How To Rescue A Rake (Book Club Belles Society 3) Page 29

  Nathaniel sagged against his desk and exhaled a low curse. That damn, stubborn woman. Would he ever get her to take that biggest risk of all?

  * * *

  The wedding of Lucy and Sam Hardacre was a merry affair at the Hawcombe Prior church, followed by a breakfast at the Pig in a Poke.

  A large amount of ham, tongue, cheese, and eggs was consumed, but much of the cake ended up on the floor when Sir Mortimer Grubbins escaped his sty again and decided to invite himself to the party.

  Amid the chaos, the parson’s wife sought Diana out to tell her she was looking “a little more rounded” after her trip to Bath. “And I am pleased to see the curl returned to your hair. But you came back with no husband? Such a pity. Here you stand at another friend’s wedding, poor thing. What shall we do with you?”

  Diana smiled. “As it happens, Mrs. Kenton—and I must ask you to keep this under your bonnet as you are the first to know”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“I think I might soon find a husband after all.”

  The lady almost jumped out of her shoes. “But who is the fellow, Miss Makepiece? Gracious!”

  “That I cannot tell you, for I have not yet asked him myself.”

  “Asked him?” The lady’s eyes popped. “Surely you mean that he has not asked you, dear.”

  She laughed. “Oh no. This time it’s my turn. I know this particular fellow won’t ask me. I wounded him once before, you see, so now it’s up to me to do the asking.”

  Ever since she had walked up to her mother’s gate and seen him there, Diana had known what she must do, but getting up the courage was not easy. First she’d had to let Lucy’s wedding go by, because she would not want to distract anyone from that joyful occasion.

  When the Book Club Belles had gathered earlier to salvage what they could of the flower garlands to decorate Sam Hardacre’s cart, Diana had felt her secret burning inside and longed to tell someone. Mrs. Kenton just happened to be a handy ear, and of course she—unlike Diana’s friends—would have no suspicion of the gentleman’s identity. Poked and prodded into silencing the gossiping woman, Diana now felt the great satisfaction of telling Mrs. Kenton something the woman didn’t know and could never have guessed.

  * * *

  The next afternoon, Diana sat with her mother in the kitchen, quietly sewing. She thought back to that long-ago day when Nathaniel had proposed to her. She remembered almost running home and her mother commenting on her heightened color. Diana had gone to bed early but could not sleep. Her mind had churned relentlessly over Nathaniel Sherringham’s proposal, and unable to rest, she had gotten up early the next morning. She was in the kitchen putting on her walking boots by the fire when her mother came down to remind her it was wash day.

  “Where are you off to so early?” Mrs. Makepiece had exclaimed, glaring at her daughter above the bundle of bed linens she carried. “I need help here, young lady. I hope you don’t think to go gallivanting about the village with those friends of yours, leaving me here to struggle alone.”

  Diana sighed heavily, remembering the anguish she’d felt, the indecision. She had thought to run and see Nathaniel before her mother came down, but she’d forgotten it was the day to tackle all the laundry.

  “And you left your window open again, Diana, letting all that frigid cold air in.” Then, leaning toward the fire she had casually tossed a small, palm-sized crumple of paper into the flames. “Sometimes I think you deliberately court a cold, young lady, just to get out of your chores.”

  The burned paper had not signified much at the time, but now, thinking back to that chilly morning, Diana set her sewing aside and said to her mother suddenly, “What did you do with his note, Mama?”

  “His note? Whose note?”

  “Nathaniel’s note. The one he left for me before he went away from Hawcombe Prior four years ago.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re very flushed, Diana. Are you feverish again?”

  “No, Mama. I am quite well. Better, in fact, than I have been for a long time. My eyes are open. And so is my heart.”

  Ashen, her mother stared. “What fancy have you got into your head now?”

  “I wanted to give you a chance to confess and tell me you were wrong. Tell me you are sorry.”

  “Why would I do such a thing?”

