Sinfully Ever After (Book Club Belles Society) Page 3

  He clasped the brandy bottle to his chest and waited while the three men before him shiftily exchanged more rolling-eyed glances.

  “Out with it!” he bellowed, shaking the cobwebs that hung from the timbers above. “I see there’s more to the old man’s will, as you stand before me with faces like three spanked arses.”

  “You must marry, Colonel. A decent woman of good family. Or you get nothing.”

  Oh, he should have seen that one coming. After a heavy pause, he suddenly tipped back his head and roared with laughter. “In the name of all that’s unholy, who the devil would marry me?”

  They had no answer to that, for it was an idea too ridiculous for anyone to contemplate. But his dog, excited by the sound of Luke’s laughter, resumed the hearty terrorizing of that dropped wig.

  Reaching down, he gave the animal’s head a quick pat, and as the dog looked up at him, he suddenly remembered another face, similarly gargoyle-like in a way that appealed to his preference for the eccentric and absurd. A tiny, wrinkled face with puffy eyelids and no teeth. “And Sally Hitchens’s babe? What became of the child?”

  “You did not know, Colonel? Little Sarah has been raised by your brother.”

  “My brother?” He sat bolt upright, both feet now on the floor. “What the figgy pudding?”

  “Miss Sally Hitchens took the child to your brother soon after you left England.”

  “Why would she do that? My brother knows naught of raising children. He was never a child himself. He was a grim, bookish old man the moment he was born.”

  Yet again the three solicitors exchanged significant glances.

  “Well? Spit it out, for the love of hot buttered titties!”

  “Miss Hitchens informed your brother that Sarah was your child, and therefore a Wainwright.”

  “Mine?” Luke choked on another swig of brandy and coughed until his eyes felt sore.

  Why would Sally not take her child to the real father? The Clarendons’ nest was at least as well feathered. Ah, but all the fortune in the world couldn’t make up for having Kit Clarendon as a father. Sally knew that, of course.

  But why the devil would she choose to blame Luke? Of all the men she might have picked as a father for her babe, he was surely the most unlikely candidate. “Of all the impertinent little—” He wheezed with a sudden burst of laughter. His dog turned its great bulky head to look at him again and twitched its stump of a tail.

  “Is this not the case, Colonel? If not, your brother should be informed.”

  Luke grabbed his cane and pushed himself upright, still chuckling. “Don’t you dare.” He set down the brandy bottle, grabbed his hat out of the solicitor’s trembling hands, and jammed it back on his head. “Of course the child is mine. Why wouldn’t she be?” He whistled sharply. “Come, Ness, our business here is concluded. For now.”

  The dog panted after him at a lumbering but determined gait. A movement much like his, so Luke had been told.

  Until Ness—short for “Unnecessary”—found him, Luke had never traveled with the same companion for long, but man and dog had been together five years now and looked out for one another. It was simple. Nothing official. Nothing formal or complicated. The way Luke preferred his relationships.

  As for the idea of getting a wife to prove he was settled down, he’d sooner abandon himself to Bedlam. Not that he didn’t like women. Of course he did. Wenches were bloody good company when they had a mind to be. But a man couldn’t dispose of a wife with a few coins and a new petticoat when she became tiresome. Lucky Luke saw himself as a castaway on a deserted island. He had survived there, alone, on his private, uncomplicated paradise for thirty-seven years and he didn’t intend to share that space with another human being on any permanent basis. Not even for the little time he had left.

  Three

  “I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings: the same books, the same music must charm us both.”

  —Marianne Dashwood, Sense and Sensibility

  Hawcombe Prior, Buckinghamshire, December 1815

  “Becky, you really must learn to speak only your lines and not everyone else’s. It does somewhat distract the audience to watch your lips mirror all the other characters’ words.”

