Once Upon a Kiss (Book Club Belles Society) Page 3

  Lucy’s lips fell into a sulk, but it was a familiar expression these days. She was despondent ever since news came that there would be no soldiers encamped nearby this winter. No doubt the indignity of Sir Mortimer Grubbins’ drool on her new cloak and wet boots on her feet were simply the straw that broke the camel’s back.

  Suddenly, a large winged shadow flew over the boat and skimmed the passengers’ heads. Lucy let out a squeal that must have woken every light sleeper in the village. Justina finally lost her embattled grip upon the oars and, as they floated away from her, the stricken vessel drifted aimlessly into another band of weeds. Here they were apprehended, firmly stalled in the midst of the stream.

  “Well, that’s done it,” Lucy somberly observed.

  There was a warning creak, followed by a splintering crackle. More cold water pooled quickly into the bottom of the boat. Nestled in the tight space between his companions, Sir Mortimer Grubbins, the unsuspecting pig, let out a contented grunt.

  “We shall be drowned,” said Lucy, as if she’d always known such a thing would happen. In all likelihood the girl had already picked out a gown in which to be buried and an imaginary, weak-chinned suitor to lay flowers on her grave. But they both knew the water in that spot was merely two feet deep, and what worried Justina far more than drowning was the realization that they would have to carry Sir Mortimer between them to dry land. As the fate of the boat proved, he was no little weight.

  The pig lifted his snout and grunted again, probably wondering when it might be dinner time. She patted his back.

  “Worry not, Sir Mortimer, we’ll find somewhere to keep you safe.” She already had the very place in mind: Midwitch Manor, recently left empty upon the death of its cantankerous owner. There was a very pleasant orchard there with several small outbuildings, all currently abandoned to Mother Nature. What better place to hide a pig until other arrangements were found?

  One thing was for sure, she thought crossly as cold water slowly wicked up her petticoats, no morsel of bacon or despicable sausage would ever pass her lips again after this.

  A quarter of an hour later, using Lucy’s cloak as a makeshift hammock to carry the noble Grubbins between them, the two young ladies finally struggled up the bank of the stream, through the bulrushes to dry land. They were both wet and exhausted, yet so busy arguing with one another—Lucy still protesting the use of her precious cloak in this manner—that neither heard the approach of hooves and wheels.

  As they emerged from the tall reeds and into the narrow lane, the four horses charging along it at the same moment were startled and reared up. Although the coachman took swift evasive action, he was too late to prevent damage. The coach lurched and jolted. The lanterns swung in wide arcs across the lane, and with a tremendous creaking and groaning the vehicle finally came to rest in the opposite ditch.

  She heard the coachman inquire whether his passenger was hurt and a man’s voice confirmed that he was not. The door of the disabled coach opened and the apparent owner of the voice looked out. Immediately he must have seen the strange rescue party struggling with their burden. “What the devil..? You there!”

  “Fine evening, is it not, my good fellow?” Justina shouted jauntily, shuffling along and straining under the weight of the lounging pig, attempting to ignore the first fat spots of rain dropping with quickening speed to the earth around them. If they let the bundle down now, she feared they would never pick it up again. Lucy had a trying habit of breaking into giggles when she had to lift anything, which invariably made Justina laugh too. They already fought to maintain their anger with one another while at the same time holding back their helpless laughter.

  “Are you quite mad?” the stranger bellowed. “What do you think you’re doing, woman?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” she sputtered over her shoulder. “We’re carrying a pig.”

  Lucy snorted and then made a small whimper of despair.

  A determined, angry stride followed them a short way down the lane and she hissed at Lucy to pick up speed. If they put Sir Mortimer down to let him walk, he would meander along, snuffling at the ground, delaying the journey. They’d have to carry him at least until they were within sight of the manor house. Fortunately, the beast did not appear too distressed by his current leisurely repose.

  “Someone could have been hurt,” the man bellowed. “The horses might have trampled you both into the ground.”

