Once Upon a Kiss (Book Club Belles Society)

by Jayne Fresina

  “Yes,” Rebecca laughed, “and they’re all in the bank.”

  But Cathy continued to defend the man in her quiet, steady voice, seeking to find good in him, as she did in anyone. Now she had Lucy on her side too and Rebecca merely found his quirks entertaining. Diana did not feel as if she could speculate on the fellow since she was an engaged woman, a fact of which she reminded them, in case they might have forgotten.

  Since Justina took no pleasure in discussing Wainwright or Diana’s wretchedly uninteresting fiancé, no one heard another word out of her. She would take a leaf out of Elizabeth Bennet’s book, she decided, and save her breath to cool her porridge.

  Fifteen

  It was surprisingly sunny this morning, as if the summer suddenly returned for an encore. The Book Society has been out collecting donations for a new roof on Dockley’s Barn, so the Priory Players can perform at Christmas without fear of being rained, hailed, and snowed upon.

  Lucy insisted we ask Mr. W for a donation. I told everyone he was a lost cause, but as usual my warnings were rebuffed. We caught him at his gate as he returned from a ride. Although Becky boldly promised him a front row seat at the next performance, he was his usual amiable self and said he could imagine “nothing more heinous to sit through than a performance of amateur dramatics.” And it took him forever and a day to get that sentence out. I really think he begrudges the air it takes to form words in our presence. I’m sure he has far more important people with whom to share his wisdom.

  I made some attempt today to mend my best frock. I was also lured by Lucy into trying burnt cork for darkening my eyebrows. I cannot imagine why, but I suppose I was at loose ends. When one is reduced to fussing with one’s eyebrows, it must signal the very end of all hope.

  I feel as if we are all changing and everything is adrift. Like the weathercock on Dockley’s barn, things are pointing the wrong way…

  J.P. September 8th, 1815 A.D.

  She came every day and stayed for the full hour. The housekeeper warned him that he welcomed trouble by letting them inside the house.

  “I can assure you, Mrs. Birch, I am well capable of handling two young women at once.” When she looked skeptical, her broad face clenched like a fist, he continued hastily, “They are here to do a job for me, and that should keep them occupied.”

  “Well, they’d better not get under my feet.”

  He might have hired a clerk or two from the solicitor’s office in Manderson to help sort through his great-uncle’s things, but Miss Justina Penny was a more interesting companion for that hour every day. Her father had vowed she was a fast reader with a smart mind, if she applied herself to a project and did not let her imagination take over. Darius decided he would see for himself how clever she was. Many an eager father had sought to recommend their daughters to him in the past and he had long since ceased to believe a word he was promised.

  He saw her in the village several times, waiting impatiently for the post’s arrival, and he wondered what had her on tenterhooks. The latest edition of a lady’s magazine perhaps, he mused. But no. It seemed doubtful. She didn’t appear very troubled by fashion. He’d seen his young niece poring over cut-out scraps with illustrations of new gowns and hairstyles to try out—although she always hastily shut them inside her copy of Fordyce’s Sermons whenever he drew near. He’d witnessed his stepsister’s peevish discontent if she caught another woman wearing a similar bonnet and looking better in it. Fashion, he’d concluded, was tremendously important to the females he knew.

  Justina Penny, however, often looked as if she’d dressed in the dark and at the last minute before exiting her house. He would have thought this was simply a protest for his benefit, but she dressed that way even when she was not coming to Midwitch.

  Soon her conversation—that insistence on chattering away to him across his desk, however hard he scowled to discourage her—kept Darius too busy to criticize her attire.

  In the back of his mind he heard his great-uncle promising, “There’s treasure on this property. Treasure hidden. What do you think of that, eh?” It could be somewhere amongst all these documents. The house held an eerie, watchful essence that hinted at secrets. The dark, paneled walls might almost be whispering at night when he lay in Phineas’s old four-poster bed and tried to find sleep. When the sun went down, the creaks and groans multiplied, as if the house was also restless, waiting, impatient, unable to close its eyes and fall into pleasant dreams because of business unfinished.

