Underestimating Miss Cecilia

by Carolyn Miller

  Finally, thank you to my readers. Thank you for buying my books and for spreading the love for these Regency romances. I treasure your kind messages of support and lovely reviews.

  I hope you enjoyed Cecilia’s story.

  God bless you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Bath, Somerset

  January 1820

  IT WAS THE sobbing that decided her.

  The Honorable Verity Hatherleigh eased from her bed and stole across the room to the disconsolate girl whose snuffling and muffled weeping made sleep impossible. She touched her roommate on the arm. “Lucy, dear. What is wrong?”

  The shrouded figure shifted, lowering the heavy blankets whose inability to stifle the sounds of sadness had perturbed Verity’s slumber. Clouded moonlight streamed pale from the window, framing a plain, round face made less lovely by red eyes and blotched cheeks. “It’s Papa. He … he’s—” Lady Lucinda Wainbridge gulped, her chin quivering, a sure sign more waterworks were in the offing.

  “Now, Lucy, stop, take a deep breath”—Verity waited as the older girl complied—“and tell me what has happened.”

  After another shaky breath, Lucinda exhaled noisily, then blew her nose with a honk reminiscent of a startled goose.

  “If you don’t want Miss Pelling to check in here, you might want to do that more quietly.”

  Lucy’s eyes flashed accusingly. “You weren’t here when I was telling the others.”

  “No, because I was in Helena’s room, helping her with her French for tomorrow’s examination, as you well know.” Verity dashed back to her bed and pulled on her padded dressing gown. These rooms, for all the exorbitant fees paid, were never heated properly. She returned, wrapping a woolen blanket around her shoulders. “Now, what happened to your father?” Had the Earl of Retford sickened? Her heart quickened. Had he died? Poor Lucinda …

  Lucinda shook her head. “Nothing has happened to Papa. It’s what he will do.”

  “Which is?”

  “Remove me from Haverstock’s!”

  This was a bad thing? “Why are you so certain he will?”

  Lucinda wiped her eyes. “He’s bound to as soon as Haverstock sends him the letter she found from William.”

  “She found it? I thought you had it well secured. Didn’t you place it under the floorboard as I suggested?”

  “I was going to …”

  Lucinda’s shoulders slumped, and she looked so miserable Verity didn’t have the heart to scold her roommate’s folly. Dear foolish Lucy, with her silly infatuation for a squire’s son of whom her fastidious parents would never approve. Many had been the confidences Lucinda had whispered, ever since Verity had been forced to leave the room she had previously shared with Helena. Many a dull evening spent listening to Lucy prattle on about William’s inestimable qualities, whilst Verity strained to hear the telltale creaks in the hall that told of vigilant staff, waiting until such creaks had quite faded away before stealing across to the room which had fostered a friendship more dear than that of her family’s.

  Helena Chisholm was the most loyal and encouraging person Verity had ever met, filled with a zest for life and mischief that rivaled Verity’s own. When Miss Haverstock had been informed about one of Verity’s previous secret visits to the headmistress’s study by the not-so-honorable Prudence Gaspard, Verity’s separation from Helena had been swift, painful, and irrevocable. Her punishment was to be bored by Lucinda’s ill-advised romance for the remaining weeks until their schooling was considered complete.

  Not that Verity was against romantic attachments as such; more that with such opposites involved, it seemed a complete and utter waste of emotions, when anyone could see it was an attachment doomed to futility and failure. Her lips twitched. Although, judging from Lucinda’s descriptions of her beau, he seemed as dull as she, so perhaps they were well matched.

  “This is not funny, Verity. What am I going to do? When Papa sees what we have been writing to one another, he’ll have a fit, and threaten to marry me off to old Lord Winchester. I’d rather die than marry him!” Lucinda sniffed, as another tear tracked down her face.

  “What did William write that is so concerning?” Normally Lucinda shared every phrase over and over until Verity could mouth along too, but lately she had been too busy helping some of the younger girls prepare for their upcoming examinations. “Surely it cannot be so bad.”

