunt from her porcine pet. Lowering her voice to a frail whisper, she added, “Best not refer to Sir Mortimer as a
pig
. Not within his hearing. It’s impolite, and he is of aristocratic blood.”

“I see.” Luke nodded solemnly.

She stepped up onto a small, unsteady pile of stones and from there tipped the contents of the scrap bucket into the animal’s trough. “Sir Mortimer is an aristocratic boar, a very intelligent soul. When I need to think about something I come out here to talk to him. He always understands and gives excellent advice. If you ever need a listening ear, you could not find a better one. He never interrupts.”

Looking around the wintering orchard, Luke thought back to when he and his brother first came here to visit, summoned by Great-Uncle Phineas Hawke, who wanted to see how his estranged sister’s grandchildren had “turned out.” While they paid their dutiful visit, the gruff old man told the brothers that there was treasure hidden in his house. Darius, showing the usual stiff upper lip, had pretended not to be curious. Luke, at the time, was more interested in finding some ale and skirt at the local tavern than he was in hunting for treasure. But he recalled his great-uncle’s words now.
Probably
just
a
story
the
old
devil
told
in
some
attempt
to
get
us
interested
in
the
property
, he thought.

“Why did you come back, sir?”

He returned his attention to the girl by the pig sty. She swung the empty bucket as she looked up at him with enormous, shining, curious eyes.

“You’ve stayed away so long. Why come back now?”

He thought she might be a pretty little thing if she smiled more, but living with his stepmother and somber brother, she probably hadn’t been given much opportunity to laugh. “I might be of use to you.”

“To me?”

“To help you…guide you in some way.” Luke didn’t know much about fatherhood, but some completely ill-equipped men of his acquaintance had assumed the task and managed tolerably well. If they could do it, why not him?

Luke had no experience of a daughter, yet this girl had none of a father either. Mayhap they could learn together.