One Last Promise (Clean and Wholesome Regency Romance): Martha (The Stainton Sisters Book 1)

by Amy Corwin

  Her laboratory glassware! Mrs. Jacie could certainly put all those bottles, beakers, and other items to good use in her pantry, especially for her household remedies. The idea pleased Martha so much that she inadvertently agreed to assist her sisters to sort through the linen chest and begin an accounting of household items for their Uncle Timothy.

  None of them doubted that an accurate inventory would be his first concern upon his arrival.

  The next morning, they had neat piles of linens spread all around them when a knock at the front door interrupted them.

  To their surprise, their vicar stood outside, clasping his black hat and his Bible in his hands.

  “Mr. Wolstenholme, how delightful to see you!” Dorothy exclaimed as she stepped aside and gestured for him to enter.

  “I beg your pardon, I cannot stay,” he said, sketching a bow. “I am merely here as a messenger.”

  Peering past their sister’s shoulder, Martha and Grace took a step closer. What more news could he bring, except the dreaded announcement of Uncle Timothy’s imminent arrival? Suddenly hollow-stomached, Martha put an arm around Grace’s waist and exchanged a nervous glance with her.

  “Oh?” Dorothy prompted, keeping the door open with her shoulder as she clasped her hands together at her waist.

  Mr. Wolstenholme smiled, holding his Bible against his chest like a shield between them. “Yes, indeed. Your neighbor, Mr. Cavell must travel to London to visit his brother and bring him some goods. He has generously offered to take you up in his wagon and ensure your safe arrival at your aunt’s home.”

  “He has?” Dorothy’s voice rose. Biting the edge of her lower lip, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder at Martha and Grace.

  “Yes. Though you ladies must be ready in three days. I am sure this will not present too much of an inconvenience. After all, there is not a great deal to pack. Anything you mislay or forget may be sent to you later, of course. You must simply write your uncle and let him know of any such items.”

  “But—”

  He held up a hand. “I assure you, it is best to start your new life as soon as possible. You will soon grow accustomed to the change, and your aunt is anxious to embrace you.”

  “I am sure she is.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Wolstenholme nodded, entirely oblivious to the dry note in Dorothy’s reply. “And apparently, Mr. Cavell makes regular trips to London to see his brother, so he can easily transport any items you forget. You see? Matters are now settled quite neatly, just as I promised.”

  “Yes. It was very neatly done,” Dorothy agreed.

  This time, he must have heard the irritation in her voice. His brows rose, and he gave all three of them a stern look. “We—the entire village—only want what is best for you. You are young, too young to appreciate it now, but you will no doubt come to realize that this is the best course for you young ladies to take. Many would be overjoyed to be going to our great metropolis, and it is only your grief that prevents you from recognizing this. Perhaps in time, you will also learn to accept counsel from those of us who have only your best interests at heart, such as Mrs. Polkinghorne. You will soon adjust to your new life, I assure you, and appreciate your aunt’s generosity.”

  “I have no doubt of it.” Dorothy sighed and shifted to grip the doorknob. “I hope we have not delayed you overmuch.”

  “Not at all, Miss Stainton.” He glanced past Dorothy to Martha and Grace. “Miss Martha, Miss Grace—it is good to see you all looking so well, and I am pleased to be of service to you at this difficult time.” He placed his hat on his head, seating it as precisely as possible without access to a mirror. He wore the unmistakable, satisfied air of a man who has successfully crossed off one of the more onerous items on his long list of tasks to be done. “I will bid you good day, and wish you well.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wolstenholme. Good day.” Dorothy shut the door and leaned her back against it.

  “Three days!” Martha repeated, the hollowness in her stomach writhing and shrinking into a tight, icy ball. “How are we to be ready in three days?”

  Grace touched her shoulder and to the surprise of the other two, said, “It is a good thing, then, that we have almost completed our inventory, is it not? It will take no time at all to pack. We can use Papa’s old round trunk. I’m sure it is still perfectly serviceable, and we have only our gowns to take with us.”

  Martha stared at her younger sister. “Do you want to go to London?”

