The Spinster's Secret (6 page)

Mattie pulled a face. Liquid fire and tears of pleasure. It sounded rather unrealistic.

She laid aside
Fanny Hill
and picked up the diary and turned the pages carefully. Within these calfskin covers, the young Countess detailed her love affair with the man who tended her horses—her groom. Her emotions shone through, even after fifty years.

Each day when I walk around to the stables, my chest tightens with such a mix of hope and dread that it becomes difficult to breathe.

Mattie swallowed. The physical sensations and emotions described by the Countess seemed much more realistic. She flicked ahead several pages.

He touched me so tenderly, with such reverence, that it brought tears to my eyes. My trust in him, at that moment, was absolute.

No, she wanted something more physical . . .

Ah, this would do.

A wild eagerness grew inside me. When at last he made his entrance into my body, I shuddered with the pleasure of it. Our coupling was almost animal. I confess, I bit Will’s shoulder to stop from crying out my pleasure. Afterwards, as we lay trembling and sated in each other’s arms, I saw to my shame that my teeth had marked him.

Mattie copied the paragraph, substituting Colonel F.’s name for that of the Countess’s groom. She re-read it, tapping the quill against her cheek, and then continued.
I had never experienced such throes of delight before, such abandonment of my senses, not even in the arms of my beloved, and sadly mourned, husband.

She wrote until dusk fell and then lit a tallow candle and continued.
Colonel F.’s face had become so dear to me that despite the dreadful scars that marked his face, I thought him handsome.

Mattie’s quill halted. She frowned. She crossed the last few words out and re-wrote them.
…despite the dreadful pockmarks that scarred his face, I thought him handsome.
Good. She nodded. He no longer sounded like Mr. Kane.

She continued.
I gazed upon his sleeping form and knew that I loved him.

I would give Colonel F. everything: my trust, my love, my very soul if it were possible. And all he wanted from me was my body.

Mattie grinned as she re-read the last two paragraphs. “Don’t worry, Chérie. Tomorrow he asks you to marry him.”

She glanced at the clock. Half past five.

Hastily she gathered together the sheets of paper and opened the secret cupboard. Inside were four narrow little shelves. Mattie placed the diary on the top shelf, precisely as she’d found it on that fateful night eight months ago, when a windstorm had uprooted trees in the woods and banged the shutters against the windows, breaking panes of glass, and blown open the latch of the secret cupboard.

A pile of loose pages lay on the middle shelf, drafts of the confessions she’d sent to London. A much thicker pile lay on the next shelf down. Chérie’s memoir. In another day or two it would be ready to send.

Anticipation tightened in her chest, exactly as the young Countess had described, stifling her breath.
Soon I’ll be free
.

…

They were one less at dinner. Sir Arthur Strickland was still abed. After a silent and unappetizing meal, they relocated to the drawing room to listen to another sermon.

“Sermon Three,” Miss Chapple read aloud from her position to one side of the fireplace. “On Female Reserve.”

She glanced up and for a brief moment her gaze met Edward’s. Her expression was sober, but a smile glimmered in her eyes.

Edward felt an unexpected urge to laugh. He clenched his teeth together.

Miss Chapple looked down at the open page. “Many of you, my honored hearers, have been addressed in the style of love and admiration.”

One
.

Edward glanced at Mrs. Dunn. She sat demurely on the sofa, her blonde hair gleaming in the dull candlelight, her expression attentive.

“I have taken the liberty to address you in that of zeal and . . .”

His attention snapped back to Miss Chapple.
Two
.

…

At last the sermon came to an end.

Edward stifled a yawn and added his voice to Lady Marchbank’s murmur of appreciation. “Excellent, Miss Chapple. Excellent.”

Miss Chapple closed the book of sermons and came to sit on the sofa.

“You fell asleep again,” she whispered.

“I deny that,” Edward said, equally low-voiced. “There were ninety-three
and
s.”

“Two hundred and sixteen,” Mrs. Dunn whispered.

Edward opened his mouth to protest this number and then closed it again.

A dimple quivered in Miss Chapple’s cheek. Her lips pursed to hide a smile.