  “Oh, dear, did I do it again?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  In her anxiety to memorize scenes in the annual Yuletide performance of the amateur players, Rebecca had a habit of learning all her fellow actors’ parts too. On the night of the actual performance, her enthusiasm had entirely run away with her again and occasionally caused her to speak for other characters as well as her own, especially when she could not wait for them to recite the line. Now that it was over, she apologized to her friend Justina, author of the play. “I am sorry, Jussy. Surely no one else noticed.”

  “They were probably too distracted by that Elizabethan beard falling off your face.” Justina shrugged easily. “I suppose it wouldn’t be the same if the play went perfectly. Rather like life itself. Nothing is ever as much fun when all goes smoothly and the plot is predictable.”

  Becky sighed. “I had far too many years of unpredictable. I much prefer a nice, steady, predictable life, thank you very much. No more calamities for me. Give me warm slippers by the fire and some embroidery to keep me busy and I want for nothing else.”

  “Nonsense. You say that, but I am not deceived! There is a constant twinkle of mischief in your eye, Rebecca Sherringham, and no one who loves poetry and romantic novels as much as you could possibly prefer a dull life. Like me, you enjoy a good drama, and don’t pretend otherwise. Besides, your embroidery is absolutely awful.”

  After considering this for a moment, Becky conceded a little to her friend’s assessment. “It is true I do enjoy novels. However, when there is drama in real life, at least one person has to remain sensible.” She sighed. “And in my family that person is me.”

  Justina chuckled. “You need a handsome hero to look after you for a change, Becky.”

  “My dear Jussy, you can all go dancing off and find romance. I am quite content reading about it. Novels save me the anguish and trouble of falling in love and all that ensuing upheaval.”

  “But it’s not only about you, Becky. Think of the poor, sad, lost fellow out there, looking to fall in love. A man whose life cannot be complete without you in it.”

  “He sounds simple-minded, feeble, and possibly a great liability. No, thank you. I’ll stick to the company of a book.”

  “You need a real man. Not a fictional character.”

  Becky laughed, but it came out as more of a snort. “I’d prefer him to live in the pages. Then I might shut the book whenever I’m tired of him, and if he does something immensely stupid, I can even throw him at a wall.”

  “But what about those cold nights alone? In bed.”

  “I prescribe woolen bed socks and warm milk.”

  “I’m talking about the company of a man.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “Becky!” Justina chuckled. “You are the very limit.”

  “Someone else for me to clean up after? A dull fellow who doesn’t tend his toenails adequately and sheds little hairs all over the place, stealing all the warmth of my quilt and drooling on my pillow when we are obliged to share a bed. All those big…muscles…and sweaty…limbs…” Becky hastily shook her head, cleared her throat, and finished sharply, “No, no. Thick socks and a nip of brandy in one’s milk are perfectly prudent solutions to a chilly evening, in my opinion.”

  “You are a dreadful fibber!”

  Becky wrinkled her nose and exclaimed proudly, “Laugh all you like and worry not for me. Be content with your handsome hero.”

  They looked over at Justina’s husband. When he caught their eye and responded with a questioning lift of his right eyebr
ow, they both waved, smiling, as innocent as two young ladies ever could be.

  “Poor Wainwright,” Becky whispered. “He’s still learning how to use his smile, but I believe it’s improving, less rusty.” And something about it was oddly familiar to her from the start, but she couldn’t think why it would be.

  “Kindly don’t refer to my husband as poor anything,” Justina exclaimed. “He’s not at all poor, because he has me and love.”

  “I’m sure that enormous fortune helps,” said Becky dryly.

  “It’s not the done thing to talk about money. Who cares about that anyway? Love is far more important.”

  “I wasn’t aware that love had become legal currency, Jussy. I rather think that if you tried to pay bills with it now you might be arrested.”

  “Oh, you…cynic! One day we will find the perfect man for you. A real man.”

  “And then who will take care of my father and brother? I am needed at home.”

  Justina rolled her eyes. “I had better go and thank Joe Haxby for the use of his bellows in the winter storm scene.” She began to walk away but then stopped to look back at Becky. “By the way, you can take that beard off now.”

