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

  Bath was also the scene of Justina’s most terrible mistake. Her failed, piteous attempt at traversing the bridge to womanhood under the capable tutelage of the dashing and witty Captain Sherringham, who, unbeknownst to her, had left Bath prematurely and given up his lodgings to another. To the Wrong Man. The subsequent ill-timed encounter with a complete stranger was a humiliation she would rather not remember. Therefore, whenever their mama threatened them with Bath, it had the same effect for either daughter as it would if she planned to send them to the workhouse.

  Their father was just as eager as their mother to be rid of them. He had a vast collection of books, stuffed birds, and dead tropical insects, but not having enough space in his small library to display them all, he was constantly on the lookout for another space to annex. He’d recently begun turning a speculative eye to the bedchamber his daughters shared, remarking upon its suitability for other purposes.

  As Justina followed her sister out of the house that afternoon, she glanced through the casement window to her father’s library and saw him bent over his books, scratching his head. She smiled. Poor Papa, she often imagined he would like to stick a pin in her too, like his dead butterflies and beetles, to keep her still and safely displayed under glass.

  When she waved at him through the window, he looked up—her shadow having fallen across his desk—and managed a hesitant wince, as he would if she asked for his opinion on a new bonnet. She mouthed at him through the small glass panes, “Book Society!”

  Horror crumpled his face and another white hair drifted to his shoulder. His fingers inched across the desk, reaching for a magnifying glass.

  “A romance, Papa,” she shouted, grinning merrily.

  He shuddered, clutched his chest with his free hand and returned hastily to his studies.

  Justina spun around and hurried through the gate her sister had left open. She looked up the hill toward Midwitch Manor, a many-chimneyed, ivy-strewn building crouched like a fat cat and peering down on the village through a line of ancient oaks and younger chestnuts.

  This weather would play havoc with the fruit trees in that orchard, she thought. The ground was probably already littered with wind-fallen, bruised fruit that would soon be wasted now there was no one there to gather it. She really ought to pay Sir Mortimer Grubbins a visit today, especially since Lucy was being punished and would not be able to go there. He had plenty of water and food, but he was a very pampered pig, accustomed to attention.

  “Cathy!” she called. “Will you lend me your basket?”

  Her sister stopped. “How many times must you be told not to run? It is not ladylike. And why do you need my basket?”

  “I promised Mrs. Dockley to bring her some pears after accidentally knocking her bird feeder off its post with a cricket ball.”

  Her sister’s lips fell delicately apart.

  “I was demonstrating Mr. Newton’s laws of motion for Lucy’s little brothers,” she explained with a shrug.

  Catherine gave a deep groan. “We are on our way to the Book Society. There is no time for fruit picking.”

  “But the fruit will rot if it’s left…” Justina let her gaze wander innocently off down the fork in the lane toward Midwitch Manor.

  “Oh, no!”

  “But Cathy! Such a waste. Those pears are the juiciest, sweetest in the whole village. Why should they be left to spoil?” She grabbed her sister’s sleeve. “Think of the joy on dear old Mrs. Dockley’s face. The gift of fruit will surely make her smile, and you know her tree has not produced any in years. Phineas Hawke is dead and buried. To whom does the fruit belong now?”

  “Not to you.”

  “Well, goodness, if you find the proper owner, I shall repay him.”

  Catherine shook her head, her eyes weary, already drooping with an air of defeat. “Are you not afraid of spirits, sister?”

  “Spirits?”

  “Remember—the ghost of Nellie Pickles. You were quite certain she walks abroad at Midwitch Manor.”

  “Nonsense. How gullible you are.” Dashing forward, she warmed her sister’s cool cheek with a kiss. “I love you dearly, Cathy, but you are much too old to believe in ghosts.”

  “Well, I won’t lend you my basket. I am having no part in this.”

  “Very well. Please yourself.”

  The intrepid fruit-picker hurried away on her mission, careful not to break into a run this time because she knew her sister watched and she didn’t want to cause poor Cathy any further grief than was absolutely unavoidable.

  Five

  Justina had once been taught how to pick a lock. There were many useful things, in fact, that Captain Sherringham—brother of fellow Book Society member, Rebecca—had shown her over the years. He would always claim innocence, of course, after the fact. When it was too late to be undone. “Knowledge, once given, Sherry,” she often reminded him happily, “is a present that can never be taken away.”

  But on this evening, as she approached the gates of deserted Midwitch Manor, that particular piece of knowledge was of no use to her. The old lock previously in service had suddenly been replaced with a thick, tight chain, wound around the very top of the bars and secured by a heavy padlock that hung, curiously, on the inside. Out of her reach.

  Annoyance traveled swiftly through her. It must be the work of Phineas Hawke’s solicitor. She’d heard a rumor that he was seen moping about the place recently, a sniveling fellow with long feet, bony knees, and a turtle-like stoop. Well, that was most inconvenient. Now they’d have to find somewhere else to keep Sir Mortimer Grubbins.

  Fortunately she was not averse to climbing, and since no one was with her to protest, she quickly gathered up her skirt and began searching for footholds in the rough stone wall. It had been a few years since she’d climbed it, but she found herself quite excited by the idea. Surely it was a skill she would not have forgotten once learned.