They sat for another half hour, while Mrs. Dunn embroidered and Miss Chapple knitted and Lady Marchbank discussed the Reverend Fordyce’s work with Edward. Finally, the echoes of the long case clock in the hall striking the hour penetrated the drawing room.

“Nine o’clock,” Lady Marchbank said, an expression of surprise crossing her narrow face. “I hadn’t realized that it was so late.”

It felt like midnight to Edward.

Candles awaited them on a table in the entrance hall, one per person, in silver holders.

“I hope you had a pleasant evening, Mr. Kane,” Miss Chapple said, while Lady Marchbank and Mrs. Dunn slowly mounted the stairs. Her voice was demure, polite, but amusement gleamed in her eyes above the tiny, flickering flame of her candle. She was laughing at him.

“I cannot recall that I have ever spent a more enjoyable evening,” Edward said, trying to imbue of note of sincerity into his voice.

Miss Chapple grinned for a fleeting half-second, both cheeks dimpling.

Perhaps it was the candlelight casting a golden glow over her features, or perhaps it was the shadows crowding the hall, creating a sense of intimacy between them, but Edward felt a tiny stirring of desire. He wanted to brush Miss Chapple’s cheek with his fingertips and see whether her skin was indeed as soft as it looked.

Edward blinked, astonished.

“Er…” he said.

The dimples showed in her cheeks again, as if she suppressed another grin. “Good night, Mr. Kane.”

He cleared his throat. “Good night, Miss Chapple.”

Edward watched her climb the stairs. She was as tall as a man, wide-hipped, the drab, shapeless grey gown making her look almost stout, but, inexplicably, he’d actually felt a twinge of desire. The first such since Waterloo.

Edward frowned. He’d thought that part of him, lust, desire, had been excised on the battlefield, as his fingers and ear had been. He’d proven his impotence with mortifying thoroughness at Madame Solange’s establishment in Brussels, not once but twice. That his body should respond to Miss Chapple, however faintly, when even the most skilled and lovely of Madame Solange’s girls had been unable to elicit any response at all, was more than odd. It was incomprehensible.

…

“Marry me.”

I stared at the Colonel, unable to believe my ears.

“Marry me,” he said again, his pock-scarred face solemn in the candlelight.

My heart began to beat loudly in my breast, and for a moment I almost swooned. The impossible was happening. My beloved Colonel was asking for my hand in marriage.

Joy swelled inside me, bringing tears to my eyes.

“Yes,” I said, and then I fell into his eager embrace.

I looked upon the Colonel’s dear, beloved face and swore a silent oath to…

Mattie tugged at her lower lip. To do what?

…to do everything within my power to make him happy.

She frowned and crossed the words out.

…to be the perfect wife
.

“Ugh,” Mattie said aloud, and crossed those words out too. She needed something romantic, something final, something . . .

She dipped the quill in ink and wrote
…to love him forever
.

There, that had a romantic, final ring to it. Mattie re-read the sentence,
I looked upon his dear, beloved face and swore a silent oath to love him forever.

“Perfect!” she said. And then she dipped the quill in ink again.
And so, dear reader, I come to the end of my memoir. The time has come to lay down my pen and bid you farewell for the final time.

Chérie.

Mattie put the quill down with a sigh of relief. She shook out her cramped fingers. The clock on the mantelpiece told her it was a quarter past midnight. She walked across to the window, opened one shutter, and peered out. It was pitch black outside. The only thing she could see was her own reflection. Hard drops of rain pattered against the glass, making her look as if she was as pockmarked as Chérie’s beloved Colonel. The window frame rattled in the casement, letting in a chilly draught.

Mattie closed the shutter. She bundled up the pages she’d written and hid them in the secret cupboard, then climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin.

The sheets were cold. Mattie curled up on her side, shivering, hugging herself. Tomorrow she’d copy out the last chapter of Chérie’s memoir and take it into Soddy Morton to be sent to London.

She closed her eyes and snuggled deeper beneath the covers. Soon she’d have enough money to start her new life.