  “Oh, dear, how dreadful. Sorry,” shouted Justina. “Can’t stop. I bid you a pleasant evening.” There was no time for explanations. Rain spat down on her head now with more velocity and although they couldn’t get much wetter, it would doubtless make their path much softer and more difficult. And really, what could be said about something dire that might have happened, but didn’t? Couldn’t he see she had enough immediate and actual troubles of her own?

  ***

  Fortunately, by the time his carriage was forced into a ditch by the curious appearance of two drunken gypsy girls carrying a pig, Darius was close to the end of his laborious journey, and the lantern light of a public house led him through the rain to shelter. On foot.

  “It’s a rotten night out there, to be sure,” the landlord exclaimed jovially, leading the way to a seat by the inglenook hearth and setting a tray of supper before him. “Whatever can have brought you out in it? On a night such as this, a man should stay by his fire with a pipe and a drop of port.”

  “I can assure you, I would happily comply with your vision had it not been for the inconvenience of a deceased relative.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.” The landlord hovered over him, clearly in no haste to go about his business. “A local man?”

  “Phineas Hawke,” he admitted reluctantly.

  The landlord’s lips parted in a gasp of surprise. “I never knew the man had any family still living.”

  “He preferred to think that way too.” Darius removed his greatcoat, carefully hanging it before the fire to dry. “I am the surviving grandson of his sister, Arabella.”

  “Well, I’ll be! Aye, there is a family resemblance now I think of it.”

  Darius cautiously surveyed the tray of cold supper he’d been brought. “His house is not far from here, as I remember, although it has been more than a decade since I last paid a visit.”

  “That’s right, sir. Midwitch Manor lies up on the hill. Other side of the village.”

  He arranged and rearranged the knife and fork by his plate, checking the two prongs and the blade for any sign of poor cleanliness. “Good. If I can find a horse and saddle to hire, I can ride up there after supper.”

  The landlord had been about to turn away, but now he stopped and came back, his big, weathered face creased with concern. “But it’s been shut up since ol’ Hawke died and the servants all left. You’ll find it a bleak place, damp, dark, and cold. I should wait until morn, sir. I’ve a room vacant above stairs. Nothing so grand as you’re used to, I’m sure, but it does well enough. My daughter can slide a pan of coals under the linens to warm the bed for you.” He looked over his shoulder, irritable suddenly. “If I can find the girl tonight. Don’t know where she’s dashed off to.”

  “Thank you, but I will make my way to the manor tonight.”

  “Aye, well…if you think that’s best.”

  He cut savagely into his slice of ham, and the landlord eventually moved away to pester other customers.

  But the heat of the fire began to warm his bones and the food was surprisingly good, calming and settling his stomach. As his general sense of irritation eased, Darius realized how tired he was after his journey, and the prospect of going out again that night held less and less appeal. Really, how urgent was it that he get there tonight? He was already a day later than planned due to the terrible state of the country roads, and now that it was dark, he would not be able to assess the place very well. The rain wasn’t letting up; it still drummed h
ard at the windows. Thus the reasons for leaving that cozy fireside soon fell away completely. Tomorrow would be time enough.

  A man seated nearby had glanced over at Darius several times. Suddenly, he scuffed his three-legged stool closer across the flagged floor. With a smile and a nod he announced his intention to speak, ignoring the social rules for proper introduction.

  That was the trouble with country folk, thought Darius, they were always far too familiar and liked to intrude in a man’s private business. They had a disturbing tendency to make up their own rules rather than abide by those laid down in refined societies.

  In a small village like Hawcombe Prior there were no secrets and any stranger passing through was quickly relieved of his, in the same way a cutpurse would empty his pockets in London.

  Well, they could try.

  “Did I hear you say, sir, that you are related—were related—to Phineas Hawke?”

  “He was my great-uncle.”

  “Fancy that! We always thought he were alone in the world.”

  “Being alone,” he replied tersely, “has much in its favor.”