  The moonlight revealed a faint blush on Lucinda’s cheeks. “It was most poetic. William was describing me, you see. He said I am beautiful.” She smiled a wobbly smile.

  “And if he loves you, then I suppose he should.” Verity nodded her affirmation, while wondering at how men could be so blind. Lucinda, beautiful? Even at her best she could only be described as somewhat attractive. Verity knew herself to hold no pretensions to beauty—her hair was too black, her eyes too pale, her eyebrows too slanted, her chin too pointed, the whole effect considered to be odd-looking rather than attractive, or so her mother said. But it had always surprised her how men could see what they wanted to see, such as the men who loved her elder sisters and openly admired their golden beauty, most recently at last month’s Boxing Day ball during which Cecy’s betrothal had been announced. In Verity’s mind, Helena was more attractive, her smile even brighter than the red curls that adorned her head. “Titian-haired” their drawing master had once remarked.

  Lucinda sighed, reclaiming Verity’s attention. “I suppose he did get a little carried away.” She smiled coyly, clearly inviting Verity to enquire further.

  Verity stifled the yawn. “It’s very late—”

  “He said my lips are like a scarlet ribbon!”

  Verity blinked. Well, that was poetic. And rather surprising for prosy William to have thought of such a thing.

  “He wrote that my hair is like a flock of goats and my neck is like a tower—”

  She bit her lip to stop a smile. Surely a lovesick fool could be the only one to believe squat Lucinda held any aspirations to towers.

  “But I think the part Miss Haverstock took particular exception to—”

  And she whispered something about deer and breasts.

  “Lucinda!” The heat of embarrassment traveled from Verity’s cheeks to her toes. “I can fully understand why Miss Haverstock might take exception to such things.” She paused, uncomfortably aware just how much like her mother she sounded. She gentled her tone. “I do not think your William has much sense if he is writing to you in such an ungentlemanly manner.”

  “But he said it’s from the Bible!”

  “Yes, but the Bible isn’t all true, is it?”

  Lucinda stared at her. “How can you be Helena’s friend and think such things?”

  Verity shrugged. While she and Helena held very different opinions on matters of faith, and had even engaged in several animated discussions resulting in an agreement to disagree, such contrasting views had never marred their friendship. But that was of no matter now, nor likely to ever be of any great importance. “Where William found such things is of little consequence. What matters is that Miss Haverstock knows and will doubtless write to your father immediately, and you can be assured William will forever be banished from your company.”

  “But whatever will we do?”

  Verity thought hard. “What gives you confidence she will act so soon?”

  “She said she would write tonight! And she’s like you, she always keeps her word.” Lucinda’s face crumpled, reminding Verity of a dropped pink handkerchief.

  “Do not fret.” She patted Lucinda on the shoulder. “I am sure that your father will be none the wiser.” She rose, shrugged off the blanket, and exchanged her pale dressing gown for something darker.

  “But—”

  “Go to sleep, Lucy. I will retrieve the note and ensure any letter to your father is not incriminating.”

  Lucinda sagged in relief. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Verity spoke the truth. Nothing gave her greater pleasure tha
n righting wrongs and seeing justice prevail. And if it allowed another adventure with Helena, all the better.

  She eased open the door, quickly glancing both ways. Nobody. She closed the door gently and stole past the next room, taking care to avoid the squeaking floorboard. Her lips flattened. Nothing squeaked louder in this school than Prudence, or Gasper, as she was widely known, the moniker saying much about her unfortunate propensity for sharing what news she could about others’ misdemeanors. She hurried to the room a farther two doors away and crept inside.

  “Helena?” She tiptoed to the bed and gently shook her friend. “Helena, wake up.”

  “Verity?” Helena squinted, her voice soft to not disturb her slumbering roommate. “Whatever is the matter?”

  “We need to get into Haverstock’s study once more.”

  All vestiges of sleep drained from Helena’s face as she abruptly sat up. “But why?”