  Ouch! She scraped her knee almost instantly and tore a hole in her stocking. Although not as tall as it had seemed to her in childhood, the orchard wall was still treacherous. A springy coating of moss had sprouted up over the years, taking possession of the crumbling stone, rendering the surface slick beneath her hands.

  But she was not discouraged. Justina saw herself as a hapless heroine, mistreated, misunderstood, and much put-upon, despite her intent to perform good deeds. Therefore she expected hardships thrown in her path, could always appreciate the chance for added adventure, and did not even mind how the expected rain had turned into a cold mist that clung to her hair and her clothes. Indeed, a little froth of mist only added to the excitement of her adventure.

  She might, however, have felt differently toward the mist had she realized how well it muffled any warning sounds of trouble proceeding in her direction as she dropped down over the wall. For when she finally saw those riding boots trampling the rough grass, marching toward her with a long, stern stride, it was too late to scramble back. She’d already lost her bonnet, ripped her skirt on some thorny climbing roses, and removed her pelisse to make a sack for the fruit. But by the time Justina realized Midwitch Manor was no longer unoccupied, the state of her appearance was a minor problem in the grand scheme of things.

  Two large feet.

  A pair of riding boots.

  Knees. Hard thighs. Men’s breeches. Two very large gloved hands.

  A riding crop tapping slowly and menacingly against one aforementioned thigh.

  Oh, crikey.

  Midwitch Manor was supposed to be empty. Was he a ghost, one of those grieved spirits still walking the earth and not belonging anywhere?

  Slowly she raised her face and with it her uncertain gaze. Up and up. Far too tall to be old Hawke’s solicitor, he towered above her through the gathering mist, an awe-inspiring monolith, a dark and stormy vision.

  “What the devil are you doing in my orchard?”

 
Aha! He was a ghost with the power of speech. And what a voice it was—deep, rich, and rumbling through the ground under her knees and palms.

  Her heart had almost stopped, and now it struggled fitfully to resume its usual steady, confident trot. Think, think, you blithering fool.

  Excuses were not often so hard to lay her mind upon.

  “Get up at once,” he exclaimed, glaring down at her. “I refuse to hold a conversation with someone rolling about in this undignified manner at my feet. Where did you come from, girl?”

  Justina struggled upright with no assistance from him. Still her brain sorted through various colorful excuses for her presence there.

  It was rare to find the likes of him in that village. He must be six feet tall at least. Perhaps eight. Or it could just be the mist around his ears that made it seem as if he stood among the clouds.

  But while he loomed over her like thunder and lightning in human form, Justina suddenly realized they’d met before.

  At Bath.

  Oh, no, it surely could not be. Not him!

  The awfulness of that memory seized her in its cold grip and would not let go again.

  Wainwright, the Wrong Man.

  “I demand you tell me your name,” he exclaimed.

  The moment she told him, he would doubtless remember her. It must be marked in his memory as his name was in hers.

  Had a girl ever been so mistreated by fate? she mused unhappily.

  “Well?” he demanded. “Are you mute?”

  Aha! That gave her an idea. She took a breath, clasped her bundled pelisse to her bosom and replied with what she considered to be a suitable amount of pathetic whimper, “I am the ghost of Nellie Pickles! Beware, sir. I take my daily constitutional in this orchard, and it is very bad luck to stop my path.”

  A frown plowed its way across his brow. Two dark eyes bore down upon her with all the belligerence of a warlike Norse god, but Justina, the intrepid adventurer, was not to be frightened. “Beware the ghost of Nellie Pickles, who was once stabbed through the heart with a toasting fork and left to perish under that…”—she looked around and pointed hastily—“that pear tree.”

  Tap, tap, tap went the riding crop against his breeches. “Is that the best you can do?”

  “But, sir, take pity. I am a poor, wretched girl sent to my death by murderous hands. Alas, I wander here until I am avenged.”

  The furrows remained in his brow as his thin, hard lips snapped apart again. “Don’t talk nonsense, creature. You are trespassing on my property.”

  “Yours?” She temporarily forgot her role as Nellie.

  He squared his shoulders and shook his head, irritable as a nest full of wasps knocked with a stick. “Answer my question first.”

  “But I told you who I am.”

  “The ghost of Nellie Pickens? Of course. And I am King George.”

  “Pickles,” she corrected sternly. “The lost scullery maid of Midwitch Manor. If this place was truly yours, you would know about me and why my spirit still wanders.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts.” Making a sudden move, he reached for the sleeve of her gown, but Justina stepped out of his reach.

  “Ah. See, sir? Your hand went right thought my cold dead bones, so it did.” For some reason her accent had turned Irish, but she was too far in to stop. As was often the case. “Passed right through me, it did.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “No, it didn’t.”

  Employing one of her customary spur of the moment decisions, Justina turned and made a run for it, but tumbled almost immediately over her torn hem and fell, with a piglet’s squeal, to the grass.

  In two steps his riding boots were beside her again. “For a ghost you’re remarkably clumsy, Miss Pickles. Shouldn’t you be able to pass through the wall, not have to climb over it?”