Chapter Four

It was raining steadily in the morning. Edward ate breakfast alone in the gloomy breakfast parlor. Afterwards, he wandered the ground floor. Creed Hall was echoingly empty, as if it had been abandoned. The only footsteps were his own. Strickland’s study was cold and dark, as were the drawing room and library. Small fires lay in the grates unlit.

Edward frowned as he looked around. The curtains were faded, the Axmister carpet threadbare, the chairs in need of reupholstering. Surely this shabbiness was more than a dislike of spending money? Was Arthur Strickland under the hatches?

He rang the bell to have the fire and candles lit in the library and stood at the window looking out over the sodden landscape while these tasks were done. Then he fished Chérie’s confession from his pocket and sat down beside the fire. The pages were stiff and wrinkled and the writing less legible than it had been yesterday, as if the ink had faded as the paper dried.

He studied the handwriting. Was Chérie a woman or a man pretending to be a woman? To his eyes, the handwriting was quite ordinary neither overly bold and masculine nor delicate and feminine. It lent no clue as to Chérie’s gender.

Edward turned his attention to the content. The confession was six pages long, of which he could read only two, the first page and the third. He tried to peel the other pages apart and stopped when the paper tore.

So, he had two pages.
Better than nothing
.

He read the paragraphs carefully. The content was titillating, yet not crude, a romanticized description of a whore being bedded by a gallant.

Edward frowned at the wrinkled pages. So…what did that tell him? That Chérie was a romantic? Which meant that she was most likely a woman?

Or not?

He read the pages again and wished he had a copy of
Fanny Hill
to compare them to. Wasn’t there a scene like this, where Fanny and one of her beaus sported in the water?

Edward glanced up at the library shelves and the sparse rows of leather-bound volumes. He didn’t bother getting up to examine them. Of all the houses in England, Creed Hall was most definitely one in which he’d
not
find a copy of Cleland’s infamous erotic novel.

He read the water scene again. The writing was rather good. Chérie—whoever he or she was—wasn’t as given to hyperbole and euphemism as Cleland had been.

We sported in the water for some time, until Lord S.’s passion was manifestly aroused again. He pulled me close and devoted himself to a detailed examination of my naked charms. The pale roundness of my breasts, dewed with drops of water, in particular captured his interest, so much so that he felt himself compelled to sip from my skin, all the while uttering low murmurs of delight.

An image flowered in Edward’s mind, sunlight sparkling on water, the soft weight of a woman’s breasts cupped in his hands. He could imagine bending his head and licking drops of water from warm, silken skin . . .

Astonishingly, he felt a stir of arousal.

Edward blinked and lowered the page and considered the sensation for a moment. Yes, definitely arousal.

For the past few months he’d thought Waterloo had castrated him, not physically, perhaps, but with as much finality as if a cuirassier’s sword had made that fatal cut.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

All the things he’d not allowed himself to think of came flooding into his mind. He could take a lover. More than that, he could take a
wife
. He could sire children, have a family.

Emotion surged painfully in his chest. His eyes stung, as if tears gathered there.

Edward blinked fiercely and cleared his throat. He forced his attention back to the confession.

Lord S.’s kisses grew more heated, and his hands roamed greedily over my nakedness, until finally he could rein his passion no more. He took me in the stream, as if he were Poseidon and I one of his nymphs. And the heat of our combined passion and the coolness of the water combined so delightfully that I almost swooned from the pleasure of it.

“Mr. Kane?”

Edward’s attention snapped to the doorway. Miss Chapple stood there, the crown of her head almost brushing the lintel.

His arousal fled. Edward hastily folded the confession and stuffed it into his pocket.

“Er…Miss Chapple.” He stood and bowed. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she said, advancing into the room.

Her smile was cheerful. “Terrible weather, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Edward said.

Chérie’s confession felt as if it was burning a hole in his pocket. “Terrible. I, er…had hoped to find a novel to read.”

Her face screwed up in a brief grimace. “My uncle disapproves of novels. He won’t allow them at Creed Hall.”

“Shakespeare?” Edward asked, hopefully.

Miss Chapple shook her head. “Not even Shakespeare. There are, however, a number of religious works.” Her voice was demure, but dimples showed in her cheeks. “I can recommend Sherlock’s sermons.”