  “Burn his note, or tell me you are sorry?”

  Her mother shook her head, apparently speechless.

  “You found it, I suppose, on the floor of my bedchamber that morning.” Diana spoke slowly, softly. “I remember I had left my window open and you went in to close it, because you chided me about it. That’s when you would have found his note.”

  Still nothing from her mother.

  “When you brought the bundle of bed linens down for the wash, you had his note with you. And you burned it in the fire. That is what happened. Is it not? He told me he tied it to a crab apple to send it through my window, and now I remember the kitchen smelled a little like baked apple that morning. I did not think anything of it then.”

  Her mother must have pricked her finger because she grimaced, caught her breath, and bit her lip. “I have no inkling of any note. What are you talking about?”

  “Mama, you knew that if I went out that morning I would go to him. You saw me lacing my boots and so you reminded me about the laundry. Because you knew…” She caught her breath and swallowed a sob. “You knew how I loved him.”

  Now, at last, she could say it out loud. The walls did not crumble.

  “You knew it before I did. Mama?”

  Her mother looked up slowly. “Yes, I knew. Do you think it gave me any pleasure, Diana? I saw you were in love, and that is the worst thing in the world for any woman to feel. Certainly the very worst reason to marry!”

  “But Mama, you had love. It doesn’t happen to everyone. Some people live their entire lives without it. Yet you found it. Even for the short time you had together, you and Papa had love.”

  “And look what good it did me. I wanted the best for you, Diana. Always!”

  “But not a marriage of love?”

  “Good heavens, no! I saw how you loved that man, and I couldn’t bear to see you brokenhearted.”

  “You didn’t think I was capable of winning his love in return, Mama? Capable of keeping his heart for long? Did you find so little strength in me that you imagined I couldn’t help him, couldn’t be good for him? As he could be good for me?”

  “All men are duplicitous and fickle, Diana. I have told you that many times.”

  “I would have made a difference in his life and he in mine.”

  “Oh, that sheen would soon have dulled, believe me. Once he found something else or someone else… I could not let that happen to you as it did to me. I wanted more for you.”

  “Regardless of what I wanted?”

  Her mother’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Man cannot live on love alone.”

  “And I cannot live without it. I don’t want to.”

  Her mother looked into the fire. “I never meant for you to be unhappy for so long. I thought it would pass.”

  “Did it pass for you, Mama?”

  To that there was no answer.

  She forgave her mother for burning the note. What else could she do? It was in the past and now everything had changed. They were all starting from the beginning. Besides, Nathaniel had gotten his revenge when he intercepted that letter from Elizabeth and kept her mother from knowing what Diana had been up to in Bath.

  “You must know, Mama, that I will always look after you. I would not abandon you.”

  “Don’t be foolish, child.”

  Diana took a small, wrapped parcel from her sewing basket and passed it to her mother. “I brought you this from Bath.”

  It was slowly and carefully unwrapped—a fragrant lavender pillow embroidered w
ith a very pretty peacock, his tail on display. Her mother studied it for a long time but could find no fault with the stitching.

  She shook her head. “All that detailed work just for a little pillow. Who would have the time to sew such a thing that is purely decoration? Such a waste of fine thread too!”

  “A lady named Eleanor Ashby. Her mama gave it to me as a parting gift. Just in case we never get that real peacock you wanted.”

  Then her mother smiled, sniffed the sweet, dried lavender buds inside the pillow, and ran her fingertips gently over the embroidery again. “I’m sure this will do me even better. Real peacocks make an awful lot of noise and mess, so I hear, and they can be temperamental.”

  The pillow was given pride of place on her chair in the parlor, where it was much admired by every guest, and Diana quite often caught her mother smiling at it.

  The subject of the burned note was never again mentioned, but as the sun began to set that evening, Mrs. Makepiece suddenly reminded her daughter about the fruit-picking party with the Wainwrights at the Midwitch Manor orchards. “You had best go and fill a basket with as much as you can,” she said. “Then I can get started on this year’s jam, can’t I?”