  The other man paid no heed to the hint. “Will you be moving in up at the manor?”

  “No.” His only purpose in visiting Hawcombe Prior and the house in which his great-uncle died was to see, first hand, the state of the property and for how much it might be sold or leased, but he felt no need to explain his motives.

  “’Twas a beautiful old place once, that house,” the fellow muttered, kicking a log back into the fire with his worn boot. “Shame how old Hawke let it go to wrack and ruin these past few years, but he couldn’t get about much anymore. There used to be a gardener, but he moved to Manderson a few years back and the grounds are overgrown. There’s a fine orchard too—or was at one time. All left untended now though.”

  Darius wondered why this stranger took it upon himself to open a conversation without the least encouragement. He had no doubt that even if he feigned sleep the fellow would continue his chatter.

  “The village youngsters like to scrump apples over his orchard wall. But ol’ Hawke were a mean old bugger—begging your pardon, since he were a relative of yourn.”

  Darius knew of his great-uncle’s reputation. Phineas never replied to any letters from his family and seemed to prefer complete estrangement. Only when his sister died, thirteen years ago, did he send for Darius and his elder brother—her grandchildren—to see how they had “turned out.”

  Darius remembered meeting a bent, shriveled old man with shining, coal-black eyes sunken beneath bushy gray brows and cheeks crisscrossed with red veins like broken cobwebs.

  “There’s treasure here on this property,” Phineas had told them. “Treasure hidden. What do you think of that, eh?”

  Lucius had exclaimed that he didn’t believe a word of it. Darius, then a shy, lanky boy of seventeen, had not dared argue with his brother, but locked the idea away, keeping his thoughts to himself where they could not be mocked. His social awkwardness—a problem increased since he surpassed a height of six feet seemingly overnight and suffered ears of an equally excessive size—made him an easy enough target for his brother’s scorn and amusement as it was.

  “Come on, Handles,” Lucius had exclaimed as they left their great-uncle’s house, “let’s get out of this mausoleum and find some good ale and jolly company.”

  After that visit Phineas did not send for them again, and Darius could only assume the old man was disappointed in what he’d seen of the brothers. Only two years later, Lucius went to India and never returned.

  “Good ham, that, eh?” His nosy supper companion intruded once again in his thoughts. The fellow leaned back and poked his thumbs through two frayed holes in his corduroy waistcoat, as if they were pockets. “One o’ my pigs, that was.” He swayed forward again, winking. “You say the word, and I’ll have some o’ my best ham hocks took up to the manor for you. You look like a gent who’s used to the finer things, and you won’t find a better pork sausage in your life.” Two small, round, button eyes gleamed in his pink face. “How do you like your bacon? Lean, streaky, or full o’ lovely fat? You tell ol’ Barnabas Rooke here and I’ll send some up to the manor for you. On account, o’ course.”

  Pigs? He’d had quite enough of pigs for one evening. “That won’t be necessary. I leave on Sunday.”

  “But you only just arrived.”

  “I have a business in Town, and I cannot abandon it for long.”

  The other fellow squinted and back went his stubby thumbs into those holes in his waistcoat. “Surely you’ll stay for the hunting season at least.”

  “I don’t hunt,” he replied. “I haven’t the time, and I fail to see the appeal of blood sports.” That, of course, along with his preference for quiet, solitary pastimes such as reading, was something else Lucius had teased him about.

  “But I thought you was the idle rich. Begging your pardon, sir—a proper gent. No frayed edges and your buttons all sewn on with the same thread, like.”

  “Yes,” Darius muttered drily. “I can see how it might be confusing.”

  Four

  We had haddock for dinner last evening. It put me very out of sorts. The peas were soapy, and the potatoes over-salted. If Clara plans to poison us, she’s going about it very effectively and speedily, but at the sacrifice of subtlety. I am still not yet recovered and could not eat breakfast, which is most unlike me. Everyone else appears as normal—a relative term for this family—so perhaps only my portion received the fatal dose. I should not be surprised, for she has never liked me and accuses me often of stealing from the pantry.