“Cruel, Miss Chapple.”

She smiled.

Edward’s attention fixed on her mouth. It was surprisingly lush. He found himself wondering what she’d look like, disporting naked in a stream.

His mind fastened on this thought, and for a moment he saw it. A rippling stream with Miss Chapple standing naked in it, her smooth, pale skin glowing in the sunlight. It wouldn’t be like Poseidon consorting with a nymph, as Chérie had described, but rather, Poseidon consorting with Venus, a tall and voluptuous goddess with lush breasts and ripely curved hips.

His mouth went dry. The breath choked in his throat. Edward coughed.

“Are you all right, Mr. Kane?”

“Yes,” he said, once he’d got his breath back. “I…er,…something in my throat.”

“Shall I ring for some tea?”

“Er, yes.”

They sat. Edward cast desperately about for a topic of conversation. He glanced around at the half-empty bookshelves, the faded curtains, and the fraying carpet.

“The new curate will be dining with us this evening,” Miss Chapple said, smoothing the ugly grey wool of her gown over her lap. “Mr. Humphries.”

“Oh?” said Edward. And then, cautiously. “Will there still be a sermon afterwards?”

“Yes,” Miss Chapple said. “And you shall have the pleasure of listening to the curate discuss it afterwards. His opinions are always…extensive.”

“It sounds delightful,” Edward said dryly.

Miss Chapple grinned.

Edward’s attention fastened on her mouth again. His throat tightened, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. Fortunately, the butler arrived with the tea tray.

Miss Chapple poured. “Shortbread?”

“Please.”

The shortbread was pale and crumbly and, when he bit into it, very dry. Crumbs caught in his throat. Edward laid the rest of the shortbread aside and swallowed a hasty mouthful of tea.

“I apologize for the shortbread,” Miss Chapple said.

He noticed that she hadn’t taken a piece.

“My uncle dislikes extravagance in the kitchen, so Cook cuts down on the butter and the shortbread always suffers.”

“No need to apologize, Miss Chapple.” Edward brushed crumbs from his knee. “I hadn’t realized that your uncle’s circumstances were so straitened.”

Too late he realized how rude the comment was. “I beg your pardon, Miss Chapple. What I meant to say was, er…”

What?

Miss Chapple seemed unoffended by his blunder.

“My uncle’s circumstances aren’t straitened, Mr. Kane,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact. “He merely likes economy. He prefers not to waste money on unnecessary luxuries.”

Unnecessary luxuries? Such as sufficient butter in one’s shortbread? The word to describe Arthur Strickland wasn’t economical. It was miserly
.

Edward opened his mouth to make that comment aloud and then closed it.

“Hmm,” he said.

He crossed his legs the other way. The faint crackle of paper in his pocket reminded him of the confession, and his promise to Sir Arthur.

Edward glanced at the water streaming down the window panes. He didn’t relish the thought of riding into Soddy Morton in this weather. He sipped his tea, and froze, the cup held to his lips.

Hadn’t the curate been one of the people on the list? A possible Chérie?

“Er…what did you say the curate’s name is?”

“Mr. Humphries.”

He felt a twinge of excitement. Mr. Humphries
was
on the list. He glanced at the rain-blurred window again. Despite the foul weather, he might be able to cross someone off his list.

Unless, of course, the curate
was
Chérie.

“Will he come in this weather?”

“With any luck it will have cleared by this evening,” Miss Chapple said. “But even if it hasn’t, I expect he’ll come. It’s become his custom to dine with us on Fridays.”

“The curate likes a free meal?”

“The curate likes Mrs. Dunn. He’s courting her.”

Edward blinked and registered her tone. “You, er…disapprove?”

“Mr. Humphries is…” Miss Chapple hesitated. “I shall let you form your own opinion, Mr. Kane.”

He lifted his eyebrows, amused by her careful neutrality. “I look forward to it.”

Her lush mouth quirked, as if she suppressed a smile—and abruptly, Edward was reminded of the scene he’d been reading in Chérie’s confession.