  Verity sighed. “Lucinda’s young man wrote her a letter with most salacious content.”

  “Lucy? But that’s ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous it may be, but she fears she will be forced to marry some old man and never see William again.”

  Helena yawned, shifted the bedcovers, and pulled on a dark tartan-patterned dressing gown. “And you must play the knight in shining armor again.”

  Verity grinned. “I’m afraid I must.”

  “Then I suppose I must as well.”

  A minute later they were moving quietly down the staircase at the end of the hall, not the grand central staircase, but the little one used by the maids—and sly teachers. Around them the house sighed and whispered, the building, almost as ancient as Aynsley Manor, settling into slumber. Soft snores emanated from Miss Pelling’s room. Verity exhaled. Haverstock’s didn’t need a watchdog, not when that terrier of a teacher was on the prowl.

  Down the hall came a scurrying noise. Verity shivered. She hoped tonight would not bring a repeat encounter with a rodent. Rats, with their wormlike tails and bold black eyes, gave her pause like nothing else. Not even Stephen Heathcote’s most absurd pranks had ever elicited so much fear.

  But so far, so good.

  They reached the heavy oak door to Miss Haverstock’s study. All was quiet, no light spilled from underneath, so Verity grasped the door handle and turned. It clicked and swung silently open. They hurried inside, closing the door as quickly and quietly as they’d opened it. Inside, wavering moonlight cast a ghostly sheen over the detritus-laden desk: papers stacked in untidy piles, wax-spattered stubs of candles, several vases of wilting flowers, whose smell of decay wrinkled Verity’s nose.

  “Where do you think it might be?” Helena whispered.

  Verity pointed to the escritoire. “Look for an envelope addressed to the Earl of Retford, and I’ll search for the letter from William the silly goose.”

  Helena giggled softly then began pulling out drawers, rummaging through the compartments whilst Verity concentrated on finding the telltale blue paper William used for all his correspondence. She opened a tall cupboard where essential information was kept on students, past and present. She flicked through until she found Lucinda’s file, scanning the basics: parents, county of birth, social position, her father’s estimated income, a column on Lucinda’s academic achievements, which was sadly short. Truly, there seemed little of real value to be gained by reading such things, especially when it felt so intrusive. Exactly why Miss Haverstock felt it necessary to keep such precise information on her students was something of a mystery, but time did not permit speculation now. She placed Lucinda’s file back and picked up her own, scanning it quickly to see what had been added since last time.

  “Helena, look!” she whispered. “Apparently you and I are ill-advised companions.”

  “What?” Helena shut the escritoire a little harder than necessary. “Show me that.” She frowned, her bottom lip protruding as she read the file. “I have never understood why that woman despises you so much.” Her finger jabbed the page. “She has three pages of notes about your misdemeanors, but not once has she mentioned your assisting of the junior girls. And look, there she lists your academic achievements, but no mention of your perfect marks in geography, French, nor anything about mathematics or the sciences. I don’t understand her at all!”

  “I believe the only science she values is that of the domestic variety, and that is something at which I will never excel.”

  “Not that you will ever need to, not with your income.”

  Verity inclined her head, acknowledging the truth of Helena’s comment. Yet another reason why she valued her friend so highly; Helena did not possess one jot of jealousy. She took pleasure in Verity’s good prospects as if they were her own.

  “Come, we best find this letter if we are to return before dawn.”

  Helena yawned, as if the remark had reminded her of the late hour. “I have found nothing here. You?”

  “No,” Verity muttered. Where could it be? Unless she’d already posted the letter to the earl, and included William’s epistle as evidence. “She couldn’t have posted it yet …”

  “But it might be—”

  “—ready to be posted!” Verity finished.

  They tidied as best they could—but really, would Miss Haverstock even notice her desk had been picked over?—and moved to the small table near the front door, where a silver salver held the mail to be posted.

  “Voilà!” Verity fished out an envelope addressed in perfect copperplate to the Earl of Retford. “Now we shall see.”

