Once Upon a Kiss (Book Club Belles Society) Read online

  Usually Justina would have laughed at that, but she found it too hard today and did not try for long. Hastily she sought an excuse for his visit. “He came to see Papa, but finding him out I suppose he thought it only polite to stay a while.”

  The captain squinted. “He brought flowers for your father?”

  Justina cast her eyes over the crumpled bouquet. The way he’d thrust those flowers at her, they’d appeared to be more of an inconvenience to him than anything and she’d barely given them a thought—too seething with anger and eager to set him straight about his faults.

  “I believe he came solely to see you, Jussy.”

  “Good Lord, no. Why would he?”

  “Never can tell with a stuck-up fellow like that. Besides, I told you, the way he looked at you last night, Wainwright was thinking about having you bound up in ropes and brought to his couch—like one of those wicked Roman emperors!” He grinned slyly.

  “Don’t talk nonsense, Sherry.”

  “And he brought you flowers!” He chuckled. “Surely the oaf didn’t propose marriage to you, Jussy?”

  She was flustered, her nerves still on edge. “Certainly not.” But the idea had quite suddenly forced itself into her mind as she took another look at those trampled flowers and thought of how he had paced before her. He had come all the way through the village just to apologize for his comments at the dance? That seemed most unlike him.

  “I would wager he did mean to propose!” Sherry continued his teasing. “That was why he looked so very grim. I mean, even more grim than usual!”

  Since she could not sit still and felt the need for something to do with her hands, Justina took a vase from the mantel and arranged the sad flowers in it. Once they had a little water they might perk up.

  “He did not come to propose marriage,” she said firmly, reassuring herself as much as her other guest. Gathering up all the spilled petals from the table, she wished they might somehow be stuck back onto the flowers.

  “Whatever he came for, the man’s a colossal bore, Jussy. Didn’t speak a word to me.”

  Eager to change the subject, she grabbed the box of cigars he’d brought with him. “Show me these, then! I want to know what it’s like.”

  “Of course you do! Mademoiselle Curious.” He leaned forward and took the box from her hands. “Best open the window to let the smoke out, or your mama will have something else for which to blame me.”

  ***

  Darius was through the gate before he realized he’d left his hat and gloves behind in her parlor. His first thought was to keep walking and retrieve them at some other time, but then the image of Justina having a cozy tête-à-tête with the captain was enough to make him change his mind and go back. He would disturb them once more. Her father really ought to be told about this, he thought, incensed by the captain’s sneaky visit and quite forgetting that he too had gone there to see her alone.

  But as he approached the front door again, he heard their voices through the open parlor window.

  “Are you telling me you haven’t noticed his interest? He didn’t take his eyes off you at the dance, and he plainly resented my interruption just now. The man was seething.”

  “Oh, do stop talking about him.”

  “I’m just warning you, that’s all. Your romantic intentions to never marry for anything but love could soon meet an obstacle if he decides to have you. How could you overlook his fortune? Before you know what’s what, your family will have you cornered into it. You’ll be the unfortunate Mrs. Wainwright, destined for a life of painful duty as the wife of that dour monolith.”

  “You know me better than that. Stop teasing!”

  “He’s very rich, you know. Women are, when all is said and done, mercenary creatures. Even those who profess to love one man can change their mind when more practical concerns make themselves felt. I should know.”

  “For pity’s sake, stop!” she exclaimed, her voice high with frustration. “If I ever marry, it will be to a man who knows how to love and does not think it nonsense to feel with his heart. To a man who will sweep me off my feet, not bowl me over with his fat-headed pomposity.”

  Darius stared at the path under his feet.

  Now came the final assault, which she delivered with gusto, like a character in a bad stage melodrama. “I had not known Wainwright a month before I knew he was the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.”

  Well, that was clear enough.

  There was so much he had still wanted to say to her, yet he could not get the words out now, even if she suddenly appeared at the window. It had taken Darius all night and all morning to ready himself for this and now his courage and his confidence were depleted.

  ***

  “Oh, he left his hat and gloves,” she exclaimed, taking them up from the chair where he’d dropped them.

  “I’m sure he’ll send someone back for them. Leave them there.”

  But Justina was suddenly overwhelmed with two fears: one, that he would come back for them himself; two, that he would never come back.

  She ran to the window to see how far he’d gone, expecting, by now, that he would be out of sight. But she was in time to observe him trip over the cat as he opened their gate. He righted himself and strode away down the lane, coattails billowing behind him like the ceremonial robes of a demon king.

  Apparently he had come there on foot that day, which seemed odd; she’d never seen or heard of him strolling anywhere for pleasure.

  Alarmed, she realized he might well have heard their conversation, or some of it at least, through the open window.

  She ought to be glad. Better he know the futility of asking her to marry him. If he should ever have such a thought in his head. If.

  The lane was very quiet now. The cat sat on the gatepost, cleaning his whiskers, and Wainwright marched round the bend, until he was out of sight.

  “What are you looking at out there?” the captain demanded. “You must come here and tell me all the things that have happened in my absence. I can’t trust my sister to tell me anything juicy these days.”

  Justina stepped away from the window and chewed her fingernail.