He dragged his gaze from her, cleared his throat, and took a large swallow of tea. It wasn’t that he was attracted to Miss Chapple. It was that, finally, after months of believing himself impotent, his body was returning to life. He could be sitting in the presence of
any
woman right now and wonder what she’d taste like if he kissed her.

“How long has Mr. Humphries resided in Soddy Morton?” he asked.

“Two months. He has the curate’s position my uncle had hoped to gift to Toby.” Miss Chapple put aside her teacup. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Kane, I have a letter to write.”

Edward set down his own cup. He stood and bowed. As Miss Chapple disappeared through the doorway, he found himself wondering what her hair would be like if it was released from that tight knot at the back of her head. Sleek and straight or curly?

Edward abruptly halted that train of thought.

His gaze turned to the window and the rain streaming down the panes. He
would
ride into Soddy Morton this morning. The sooner he found Chérie, the sooner he could return to London and find a nice, plump, clean whore and prove to himself that he was as virile as he’d been before Waterloo.

…

Mattie spent some time rubbing the stub of a wax candle over brown paper, in the hope of rendering the paper more weatherproof. She wrapped Chérie’s memoir in the paper, tied it tightly with string, and sealed the knots with wax. When she tried to write the address, the ink slid off the waxed paper.

“Damnation,” she muttered under her breath, and she unwrapped the parcel, turned the paper over, and started again.

This time she wrote the address
before
she applied the wax.

The package wrapped and sealed again, she prepared another sheet of paper, writing the address of her friend Anne Brocklesby before waxing it. She wrapped it around the parcel and tied it with string. After a moment’s hesitation, she sealed those knots with wax too. There. With luck, the manuscript would reach its final destination unscathed.

Mattie looked out the window. She wanted to deliver the precious parcel to the postmaster herself, but rain still streamed down outside. She imagined her drenched gown, the heavy weight of wet wool, the smell, and pulled a face. No, she’d let Durce, the footman, with his oilskins and knee-high boots, carry the parcel into Soddy Morton.

Gathering the parcel in her arms, Mattie went downstairs. Hope and anxiety twisted in her belly.

The fire was dead in the library, and the candles had been snuffed. Mr. Kane was gone. Mattie rang the bell and waited, shivering in the dark, draughty room. After a minute she heard familiar footsteps, slow and measured. She bent her head and quickly kissed the parcel.

“God speed,” she whispered.

“You rang, miss?”

Mattie turned and smiled at the butler. “Yes. Can you please see that this gets to Soddy Morton today? I’d like it to catch tomorrow’s mail.”

Her uncle, had he seen the parcel, would have commented on its size and weight and how much it would cost Anne to retrieve from the post office.

Griggs merely said, “Very good, miss.”

Mattie listened until the sound of his footsteps had faded from hearing. Her future—her freedom from Creed Hall—lay within that waxed-paper package.

“God speed,” she whispered again.

She had a gown to finish sewing, grey worsted, to the same pattern as every other gown she possessed, loose-fitting and fastened down the side, so that she needed no maid to help her dress, but Mattie was too restless to sit still. She peeked into her aunt’s parlor on the chance of finding Cecy unoccupied, but her friend was reading aloud to Lady Marchbank.

Mattie backed away on tiptoe.

She changed her shoes for half-boots, grabbed a shawl, and went downstairs and let herself out through the side door. Rain pelted down. Mattie drew the shawl over her head and dashed to the stables.

There were stalls for dozens of horses, but fewer than a handful were occupied. Horses, in her uncle’s opinion, were an unnecessary extravagance. The big grey Mr. Kane had hired was gone.

Mattie spent a few minutes rubbing the noses of the four horses that pulled Creed Hall’s carriage to church every Sunday, made the acquaintance of the matched bays that had drawn Mr. Kane’s curricle, and then climbed the ladder up to the loft. “Puss puss puss,” she whispered, blinking to see in the half-dark.

She heard tiny rustlings and then the squeak of kittens.

Mattie climbed the last few rungs and crawled on hands and knees into the hay. More peepings came and a low meow from the mother.

“I have a sausage,” she said, reaching into her pocket. “See, Mama Cat? I saved it from breakfast.”