  If anyone should read this after my demise, please apprise my good parents of the cause and let them know I did love them dearly, even if I sometimes tried their patience intolerably. Cathy may have all my bonnets and the amber cross, although the chain is broken.

  Yesterday a pig was rescued from the axe, but my dearest friend’s enthusiasm for adventure was finally lost to the crushing blade. It shall be mourned bitterly. Now I must take care that my own spirit does not meet with the same sorry end. Although I daresay Clara’s egg custard will do away with me sooner than later in any case.

  J.P. September 2nd, 1815 A.D.

  If it wasn’t for gluttony and a little bit of wrath thrown in, she would not have been late catching up with her sister that afternoon. But Justina had stopped to indulge in a spoonful of raspberry jam from the pantry and then, in the process of shouting through the window at the cat she saw digging in the herb garden, got sticky finger smudges on her bonnet ribbons. Another hat then had to be found, and by the time she’d discovered one that was not sat on or had the trimmings ripped off, Catherine was already halfway across the common.

  As Justina ran out through the front door, she heard her mother calling for her, but since she was now late for the Book Society, and the only reason her mama could possibly want her was for another chastisement, she chose not to hear. Closing the door firmly, she looked for her sister. Catherine walked ahead in considerable haste, for the Book Society had recently acquired a new work of fiction which, according to their friend Diana Makepiece, was the most “delicious” story ever written. Her cousin had lent it to her, in three volumes, in return for her best taffeta ball gown. A frugal creature, Diana was not at all known for sharing her ball gowns, so it could only be concluded that this Pride and Prejudice was a highly sought after, life-changing tome. Several chapters had been eagerly consumed at previous meetings of the Book Society—where the ladies took turns reading aloud—and Catherine was on tenterhooks to continue the story.

  “If only there were any headless corpse brides or poisoned chalices in this book,” Justina had complained.

  Although her preference for bloodthirsty horror stories was well-known, she was most often forced to comply with the desires of her fellow Society members and put up with another romance whenever one c
ould be acquired. For vengeance she enjoyed proclaiming herself madly in love with the villain of the piece, while they were all cooing over the so-called hero, who was usually dull and palatable as stale bread crust.

  “I’ve waited eighteen chapters for something interesting to happen,” Justina had grumbled to her sister at luncheon that day. “The only character I like is Mr. Wickham. Everyone sits around talking and nobody does anything.”

  Catherine had ignored the comment. “Stop slouching, Jussy, or you will become terribly round-shouldered. Like Bessie Rooke. And we all know what happened to poor Bessie.”

  “Not much, by all accounts. I heard she went to Aylesbury once, but I don’t believe it.”

  “No,” Catherine replied sadly. “She never got married.”

  In Catherine’s eyes that was a fate worse than death. Although not worse than running off with some lusty sailors.

  “Pay mind to your sister,” their mother had joined in from her end of the table. “No man wants a wife who sits like a pile of cold porridge, Justina. I should have set you in plaster to straighten your spine when you were younger. Too late now, and we must work with what we have.”

  “Worry not, Mama! At least when Cathy has gone off to be married, you will still have me to tend you in your dotage.”

  “Tend me into an early grave, more like. Never has a parent been more plagued by an ungrateful child.”

  Justina was all too well aware that the only reason her family allowed her to walk about freely and unmanacled was in hopes of her unprepossessing face eventually catching some desperate fellow’s eye. But healthy bachelors were in short supply. War had taken too many young men away from the village, and this led to some drastic husband-hunting schemes, including trips to places such as Bath. The Penny sisters had endured one trip to that infamous town and it was quite sufficient for both of them. Justina had marked the occasion by consuming too much punch and almost burning down the Upper Rooms, and Catherine developed a rash that made her so unsightly people crossed the street to avoid her—a circumstance she still wept over when in one of her mournful moods.