  Even when caught in a lie, Justina had a tendency to argue her side of things to the point of breathlessness. This afternoon was no exception. “What would you know about it? You don’t believe in spirits anyway. I daresay the arrogance of your skepticism has sapped my otherworldly powers.”

  “Yes. That must be the only feasible explanation for a ghost that falls like a lead sinker.”

  She tried to stand but twisted her ankle, thereby compounding her despair. Again she looked up at her pursuer, hoping she might have been mistaken. But no, it was him.

  Wainwright.

  The horrors of Bath returned full force, every detail of her shame as razor-sharp as it was when it first occurred.

  Her family had traveled there last year so that Mrs. Penny could take the cures and Catherine could meet potential suitors. Justina, barely turned eighteen, was finally “out,” but nothing much was expected of her. Although their parents still considered her behavior too unpredictable for society, Catherine had pressed for the company of her sister, and so Justina was finally permitted to make a great fool of herself before the general public at large, rather than limiting this joy to the honor of their close acquaintances.

  Expecting few delights from the experience, Justina had been pleasantly surprised when they arrived in Bath to find that Captain Sherringham was also in town. Something of a hero to Justina and also a dear friend, the captain’s presence had instantly improved her opinion of Bath. She’d decided it would be the perfect opportunity to finally confess her lusty yearnings for the handsome fellow. He was always so obliging and ready to teach her all manner of things that no one else would consider suitable for a young lady. In Justina’s mind, the amiable, fun-loving Sherry was the ideal man for her awakening to womanhood.

  She was constantly told that she must marry, and rather than parade herself about like a prize hog, why not take matters into her own hands and choose for herself immediately? He would marry her, she was sure of it. He must simply be made to realize she was no longer the little girl who made him laugh, but a grown woman who could be his companion in other ways.

  A pair of new silk stockings and pink ribbon garters would help with his awakening, she’d reasoned, with all her vast experience in such matters.

  But it was not Captain Sherringham upon whom she leapt in the semi-dark of a strange bedchamber. Later she would learn that Sherry had been called away at short notice to rejoin his regiment and another man had taken the room. It was the slumbering carcass of a complete stranger upon which she leapt.

  They were in an orchard this time, instead of a bedchamber, but the Wrong Man’s looming appearance had the same dreadful effect upon her pulse as it did on the first occasion.

  Suddenly he swooped down and plucked her out of the grass with two strong arms. It was just like one of those horrid novels. But not in a good way. Very different in reality, with all her senses engaged.

  “You are astonishingly solid for a ghost,” he wheezed. “Not much of the frail and wraithlike about you, Miss Pickles.” Thus he carried her toward the house with no further ado.

  She belatedly found the strength to complain. “How dare you manhandle me? Put me down at once.”

  “Certainly not. You are now in my custody, apprehended in the act of theft.”

  “You have no right to lay hands upon me.”

  “How typical. Rights matter only when they are yours.” Watching his lips, Justina thought she caught the twitch of a smile, but it was gone in the next breath. It might simply have been a wince of pain from the effort of carrying her. “We’ll discuss the matter before the local magistrate, shall we, Miss Pickles? I doubt you’re a stranger to him.”

  She stared at his determined profile. He wore no hat and his hair was dark, with the hint of natural curl. His nose—always an important thing to study in a man—was long, slender, and not too curved. In fact his features might be considered agreeably handsome. But his jaw had a very stubborn angle that suggested he ground his teeth a vast deal. Justina knew the signs, for teeth grinding seemed to ha
ppen a lot around her.

  “It was just a few pears for old Mrs. Dockley,” she muttered, sullen. “They will spoil if left on the ground.” If Sir Mortimer Grubbins didn’t eat them all first, she thought, glancing worriedly over his shoulder, searching for any sign of their rescued porker.

  “All lawbreakers and degenerates begin somewhere, madam. The sooner the habit is nipped in the bed, the better.”

  “In the bed?” She grabbed his lapel as he stumbled and nearly dropped her. “You mean, in the bud.”

  “Yes,” he muttered, his face coloring. “Precisely.”

  Her pulse was very rapid now. Had he recognized her? She sincerely hoped not, or she would be in worse trouble than she was already.

  If she was any less sturdy a person she might have fainted. Briefly she considered it, just in some hopes of gaining his sympathy, but Lucy had once assured her she was the least convincing “swooner” in the world, and this man had already shown himself to be a skeptical soul. Why waste the effort?

  How typical of her luck that she should run into him again. He had not been very understanding the last time they met either.

  “For the love of all that’s holy—and unholy—put some blessed clothes on, woman,” he’d bellowed at her, rolling out of the bed and trying to hide his own nudity with the quilt. The man didn’t seem to realize that as he used the bed covering to belatedly preserve his own modesty he stripped her of anything to use for the same service.

  So she’d done what any thwarted seductress found in the nude would do.

  She pretended to be French.

  “Oh, where is the gallant Captain Sherringham?” she’d demanded in what she thought was a very passable accent. “What ’ave you done wif ’im?”

  “Captain who? Madam, you have the wrong bed. I suggest you leave at once.”