  “Ha! Most amusing!”

  Laughing, Justina dashed back to the makeshift stage and Becky looked for her other friends among the crowd of villagers who came out to watch the play tonight. Some folk had stayed home because of the weather, but many braved the cold to enjoy the festivities. The residents of Hawcombe Prior were, on the whole, a sturdy lot. Becky was one of them now too. She belonged somewhere at last.

  Since Major Sherringham retired from the army and brought his family here five years ago, Becky’s life had experienced a welcome change for the better. Finally able to make lasting friends, she’d joined the local book society—a small group of village ladies her brother teasingly named “The Book Club Belles”—and settled into life in the quiet countryside.

  Her fellow book society members were the closest thing she’d ever had to sisters, but sadly she knew that time would likely part them eventually. The dreaded end had already begun, for in addition to Justina’s marriage, two other members of the book society were now engaged. While Justina’s elder sister had gone off to London that winter with her fiancé to meet his family, Diana Makepiece, another Book Club Belle, had accepted a tradesman from Manderson and would be married in the summer.

  Although some women had good reason for wanting to leave home, Becky was content managing her father’s house and living with a degree of independence many unwed young women didn’t have. Besides, the more she saw of men—and she had seen a lot of them over the years—the less she found appealing and worthy. The few men brave enough to approach her as suitors were quickly and effectively dispatched, sometimes by the near miss of an archery arrow. A few years ago, to discourage the matchmaking attempts of certain mischievous friends, Becky had written up an extensive list of “Attributes Required in a Husband.”

  “My future husband,” she had announced to her friends at one of their book society meetings, “will possess sandy curls, very fine teeth, good calves, a slender nose, amusing wit, a sunny, open disposition, an informed mind, one or two dimples, and a solid appreciation for poetry. If he can ride and dance well, those will be points in his favor too, naturally. Above all, he must be of sound mind, respectable, dependable, and steadfast.”

  Her brother, upon hearing about this list, had remarked, “Well done, Sister. That will certainly give you an excuse to remain unwed. You don’t want to find a husband and so you make it impossible.”

  Becky frowned as she thought of Nathaniel. Whenever he made a jest of her spinster status, she retaliated by pointing out that he was just as unlikely to find a suitable partner for himself. Good, honest women gave him a wide berth.

  “What the devil would I want with a wife?” Nathaniel had snapped the last time they spoke on the subject.

  But Becky knew about his ill-fated proposal to one of the Book Club Belles, a secret he had thought he could keep.

  Now, walking toward Becky through the crowd, here came the young woman who had rejected Nathaniel’s proposal—the Book Club Belle who also thought she could keep this unhappy secret.

  “I’ll walk home with you,” said Diana Makepiece as she wrapped a fleece scarf around her slender throat. “Look, it’s snowing! How lovely.”

  Staring at Diana and with the secret of her brother’s rejected proposal burning fiercely inside her, Becky was overwhelmed by the sort of teary-eyed sadness that comes when one contemplates great natural beauty and feels humbled. Diana’s features often had that effect upon her, especially when candlelight or moonlight touched them in a particular way.

  But there was no time to ponder the other girl’s unique beauty for long. Hearing her name shouted above the general ruckus, Becky turned.

  Mrs. Kenton, the parson’s new wife, advanced rapidly in their direction, thrusting people aside, her voice pealing out like church bells. “Don’t forget your donated clothing for the workhouse, ladies. I shall be by very early in the morning and taking our parcels to Manderson before the road gets very bad.”

  They both promised not to forget.

  The parson’s wife turned her focus upon Becky. “Nothing frivolous, if you please. Plain and sturdy is preferable for those poor souls. Nothing too continental. We don’t want to cause offense, do we?”

  Somewhat confounded as to why this remark should be addressed directly to her, Becky replied that she would do her best to find garments from her wardrobe with as little chance of offending as possible.