  They stole back to Miss Haverstock’s room, closing the door and lighting a candle before carefully peeling open the paper. Inside, a second blue paper was folded neatly, the page of writing as primly precise as the penmanship lessons they’d been forced to endure under Miss Haverstock’s tutelage.

  Verity read it quickly, biting her lip as she read the familiar accusations.

  “She is unbelievable!” Helena whispered. “How can she think you would have ever encouraged Lucinda to form such an attachment? I call it monstrous.”

  “I suppose it is easier to blame someone else rather than inform the earl he has a silly widgeon for a daughter.”

  “Yes, I imagine that must be so.” Helena sighed. “But what will you do? You cannot let her tell such lies.”

  Verity smiled. “Of course not. But what truth do you wish the earl to know?”

  Helena’s eyes grew round. “Are you asking me to do what I think you are?”

  “For the last time, I promise. You know there is nobody with a better hand than you.”

  “But what if I get caught?”

  “We have not been caught so far. And don’t you think that so many parents have been relieved to learn their daughters are thriving here at Haverstock’s? Really, are there any parents who need to be told in long and glorious detail about their offspring’s shortcomings?” Verity smiled wryly. “If they are anything like my mama, they would already be all too conscious of that.”

  Helena’s brow furrowed. “I am sure your mama loves you.”

  “Perhaps. In her own special way.” Verity finished mending the pen, then moved the quill and inkpot to Helena. “Now, write to the earl something that more correctly informs him as to who has been influencing his daughter.”

  Every tick of the wooden clock seemed to take an hour, so it seemed almost a lifetime by the time Helena was finished, and completing the copied direction on the front. “But it must be sealed.”

  “And so it shall.”

  Whilst Helena stuffed the original letter in her dressing gown, Verity eased open the bottom drawer, pulled out the stump of wax, and held it near the sputtering flame until melted crimson dropped on the parchment. With a few swift thrusts of the knife she approximated the twisted S and H that constituted the Haverstock seal, before wiping the blade on the inner hem of her gown and returning quill, wax, and ink to their rightful place.

  Something clattered outside.

  Verity blew out the candle, heart t
humping as steps creaked near the door. She pulled Helena down and they crouched, two rabbits burrowing in the pocket of space beneath the desk.

  “Is someone here?”

  Verity held her breath. Miss Pelling! She was a bull terrier, persistent until she found her prey. She heard a sniff, then another. Could she smell the candle? Oh no! She placed her fingers on the still-hot wick, wincing at the burn.

  The door thudded as it opened wide, hitting a crowded bookshelf behind. Beside her, Verity could feel Helena squirm. They silently shifted deeper into the leg space beneath the desk, pulling their dark gowns to cover every area of pale skin.

  A sudden urge to giggle tickled Verity’s chest. Whatever could they say to get out of this predicament? It was more than a little absurd, the two of them, cramped, crowded, craning their necks as they awaited their fate. Not for the first time she counted it fortunate Helena was not that much more rounded than she. Slenderness might not be to men’s taste, so Mama often intoned, but it had its advantages.

  Verity peered over her shoulder as the lower part of a white nightgown appeared. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Beside her she could feel Helena shaking. Was it restrained laughter or fear? Remorse bubbled up within. Tonight’s episode was all Verity’s doing. She did not fear punishment for herself, but Helena’s attendance at Haverstock’s was entirely due to her wealthy godmother’s goodwill. If she should be expelled Verity could never forgive herself. She wondered for the first time exactly how one should pray.

  “Little better than a pigsty,” Miss Pelling muttered.

  That desire to laugh swelled again. Long had she suspected Miss Haverstock’s deputy as harboring such feelings, fostered by the flash of impatience Miss Pelling had exhibited on more than one occasion, but to hear it from her own lips …

  The gown moved away. Verity exhaled silently. Then a crackling sound was followed by Miss Pelling’s face!

  Verity shut her eyes, waiting for the retribution, waiting for the most tremendous scold of her life, waiting—

  “Drat these eyes! I cannot see a thing!”