  “Well, yes,” Grace admitted, flushing and shifting from one foot to the other. “At least, I do not want to be here when Uncle Timothy takes possession of our home. I cannot bear to think of him sleeping in Papa’s room. Or his children in my room—or what used to be my room.” She shuddered and crossed her arms, her palms gripping her elbows. “Do you want to remain?”

  Martha exchanged a glance with Dorothy and shrugged. Yes, she wanted to stay. That is, if Uncle Timothy’s family wasn’t due to arrive so soon. What she did not want was to say goodbye to Quinton.

  But if she admitted that, Dorothy would be upset with her, having already warned her that she must forget her dear friend. They were all grown up now, no longer children running wild across the pastures. Their friendship could not have lasted much longer, no matter what she wished. They were adults, now, with responsibilities and duties. Lord Ashbourne would marry—sooner rather than later—and even if she managed to remain in Kendle, their friendship would necessarily fade as a result.

  Certainly, his wife would not encourage him to seek out the company of a spinster without title or fortune. Martha might be invited to tea occasionally, but long walks through the fields, watching the flaming sunset—no. Those days were gone.

  Bleak wretchedness pressed down on her sagging shoulders as she studied her sister’s faces. Grace’s brows rose in timid hopefulness, but Dorothy simply stared back, her expression unreadable. Obviously, the two of them had decided to wear brave faces and stride forward, making the best of their situation.

  If only Martha could summon up the courage to face her own future with a content smile. “I have work to do in my laboratory—”

  “Surely not,” Dorothy interrupted. “There are other, more important tasks to be completed. We only have three days.”

  “At least help us finish the linen inventory,” Grace begged, clasping Martha’s forearm.

  Martha shook her head. “If we have only three days, I must finish what I am doing and provide Lord Ashbourne with a complete report of my findings. If you will excuse me now, I may be relieved of that responsibility by this evening. Then I can concentrate on our removal.” Before her sisters could object, she edged around Grace and hurried to her laboratory.

  After a quick thought, she locked the door behind her. No more interruptions. A glance at the old wooden clock showed that it was already well after ten in the morning, and she had the contents of the remaining bottles to examine. Not that she truly needed to subject the rest of the samples to analysis. Whoever the murderer was, he—or she—had traded on the notion that the preserved eggs would effectively hide the taste of the poison. The egg sample Quinton had handed her had contained high concentrations of antimony, laced with a much smaller amount of arsenic.

  While it was therefore likely that the rest of the bottles would not contain poison, due diligence insisted that she complete her evaluation to provide him with all the facts. She didn’t want to be guilty of any inaccuracy that might change the complexion of the case.

  Wistful, she also realized she wanted him to remember her in the best light possible. Her eyes burned. If he remembered her at all.

  Don’t be maudlin, she ruthlessly chided herself. You will forget him once you are in London.

  Or do nothing but dream of him and his inexplicable kiss. She put down a flask to press a hand against her middle. Just the memory made her pulse quicken, and her stomach flutter. His mouth had been so warm and soft, and a subtle, tantalizing fragrance had hung over him, a scent that made her w
ant to press closer and breathe deeply, filling her lungs with the scent of him.

  When she finally pushed the thought away and picked up the flask, it trembled in her hand, making the clear liquid inside swirl. She took a deep breath and concentrated on dissolving, straining, and mixing the contents of each bottle with the appropriate solvents. Soon, she would have the answers to prove precisely how Mr. Alford had ingested enough poison with his egg to, well, kill a small herd of horses. And perhaps a flock of ducks, as well. Only the odd flavor of the delicacy had kept him from realizing that he was consuming the toxic compound—of that she was sure.

  Finish your task and be done with it. All of it. The sooner she left for London, the sooner she could forget her laboratory, her house, and her childhood friend who had somehow grown into a handsome man and made himself quite at home in her heart without her even noticing.

  Chapter Eight

  The narrow dirt lane between Ashbourne House and Hornbeam Manor, bordered by hedgerows and the occasional gnarled oak tree, was becoming far too familiar, Quinton reflected. He turned his horse between the brick columns on either side of the manor’s gate and eyed the regular, symmetrical façade of the house. It was so polished, so different from the sprawling edifice he called home.