  As Diana walked through the door, her mother called her back to tuck some violets behind her ear. It was the closest she would ever get to an apology.

  Twenty-six

  The air was mellow, the bees drowsy. It was one of those amber summer evenings when the world felt a little drunk on rich scents and bright colors, when the day had been long and hot. A light breeze ruffled the long grasses and scattered little clouds of dandelion seeds. A rabbit sat on its haunches, pondering the scene, whiskers twitching, ears alert. And then, hearing her approach, it ducked away, bouncing into the hedgerows.

  As Diana strolled down the lane, she watched two sparrows taking turns bringing food to their fledglings. How hard they worked. It was no easy thing to raise children, as her mother would say. Again she imagined that one of those sparrows might be the bird she had rescued from the Manderson assembly room several months ago in the spring. Not only had it followed her home and built a nest there, but it had found true love in Hawcombe Prior and raised a chirping brood.

  She came to the gates of Midwitch Manor and found them wide open, welcoming anyone who wanted to share the labor that evening and take home a basket of fruit. The orchards flourished, producing more fruit than the Wainwrights claimed they could manage, so they always generously shared their bounty with the other villagers. Diana greeted the Book Club Belles as they appeared, moving slowly in and out of the trees with their baskets.

  Somewhere nearby, one of the villagers played a viola—a surprisingly elegant accompaniment to the curses and squeals of Sarah Wainwright, who once again pursued Sir Mortimer Grubbins on another trail of merry destruction. The orchards were a favorite playground for that stubbornly independent pig, and if an event was taking place there, he was sure to be in the thick of it.

  Humming along with the tune of the viola, Diana made her way through the trees and bushes, looking for one face in particular.

  She found him picking blackberries, the ends of his fingers stained with juice.

  Pausing for a deep breath, she looked at the tall figure with the sunlit hair.

  Now or never, then.

  “Captain Sherringham,” she called out, striding toward him and swinging her empty basket.

  He turned and smiled when he saw her. His admiring gaze went directly to the violets tucked above her ear. “Miss Makepiece, I hoped you would join the party this evening.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Glancing at her empty basket, he tut-tutted. “Best make haste or the others will take all the fruit.”

  She licked her lips. “Well, I rather thought you might share yours with me.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Now why would I do that?”

  Diana glanced down at his full basket. “That’s more than one bachelor can use. It’ll be wasted.”

  For a long moment he looked at her, hands on his hips.

  “Especially a wandering bachelor who never stays long.”

  No reply. Impatient, she set her empty basket in the grass, stepped closer, and tipped her head back to look up at him. The sun was just drifting below the trees, sending a soft golden light over his brow and kissing the tips of his lashes.

  “Are you staying here, Nathaniel? Or will you get restless feet again in the winter?”

  He considered her thoughtfully, head tilted to one side. “Apart from trips necessitated by my business, I plan to spend a large portion of my year in Hawcombe Prior. To make this my home.”

  “I see. And you will need someone, I suppose, to manage the tavern when you are not here.”

  “I shall begin my search for applicants forthwith.” He plucked a blackberry and tossed it skyward, catching it in his mouth. He chewed. “So I’m not going anywhere, Miss Makepiece. You won’t be rid of me again. Hard luck.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I feared as much.”

  “Say what you want to insult me, this is where I want to be. Your sulky face won’t put me off. Pinch me, poke me, curse me. You, madam, are stuck with me.”

  “Then will you marry me, Nathaniel Sherringham?” she demanded in a loud, clear voice that caused several folk nearby to stop and look at them. “I know you won’t ask me again, so I must ask you and risk my heart, the way you once risked yours.”

  His eyes widened. He set down his basket.

  “I am in love with you,” she added, “and that’s all there is to it.”