  There remained the curious fact that Phineas had told Justina Penny the same thing about hidden treasure. Whatever the old man’s reasons for telling her, Darius guessed this could be why she came there so often to trespass over the years. She might pretend not to believe in it, but she couldn’t help herself from wondering.

  So they did have something in common, after all.

  Whenever he set before her a new box of papers to delve into, she could not hide her excitement.

  “If there is treasure and I find it,” she said to him once, her eyes gleaming with little stars, “I shall expect a fair share of the bounty.”

  “We’ll see, Miss Penny.”

  “Don’t think to cheat me out of it, after I’ve been here every day, put to work like your personal slave.”

  “I sincerely doubt a slave would be tolerated if she talked to her master they way you talk to me,” he muttered, bemused.

  “People shouldn’t be allowed to keep slaves anyway. It’s wrong.”

  “I agree.”

  She looked up in surprise, pausing her search through a bundle of papers. “You do?”

  “I do. Human beings are not commodities.” There, take that, Miss Quarrelsome, he thought, satisfied by her expression—the way her lips hung open, thwarted before they could begin another argument.

  He realized he was hitching forward in his chair, as if he prepared to reach across the width of his desk and touch that dark curl that bounced by her cheek. A seal stamp fell to the carpet.

  She returned her gaze to the contents of the box and resumed her rummaging. Having destroyed any chance he had of concentrating on his own work, she then began to hum, tapping her feet merrily to the rhythm.

  As he pieced his great-uncle’s clocks back together, Darius found his mind wandering over Miss Justina Penny’s wayward cogs and considering the boisterous clatter of her little hammers as they chimed out various impertinent remarks. It was disconcerting, to say the least, that he spent so much of his time considering her playful mechanism and how it ticked.

  There had not been many interesting women in his life, and only one had ever found her way into his heart. At nineteen Darius had enjoyed the company of a pretty, lively, amorous young woman, to whom he formed a deep and tender attachment. A mistake, of course. When she ran off with another—and the less said about him the better—the wound torn out of him was considerable and slow to heal. Perhaps had Darius not been such an introverted, insecure young man, it might not have had the dire effect it did, but after that he turned in upon himself even more than before, deciding it was safest to avoid entanglements of that nature. Time passed and he became consumed with work, having no time for pleasure in any case.

  Over the last decade, a few brief encounters with women of easy virtue had kept his parts in working order. That, he thought, was sufficient. Occasionally his stepsister organized uncomfortable social events in an attempt to thrust her various friends at him as marriage material, but he did his best to avoid them.

  Now he had met a woman he felt no urge to avoid. Not only that, but he went to some lengths to keep her in his company.

  One day Justina brought him a small lavender pouch she claimed to have sewn with her own fingers. Later inspection of the large, clumsy stitches would suggest she told the truth.

  “Keep this under your bed pillow,” she said, pushing it into his hands. “The scent of the dried buds insi
de will help you sleep. You’ll feel much improved.”

  For a moment he was quite at a loss for anything to reply. The little pillow was warm from her hand and some of the sweet scent was released as she passed it to him.

  “It does work,” she assured him, wide-eyed and earnest, as if she thought his silence was skepticism.

  “I’m sure it does,” he replied finally, following the two girls up the steps and into his house. “Might I ask how you knew deep sleep eluded me, Miss Penny?”

  While her friend walked into the study, she spun around to face him. “Because you look tired and fretful and agitated. Like a babe that has missed his nap.”

  He tried to frown, but could not make the necessary muscles work. Ten minutes ago it would have been easy, but now she was there again—the irritating woman—and he did not even mind the gray skies.

  “Except for one noticeable difference, of course,” she added, stepping closer. “A very important difference between a babe and a grown man.”

  Darius waited, the little pillow crushed tight in his hand.