  With luck, the tragic affair of Sir Horace’s supper party would be laid to rest today, assuming that Martha’s analysis confirmed his suspicions. He glanced back at the direction of the road and then further on. The shady road dipped into a hollow, where the Stainton family home stood. He frowned. Perhaps he ought to go there first, to speak to Martha.

  Before he could turn his horse’s head, the front door of Hornbeam Manor opened.

  “Lord Ashbourne,” Rathbone greeted him, bowing.

  A footman rushed past the butler to take the reins of Quinton’s horse.

  “Is Sir Horace here?” Quinton asked, going up the shallow front steps two at a time.

  “Yes, my lord. He is in the drawing room.”

  “And the guests?”

  “They have remained, my lord, though I cannot say where any of them are at present.” He took Quinton’s hat, gloves, and crop and placed them carefully on the narrow table near his elbow.

  “Very good. I would like to speak with Sir Horace first, if he is available.”

  Rathbone bowed and gestured with one white-gloved hand. “Shall I lead the way, my lord?”

  “No.” Quinton smiled. “I know my way by now. Thank you.”

  Rathbone was still bowing when Quinton strode down the hallway to the drawing room’s double doors.

  One glance around the room revealed that Sir Horace had deserted it, despite Rathbone’s assurances otherwise. However, he most certainly had been there. A pile of open books were strewn over the surface of the desk, another stack sat on the floor nearby, and one book was left hanging, spine upward, over the arm of the chair. No doubt Sir Horace had been busy at work just a few moments before and had only stepped out of the room.

  Quinton moved to the fireplace, noting that it had been cleaned of ash and fresh logs lay on the andirons. The wide windows facing the garden were open, and the breeze carried the rich fragrance of the roses growing outside. The wind ruffled through the curtains, sending them fluttering over the desk and chair. Lady Branscombe’s sewing had been put away, although the workbasket still sat next to her chair by the fireplace.

  The sound of a footstep made him turn.

  “Lord Ashbourne! How delightful to see you!” Lady Honore smiled and moved toward him, pale gold skirts swaying and hands outstretched to catch his.

  He sidestepped and gestured to the chairs. “You are looking well, Lady Honore. If you were searching for our host, I’m afraid he has disappeared.”

  Her smile widened at his neatly executed avoidance of her. She glided over to the window to gaze at the garden beyond. “He is in the garden, holding a basket for Lady Branscombe while she cuts a few more of her precious roses. I noticed them from my window before I came down.” She gave him a sideways glance, laughter dancing in her amber eyes, and a half-smile curving her mouth. Sunlight streamed over her pale hair and tawny dress, making her glow like a marble statue gilded with gold. “I suppose you have come to name the murderer—if there is indeed one.”

  “I came to speak with Sir Horace.”

  “Only to him?” She abandoned her pose near the window to join him, stopping less than a foot away and placing one slender hand on the back of one of the wing chairs.

  Quinton shrugged, amused as her smile turned into a pout. “No. I hoped to see him and give my farewells to his guests. No doubt you will be pleased to return home after such an eventful visit.”

  “Will you be pleased? When I return home?” She leaned closer and gazed up at him through her lashes, her right hand sliding along over the top edge of the chair back. Her lips parted as she stared up at him. Her tongue teased her plump, lower lip.

  “Of course. I shall be pleased, since I know you will be, as well.”

  Irritation tightened her brow, but she quickly controlled the expression and took a step closer. The hem of her skirt whispered over his boot.

  “Miss Stainton, my lord,” Rathbone announced from the doorway.

  With an exclamation of surprise, Lady Honore appeared to stumble. Her hands clutched the lapels of his jacket. He put his arms around her to keep her from falling. One of her hands slipped up to the nape of his neck and drew him closer.

  Quinton caught her bright, amber gaze before she stretched on tiptoe to press her mouth against his.

  From the doorway, he heard the butler clear his throat. The door creaked again as Rathbone moved to give them privacy.

  Quinton firmly thrust Lady Honore away. “Rathbone!” He cleared his throat. “Miss Stainton. What a pleasant surprise.”