  Now she had something more to hide; this she could not write in her diary either. And why not?

  When it was merely her own sin and confession, that was one thing; when it involved the humiliation of someone else, that was entirely different.

  ***

  Darius found Miles in the orchard, tirelessly attempting to teach Sir Mortimer to fetch thrown sticks.

  “It’s not a dog, Forester,” he commented brusquely as he stormed by.

  “I know, but he’s very intelligent.”

  He jerked to a halt and turned back. “The creature might be bright as a button, amusing and trainable, but I doubt he wants to be. He’s remarkably stubborn, ungrateful, and sly.” He spat out his words, still fuming. “Intelligence is not always used as it should and in the wrong hands, left to ramble freely with no good cause, it can be utterly and completely wasted.”

  “Poor Sir Morty!” Miles chuckled. “Your papa is cross with you today. What have you done to him now?”

  The pig raised his head and grunted happily, then trotted over to sniff at his reluctant master’s boots. Darius had taken the longer route back to Midwitch from the village and gathered quite a bit of mud in the process. Much to Sir Mortimer’s excitement.

  “Where have you been?” Miles asked.

  “On a fool’s errand,” he snapped.

  Gazing quizzically at those filthy boots, his friend exclaimed, “Apparently it is possible to get lost in only three lanes, eh?”

  Darius spun around and marched into the house.

  Inside the shadowy hall he stopped again, suddenly not sure what to do next or where to go. All in the house was quiet but for the steady clunk of the lo
ng case clock behind him. It was always quiet like this when she was not there. Too quiet. He’d never thought such a thing was possible until now. Head bent, he thoughtfully perused his filthy boots, as a ray of sunlight reached fingertips through the open door and cast his toes in a stark beam no less reproachful and withering than the regard of Miss Justina Penny herself.

  “Oh, heavens above! I thought for one dreadful minute the ghost of old Master Hawke had come back again, young sir!” The housekeeper appeared at the other end of the hall, her big face very white, drained of its usual ruddiness. “You looked like him, standing there by the door! Just as he was years ago.”

  “Yes…well…as you see,” he struggled for a breath, “it is only me.” Alone, he might have added. Quite alone.

  She gave a sharp nod, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’ll be ready for a spot of luncheon then, young sir?”

  He looked down at his gloveless, empty hands. They looked so large and clumsy. And his ears felt cold. What on earth did you think you were doing, Handles?

  “Sir?”

  “Er…yes. Thank you, Mrs. Birch.”

  Recovered from her earlier shock, she laughed.“Fancy you frightening me like that! Turning into Phineas Hawke before my very eyes! Just like him all over again. Ah, looks like the sun is coming out after all. Good thing, too! All this damp plays havoc with my ol’ bones.”

  When the clock chimed twelve, it seemed today to bear a mocking lilt and he wanted to reach in and stop the pendulum with his fist.

  Twenty-three

  Nothing much has happened.

  The cat was sick in my slippers.

  It has been so damp that Rooke’s warped privy door stuck fast with him inside it, which caused some tepid excitement for half a day.

  Lucy wore rouge yesterday, although she flatly denied it to me. No one’s cheeks are that rosy unless they have been slapped with a haddock.

  The Priory Players will commence with rehearsals soon. Despite being accused recently of enjoying drama, I find myself strangely unexcited to be acting again and the characters do not flow from my pen as they usually do.

  Captain S came to tea and Mama was insufferably rude to him, as always. The poor man has no luck with the mothers in this village, yet he seems to take delight in his reputation and does nothing to improve it. I fear Mama is right when she says he chases wicked women because he thinks it is what he should be doing*.

  I have not spoken to Mr. W since his strange visit.

  I saw him yesterday, however, teaching Lucy’s little brothers to ride his horse in the fallow field by Dockley’s Barn. He was a strict teacher, as might be expected, but the boys listened to him as they seldom do to me or anyone and most curiously seemed to enjoy the lesson.

  I suppose he may as well make himself useful while he remains here.

  He did not come back for his hat and gloves, yet it has been almost a full week since he left them. Mama says it is a sign of his great wealth that he does not even miss a hat. She is convinced he left them here so he might have an excuse to return when Cathy is at home.

  I do not like seeing his hat and gloves on our hall table every day when I come down to breakfast. It always makes me think—just for one terrible moment—that he must be here to visit, until I remember he is unlikely ever to come again. And thus I must, every day, relive the circumstances under which he left them there.

  I am certain I was right to speak as I did. But I have discovered that the more often I am forced to remember an incident, the more chance there is I might find something to regret.

  I can hardly believe I wrote the words “Mama” and “right” in the same sentence. Alas.

  J.P. September 28th, 1815 A.D.

  “Mr. Wainwright is really not the ogre you try to paint him,” Cathy argued gently. Propped up in bed with two extra pillows and surrounded by blankets and quilts, she looked quite small and lost. “I cannot imagine why you took against that man so virulently from the start,” she snuffled, before blowing her nose soundly.