  “Because I have seen some of the items drying on your washing line lately, Miss Sherringham, and there is altogether too much lace and flimsy, impractical silk. You would do far better to wear stout wool. There is nothing like it next to the skin. And even those items should not be displayed outside for all to see. A proper young lady dries her intimate apparel by the fire and out of sight.”

  While enduring this lecture from the parson’s wife, Becky felt Diana’s startled, curious gaze burning into the side of her face. Oh, the humiliation. Thank goodness Justina wasn’t close enough to hear this or she’d never live it down.

  Becky had recently become enchanted by an advertisement in a catalog and, on a whim, sent away for some indulgent chemises. She didn’t really know what had come over her, but the last thing she wanted was to be ribbed by her friends about this strange fancy, and now she cursed herself for hanging her new items on the washing line. She’d simply assumed that no one would be interested enough in her laundry to hoist themselves higher than the four-foot wall and look over it. She had reckoned, it seemed, without considering Mrs. Kenton’s determination to manage every detail of everybody’s life.

  At last Becky was able to get a word in. “You must excuse us. Diana is expected home promptly by her mama.” She took her friend’s arm and marched her out of the barn.

  “Oh, dear,” Diana whispered, “she’s now inspecting our washing lines too? Is nothing safe from that woman’s criticism?”

  Becky imagined Diana and her mother—for whom appearances were paramount—straining their eyes and sitting up late to patch all their worn petticoats, just to save themselves from Mrs. Kenton’s judgment.

  “Sooner or later,” she grumbled, “that dratted woman will spy one time too many and it will cure her of sticking her nose into other people’s business.”

  “I suppose she means well.”

  “You suppose wrongly, my dear Diana. She’s a meddler who cannot bear for anything to be going on without her in the thick of it. Any good she does is entirely incidental.”

  Becky had heard Mrs. Kenton loudly refer to her recently as “that unfortunate ginger-haired, brusque creature with the manly stride.” To make matters worse, the parson’s wife was forever cutting out remedies for the removal of freckles and slipping them into Becky’s hand with
a sympathetic glance.

  “My dear Diana,” Becky said briskly, “you have not spoken lately of your fiancé. I do hope he is in health and not seized by this bad cold that has afflicted so many.” Ugh. The dullest of subjects, but at least it would distract Diana from what she’d just heard. Nothing was more likely to erase fine lace and impractical silk from a young girl’s mind than thoughts of that stale loaf William Shaw, Diana’s intended.

  While she dearly wished Diana had accepted her brother’s marriage proposal, Becky couldn’t blame her friend for refusing him and choosing another man instead. Nathaniel was a terrible, vexing handful, and why would any self-respecting woman take that on voluntarily?

  No, Nathaniel would remain her lot, it seemed. Someone had to look after him, and although she was only a very little girl at the time, Becky remembered promising her mother that she would manage the task. In fact, it was her strongest remaining memory of her mother—of sitting on the edge of her sick bed, the old music box tinkling gently in the background.

  She couldn’t bear to think of Nathaniel having no one to come home to one day, no one with whom to share his triumphs and troubles. If she could choose a wife for Nathaniel, it would be this calm, levelheaded young woman at her side. But that was a hopeless case now.

  Diana spoke softly, “I so rarely mention Mr. Shaw because I know none of you like him much.”

  Becky bit her lip, looking down at the snow as they walked along. “I’m sure we will grow to like him.” But alas, once Diana married and moved to Manderson, they would see her less and less. William Shaw thought himself too good for Hawcombe Prior and was unlikely to encourage his wife’s friendships there.

  Justina had recently exclaimed in anger, “Diana is only marrying the heinous Shaw because her mama doesn’t want her making the same mistake she once did by marrying for love instead of money. It fair boils my blood that she would sacrifice herself to that oaf. William Shaw is extremely boring company, dances very badly, has no ear for a tune, and cannot recite a single line of The Corsair.”