  She whispered, “You have more hair, Mr. Wainwright.” Her saucy arrow having pierced its mark, she turned away, but he caught her wrist in his free hand and stopped her from entering the study.

  Justina did not pull away. Slowly he lifted her wrist to his mouth. Her leather gloves were discolored and worn. Darius succeeded in sneakily moving that barrier aside with his lips, intent on touching some portion of her directly, however slight, to inhale more of her. “Thank you, Miss Penny,” he muttered against her pulse, his lips lightly tracing the soft skin. “For the gift.”

  Darius held her fingers longer than he should. She made no effort to retrieve her hand until Lucy’s footsteps were heard returning across the creaking floorboards to find what kept the two of them.

  He knew then he was in danger. Very real danger. No woman had ever given him a gift or spoken to him as she did. Or tied him in these breathless knots. Or left him so aroused just by standing close and letting him hold her hand.

  Quickly he put up his fences again. “Have you not delayed enough, Miss Penny? You are already late today as it is and now you try to distract me from your lack of p…punctuality.”

  “Well, of all the blasted cheek! Give it back to me then!”

  “Give what back?” He had slipped the lavender pillow quickly inside his jacket.

  Her eyes narrowed and she stepped closer. “I give them to everybody,” she exclaimed, sounding short of breath. “It is nothing special.”

  Perhaps not to her.

  Darius blinked and kept his countenance unmoved. “That’s all right then, isn’t it? I would not want you to do anything special for me. People might talk.”

  “About us?” She gave one of those peculiar snorting laughs. “I’d sooner be linked romantically to Sir Mortimer Grubbins.”

  He smirked. “Did you make him a lavender pillow too?”

  “Yes,” came the pert reply. “But he ate his.”

  “How do you know I won’t do the same?”

  Her lips popped open and shaped a small sound, very like a rusty gate hinge. But it seemed he had silenced the mischievous creature. It was a temporary victory, but satisfying nonetheless.

  ***

  “Well, Jussy, I trust your excursions to Midwitch Manor are of use to Mr. Wainwright,” said her father one morning.

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “You have not told us much about the time you spend there.”

  “There is not much to tell.”

  She felt her father’s gaze quizzing her above his newspaper. “Not much? Goodness, I expected you to be full of tales by now. Mr. Wainwright has not mentioned anything to you of his future plans yet with the manor house?”

  “Why would he share anything like that with me? He barely finds the will to speak at all, let alone say anything interesting.”

  Before he could reply, her mother chimed in. “I hope you are not rude to the gentleman. Such a pity it was that he did not ask Catherine to sort through his papers. I wonder why he did not.”

  “Because Cathy does not need an occupation to keep her out of trouble,” Justina exclaimed hotly, fumbling with her needle and pricking her finger.

  Yet she’d begun to anticipate her hour each day in his company with some unexpected pleasure. It was the newness of it, she supposed. Wainwright was something rare in that village. He had seen a great deal of the world, experienced things she’d only read about. Perhaps that was part of his allure. He could, no doubt, answer all her endless questions. If his patience held out long enough.

  She rather liked watching him puzzle over those old clocks. His long fingers were very precise, very clever. Apart from the occasional bout of dropping things, which seemed to happen more and more lately. Perhaps he needed spectacles. Might explain why he spent so much time squinting at her, as if it hurt him to look at her ungainly person and unfashionable attire.

  When she made him the lavender pillow she pretended it was a common thing for her to do, but that was a lie. She had no explanation for it. An anxious search of her father’s books had not enlightened her to any strange illness she might have contracted. There was no diagnosis for this. No reason why her pulse should quicken to a hideously uncontrolled pace when he pressed his damp lips to it.

  “I shall be vastly annoyed if he dines with the Sherringhams first,” said Mrs. Penny. “I’m sure the major is eager to get him through their door, and Rebecca won’t waste her time once they do. She’s always been a forward, brazen creature. And the Lord knows she needs to catch herself a stranger because anyone intimate with that family knows what she is. Yes, indeed, she needs to find herself a man who knows nothing about her. He will be duped. Quite thoroughly taken in.”