  Slowly, he stepped toward her and put his arms around her waist, drawing her against his body. As if they were quite alone in that orchard, no one watching and listening in amazement. “What about all my faults? They are many, as you like to point out.”

  She sighed. “Nobody is perfect. Not even me.”

  He smiled down at her, his eyes shining. “True. We might not be perfect, but—”

  “We are perfect for each other.”

  Nathaniel had taught her to speak up, and she had shown him that sometimes it wasn’t necessary to speak. Sometimes all one had to do was listen.

  He kissed her in full view of the other fruit pickers and the Book Club Belles. It was by no means a sweet kiss or anything that might be misinterpreted as harmless or innocent.

  Somewhere in the raspberries, Mrs. Kenton quietly fainted. It was the only quiet thing she’d ever done.

  * * *

  “What made you change your mind, Diana?” he asked.

  She looked surprised. “You climbed a tree for me. What else could I do? I wouldn’t want you injured by trying even more desperate measures.”

  Nathaniel laughed, his arm around her as they walked along. She was his at last. The woman who had been out of his range for so long had finally reached down and offered her hand. He would never let it go again.

  * * *

  Who can be in doubt of what followed? When any two young people take it into their heads to marry, they are pretty sure by perseverance to carry their point, be they ever so poor, or ever so imprudent, or ever so little likely to be necessary to each other’s ultimate comfort. This may be bad morality to conclude with, but I believe it to be truth; and if such parties succeed, how should a Captain Wentworth and an Anne Elliot, with the advantage of maturity of mind, consciousness of right, and one independent fortune between them, fail of bearing down every opposition?

  —Persuasion

  They left the wedding feast early, not caring if anyone noticed.

  Alone at last, they slowly removed the petals from each other’s hair and then all the layers of clothing until they lay together, naked finally, no barriers in their way.

  “I love you, Mrs. Sherringham.”

  Below them in the tavern, the villagers continued celebrating loudly wi
th their tuneless singing and noisy stamping. Perhaps they hadn’t even noticed the groom sweeping his bride away. Diana had last seen her mother reluctantly forced into dancing by Major Sherringham, who had drunk just enough not to care about his gout. While the major danced clumsily, making up most of his steps, her mother insisted on trying to correct him. But that was what made her happy—keeping control, getting things right. Everyone was used to it, even the major, who merrily disregarded her instructions.

  The newlyweds had slipped away to their cozy haven above. There, with the windows open and the harvest moon shining in, they finally made love.

  Nathaniel entered her carefully, the last act in his “wooing,” the moment for which they had both waited. One more patiently than the other, for Sherry had finally learned how to manage his impetuous nature. He had won what he had yearned for every day for ten years.

  Diana wrapped her legs around his hips and kissed him fiercely, lovingly, having learned to give herself up to passion, to let her heart live.

  It was, for both of them, well worth the wait.

  Epilogue

  She washed the tavern windows while Nathaniel trimmed the ivy. Singing away on his ladder, he had apparently forgotten she was directly below, because cuttings and various leaf-munching insects kept falling on her head, making her jump. Of course, when it came to her husband’s motives, she could never be sure if he did it on purpose to try and make her scream. Now that he had finally raised “emotion” out of her, he enjoyed doing it often. Especially the kind that made her shriek and chase him.

  Diana bided her time until he came down the ladder, and then she made certain to accidentally spill water from her bucket down his breeches and over his foot.

  He glared at her, his jaw tight. “You’ll pay for that, Mrs. Sherringham.”

  “Do you know how many caterpillars have fallen onto my shoulder this past half hour?” she replied primly.

  “Oh, so you admit you deliberately tipped that bucket.”

  “I admit nothing of the kind. I merely point out that you should pay attention to your surroundings and take more care.” She shook her head, lips pursed. “Really, you’re not fit to be up a ladder and holding something sharp. That is simply asking for trouble.” As he advanced menacingly toward her with the pruning shears, she aimed her wet rag and tossed it.