  Justina had been reading aloud to her from the foot of the bed, where she lay in an ungainly sprawl. Now she snapped the book shut. “I daresay he’s been on his best behavior when you go there, but you have only taken my place a few times. Besides, you always want to think the best of everybody.” And it was necessary now for Justina to only have proof of the worst when it came to Wainwright. Necessary for her peace of mind after all the things she’d said to him.

  “Miles Forester assures me that Mr. Wainwright is a good man,” her sister continued. “A little stern, perhaps, and solemn, which sometimes makes him appear too proud, but he is an honest, true friend with many excellent qualities.”

  “Goodness, Cathy, has the dratted man employed you to improve his reputation?”

  Her sister frowned. “Why would he do that? I’m sure he does not care for anyone’s approbation, and he certainly does not need ours.”

  “Yet he seems to have yours, sister, even when he has done so little to attain it.”

  Cathy carefully folded back the top edge of the bedcover and smoothed it over with both hands. “You are always saying how no one should care how you look, Jussy. That it does not matter how you dress or your lack of ladylike manners, because people should not judge you by it. They should care about your mind and your intelligence, not your looks and whether or not you spoon your soup from the right side of the bowl! Yet the appearance of Mr. Wainwright and his manners have offended you, it seems, from the first day. You have not given his character the same chance you expect others to give you. Is that not unfair?”

  Justina reopened the book and became absorbed again, flipping through the pages to glance at the end and decide whether it was worth continuing.

  “Mr. Wainwright has had many responsibilities thrust upon him since he was very young,” Cathy added. “He has managed the entire family and a successful business since his father died. He has raised his brother’s child as if she is his own. It may be true that he is a somber gentleman, but he has his reasons for it. Just as you have yours for deliberately driving our mama to distraction and putting off any man who shows the merest interest in you.”

  “Miles Forester is obliged to fib since he is Mr. Wainwright’s friend and guest. He must owe the man a large debt of gratitude. It would seem the only explanation for the way he has worked so hard over the past week to lighten Wainwright’s grim countenance with a halo.” She paused, glancing suspiciously at her sister. “And you have been talking to Mr. Forester a great deal, Cathy. I ought to ask that young man his intentions.”

  “Oh, Jussy, Miles Forester is quite the most delightful gentleman I’ve ever met.”

  “He’s certainly handsome. But as Mr. Darcy would say, he smiles too much.”

  Cathy chuckled. “There is something amiss with smiling?”

  “In abundance, sister,” she replied grandly, “there is less value.”

  “So Miles Forester smiles too much, and yet Mr. Wainwright does not smile enough to please you?”

  Snapping the book shut for the second time, Justina leapt off the bed. “Do hurry up and get well, sister. It worked out so much better for you to go to Midwitch with Lucy. Better for everyone. Mama was delighted that you agreed to go in my place, and Mr. Wainwright must have been relieved to have your sweet-natured face for company instead of mine. Now I am stuck with the odorous task again.”

  Cathy wilted further into her extravagant nest of pillows. “I shall try to improve, Jussy, as fast as I can. And you are, of course, the best nurse, so I have no doubt your special broth will see me back to good health in no time.”

  “I hope so, sister! After the battle I endured with Clara, who kept trying to take my pot off the fire every time my back was turned, that broth had better put you back on your feet tomorrow.”

  Cathy laughed gently. “Poor Jussy! Believe me, I do wish I could
go again to Midwitch in your place. I found Mr. Wainwright pleasant company.”

  “Oh, now I know you really must be ill!”

  “He is not all noise and bluster like some gentlemen we know, Jussy. I think he is a man who could always be relied upon to speak the truth, even if it does him no favors.”

  She groaned. “Indeed. When it comes to expressing his opinions he is honest to a fault.”

  “I’m sure any woman who wins his regard would be fortunate indeed.”

  She stared at her sister. “What woman would win his regard? I’m sure he finds something to criticize about every girl who crosses his line of sight.” Turning away, she caught her image in the mirror and quickly averted her gaze rather than look at that guilty countenance.

  “I’m sure some lady will one day,” Cathy replied. “And I hope this time she is deserving of his affections.”

  Justina pressed her lips tight and rearranged the little jars of balm and perfumed water on the dresser.

  After a pause her sister continued softly, “Mr. Forester told me something…oh, but I should not repeat it.”

  “Told you what?”

  “No, it was told in confidence—”

  “Sister!” Justina swung around again, flourishing a hairbrush as if she might stab someone. “You had better tell me now or I shall imagine all manner of horrors.”

  Finally Cathy explained, “Mr. Wainwright was in love once before, years ago. But the lady was seduced away from him by another. She broke his heart. He has never recovered from it.”

  A mixture of feelings quickly took hold. First she felt an unexpected rush of compassion for Wainwright. Then came suspicion, for this story had come from his very good friend who had already shown himself eager to flatter.

  Wainwright in love? It seemed as strange as the idea of Phineas Hawke ever giving his heart, and yet she had those letters he’d written to prove it.

  “Do be gentle with poor Mr. Wainwright, Jussy. I am sorry you must resume the visits with Lucy, but while I am ill there is naught else for it. Diana claims it would be improper for her, as a woman engaged, and Rebecca is too busy with her brother these days.”