  Dr. Penny lowered his newspaper again midway to his knees. “I always thought Miss Sherringham to be a charming, witty girl, my dear. What has she done to set you so against her?”

  For a moment, Mrs. Penny did not answer, too busy fussing over her sewing basket. Finally she grumbled, “One only has to look at the brother. A rakehell of the very worst order.”

  “But what has that to do with Becky, Mama?” Catherine gently protested, not looking up from her neat embroidery. “She is not at fault for her brother’s misadventures.”

  Mrs. Penny sniffed resentfully. “That girl is her brother, but in skirts. Since her mother died when she was so young, she’s been raised up like a boy alongside that reckless brother of hers. They both think that all in life is a jape. For a man it is bad enough, but in a woman it is unseemly. Her father drinks too much port and has no earthly idea how to raise a young lady.” After a pause while she examined her sewing, their mother added, “She has spent too much time around military camps and it shows. Maidenly modesty is absent in that girl. Quite absent.”

  Their father peered over his paper again. “You mean to suggest, my dear, that Rebecca Sherringham is a strumpet?”

  Justina smothered a snort of laughter, and Catherine shook her head at her sewing.

  “I did not say that,” Mrs. Penny protested thinly to her husband. “But if her manner leads others to assume it is so, Major Sherringham has nothing to blame for it but his own laxity.”

  Catherine kept silent from then on, holding her thoughts to herself as usual, but Justina would not sit quietly and tolerate this condemnation of their friend or of the lively brother who had always been a great favorite of hers. “Captain Sherringham is a very jolly soul, whatever people say about him. And Becky is one of the most generous and selfless people I know. Excepting Cathy, of course.”

  Mrs. Penny was appalled by the suggestion of anyone else’s unmarried daughter having admirable qualities to rival those of her jewel. “Generous, indeed! I’d like to see where that gets her in life. For all her bold ways, she is nowhere near your sister in beauty. Nowhere near! Not with all those
freckles.”

  As it happened, their mama soon had her opportunity to pounce on Mr. Wainwright and save him from the wicked intentions of that flame-haired hussy otherwise known as Miss Rebecca Sherringham.

  On Sunday he finally showed his face in church and was, naturally, a dreadful distraction in the front pew. Justina, who had barely given a thought to the new vicar’s sermons before now—except to be glad they were shorter than those given by his predecessor—felt great sympathy for poor Mr. Kenton, who struggled manfully and in vain to keep the attention of his flock from straying.

  After the service the Penny family was almost at the lych-gate when a deep voice brought them to a stumbling halt on the path.

  “Miss Penny, I believe you dropped this.”

  They all turned to observe the great tall cloud looming over their small group. It was Mr. Wainwright, with his large claw outstretched and a lady’s glove laid over it. He must have recovered it from the aisle, read the initials sewn inside the cuff, and chased them down to return the item.

  Justina felt her pulse quicken, as it always did when he was near. Her gaze went at once to his hands, remembering the way it felt to have them holding her improperly.

  At her side Catherine was startled. “But I did not lose a glove, sir.” She lifted her hands to prove she had both gloves where they should be.

  Their mother bounced forward, elbowing a route between her daughters and almost catching Justina in the eye with the lively feather in her bonnet. “Why, that is mine, sir. How good of you to return it.”

  Justina smothered a groan.

  “I too am a Catherine,” Mrs. Penny explained, quickly taking the glove from his hand, “but you were not to know that. I daresay your thoughts are filled only with one by that name.” Following this extraordinarily presumptuous remark, she laughed lightly, throwing her head back to do so and this time successfully poking Justina in the eye with her bonnet feather.

  Wainwright winced and leaned away, perhaps fearing her millinery handiwork might attack him next.