  Mouth agape, Rathbone stared at him for a moment through the narrow gap between the doors. Expression carefully blank, he thrust them open again.

  Martha stood at the butler’s shoulder, and from the pale, stony expression on her face, he knew she’d seen Lady Honore kiss him.

  At his side, Lady Honore smiled broadly and held out her arms. “Miss Stainton, how good to see you again! Do come in.” She cast a smug, catlike glance at Quinton. “I hope we did not embarrass you, my dear. Indeed, I am quite flustered, myself.” A trill of gay laughter escaped her as she pressed one hand against her rosy cheek.

  “No, I am not at all embarrassed, Lady Honore. I know Lord Ashbourne too well to be shocked by anything he might do,” Martha answered, stepping into the room. “And I only need a few moments of his time, if you can spare him.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed.” Lady Honore laughed again and glanced at the butler. “You may go, Rathbone. We will call you if we need anything.”

  “Perhaps Miss Stainton would like a cup of tea,” Quinton suggested as Rathbone turned.

  The butler bowed. “Very good, my lord.”

  The familiar activity would no doubt reduce the tension in the room. Once Martha had a chance to consider what she had seen, she’d realize that Lady Honore had been the instigator of their kiss and all would be well. She would soon forgive him and laugh over the incident, her glasses winking in the sunshine as she shook her head over his folly in standing so close to such a predatory lady.

  And he was surprised at how fiercely he wanted her to forgive him. Conversely, he wouldn’t have minded in the least tossing Lady Honore out of the room on her smug, patrician ear.

  The butler’s firm footsteps had barely faded when another, even stronger footfall echoed behind Martha. Lady Honore slipped her arm around Quinton’s elbow, and pressed against him, holding him closer with her free hand.

  “Miss Stainton! And Lord Ashbourne—Lady Honore!” A surprised Sir Horace skirted Martha and walked into the room. His gaze skipped over Lady Honore, who pressed even more tightly against Quinton, and fixed on her grasping hands for a fraction of a minute. A broad smile grew over his plump face. Chuckling, he rubbed his hands togeth
er. “I see I am just in time. We could all use a bit of pleasant news, could we not?” He winked at Martha.

  Martha’s gaze was also fixed upon Lady Honore and Quinton, but for once, Quinton could not read her expression. Her face had never seemed so empty of all emotion, and her blue eyes were as unreadable as two blue-gray river stones behind the shielding glass of her spectacles.

  The very ground disappearing from beneath his feet, he floundered, for once bereft of words. Surely, she could see the truth of the situation. He disentangled his arm from Lady Honore’s grasp and stepped forward.

  “It was in the preserved egg sample,” Martha stated in a brisk, cold voice. She thrust a folded sheet of paper at him. “Here are the results.” She nodded at Sir Horace and Lady Honore. “I hope you will forgive me, but I cannot stay.”

  “Not even long enough to wish the lovebirds well?” Palms up and arms open, Sir Horace faced her. “Come, we must drink a toast at least, even if it must only be with tea.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Martha curtseyed. “I truly cannot stay. I only came to deliver a few dried herbs to Lady Branscombe and to give this report to Lord Ashbourne.” She deftly thrust the note into his hand while managing to back away into the hallway. “Good day to you all, and my best wishes for your future happiness, Lord Ashbourne and Lady Honore.”

  “This is a misunderstanding,” Quinton said. Too late. Martha disappeared past the staircase in the direction of the front door.

  “A misunderstanding?” Sir Horace asked, moving in front of him. His puzzled frown eased into a smile. “Oh, yes. Miss Stainton’s report. Not murder, as we all feared, after all, eh? A simple misunderstanding.” He flicked his fingers at the folded paper Quinton still held in his hand. “I understand completely. After all, what are a few experiments conducted by a woman? I knew Edith only allowed her fears to overtake her common sense.” He laughed with relief and shook his head. “Women! For all we love them, they can be very worrisome, can they not? Murder, indeed. It was a simple case of gastric fever, just as Dr. Meek concluded, and nothing more.”