Once Upon a Kiss (Book Club Belles Society)

by Jayne Fresina

  Or perhaps I will shave my own head instead. It cannot make things any worse.

  J.P. September 22nd, 1815 A.D.

  The day after the harvest dance, Justina was alone in the house, arguing with Clara. Her intention was to make a cake, but while she fought the cook for space on the kitchen table, the doorbell rang. Clara, her hands full of feathers from plucking a chicken, marched off to answer it, having received a terse command to send whomever it was away. Justina was in no mood, and certainly in no state, to sit with visitors. But as soon as Clara left the kitchen, she had a second thought.

  What if it was Sherry? He’d said he might call on her and here she was in this state, cake batter in her hair and on her face.

  Her parents had gone to the next village to help a woman in labor, and Cathy had left for the market in Manderson, traveling in Captain Sherringham’s stylish new curricle with Rebecca and Diana. It was a plan decided on while they all talked at the dance, and although the curricle was really only big enough for two, the joy of crowding three into the vehicle had caused much excitement. The captain had offered to ride a horse alongside the ladies, to ensure they had a safe journey, but his sister had mocked him.

  “You only want to keep an eye on your precious curricle, Nate, and don’t trust me with it!”

  Then, upon discovering that the main purpose of the trip was helping Diana shop for wedding accoutrements, he went off the idea in any case and said he would stay home. It would, therefore, be the perfect time for the captain to call upon Justina. Not that she held out any romantic dreams in that regard, of course, she reminded herself churlishly, but just to have his company for half an hour without interruption would be pleasant indeed. She longed to hear of his latest daring adventures. He might bring those cigars he told her about.

  Edging close to the kitchen door, she heard the low tenor of a man’s voice in their hall and her excitement mounted. A few moments later, Clara’s flat, heavy feet came back down the passage, her large soles flapping against the wood planks. Justina dived back to the table and her bowl of lumpy batter.

  “Gentleman’s in’t front parlor,” Clara announced in her dull voice.

  “Well, for pity’s sake, I told you I can’t see anyone. You should have said I am not at home.”

  Clara gave a loud, careless, gelatinous sniff, wiped her nose on her sleeve, picked up a cleaver, and swung it hard to sever the head of the dead, bald bird.

  Sometimes Justina considered giving up her haberdashery allowance if it might mean they could afford a better cook. But then she would remember that Clara had come to them from the Charity School; she had no family and had been all alone in the world since childhood. Someone had to give Clara a purpose, a bed, and a fire beside which to sit and soak her chilblains in warm water and bran.

  “There are people in the world far worse off than us, Jussy,” her sister would say. And then Justina would feel guilty for ever complaining. However eccentric and irritating her family could be, at least she had one.

  She wiped her hands on her pinafore and slipped it off over her head, but she forgot to remove the head scarf until she was already opening the parlor door, and by then it was too late.

  To her vast disappointment, which made itself known at once in the rapidity with which she lost her smile, the visitor was not the much anticipated captain. Justina had swung the door open with such alacrity and excitement that her visitor jumped nervously and dropped a small bunch of golden yellow chrysanthemums to the carpet. As he stooped to retrieve them, she had a mad moment to imagine it was someone else entirely, but once the visitor had straightened up his tall length again, her misfortune was confirmed.

  Before her stood Darius Wainwright—hat, gloves, and wilted flowers in hand—a strained look upon his face. He had brought a rush of cold air in with him, and it filled the small room, made her shiver as if someone just walked over her grave.

  Oh, why was he here? What had she done now?

  She tried to put her thoughts in order. “My father is out, sir, and my mother with him,” she blurted. “Clara should have told you, but she is, as I’m sure you noted, sparing with her words.”

  He bowed his head. “It is you I came to see, Miss Justina.”

  Had he come there to complain because she’d missed the visit to Midwitch that day? Justina decided not to ask. Let him explain himself, she thought angrily.

  And what on earth were the flowers for? They looked extremely out of place in his hands and most of them appeared to be crushed flat.

  Abruptly the man began to pace, making the room seem even smaller, a shower of petals falling to the carpet. She wondered about the proper etiquette under these unexpected circumstances. Cathy would no doubt be composed and calm. So she folded her hands before her, like the vicar poised to greet his parishioners outside church on a Sunday.

  Wainwright continued pacing.

  She was surprised he hadn’t made any pithy comment about her appearance, as it must surely be a sight to behold at that moment. But when one had a cook like Clara, it was necessary occasionally to enter the kitchen and take matters in hand, she thought sadly. Of course, he would not understand. He probably kept three or four French chefs at his grand house in London. There would never be batter in his hair. Unless someone had the presence of mind to throw it at him.

  Finally he stopped. He looked at the ground, at the hob grate, and then swiveled on his heels and stared at her hands.

  Justina sincerely hoped he would hurry up and get it out, whatever it was, because knowing her luck dear Sherry would arrive at any moment, and she would not even have time to make herself presentable.

  ***

  “I must…”—he shook his flowers in her general direction and several more petals drifted loose, falling slowly through the air—“apologize, Miss Justina, for the remarks you overheard yesterday evening.”

  She looked at the flowers, but seemed confused and did not take them.

  Rather than stand awkwardly with his arm outstretched and a bunch of tattered flowers dangling in the air between them, he placed them gingerly on the table. He’d dropped them twice in the mud on the way to the Pennys’ house and accidently stepped upon them once, because he had not slept much last night and was dreadfully clumsy today. It was a nervous state that had become ten times worse whenever he passed anyone in the lane who made a comment—however innocuous—about the flowers.

  When he finally allowed his gaze to reach her face, he found it looking bored. Her eyes were glazed over, and if he was not mistaken, she had just taken two sneaky glances through the parlor window, as if hoping for someone else to appear in the lane. Was he even in the room? he wondered acidly. There was a thumbprint of flour on her cheek and a smaller dot of the same on her chin. Something else marked the tip of her nose. Around her head she wore a scarf of ragged material, tied as a sort of half-turban, probably meant to keep her hair out of the way, but several stubborn curls had escaped, bouncing like broken springs each time she moved her head.

  “Miss Penny,” he added, louder this time, making her look at him. “I would like to apologize.”

  “So you said once already.” She blinked and the stray sprigs of curl twitched again, exhibiting possible signs of irritation. “Is it really worth it, Mr. Wainwright?”

  He swallowed, set down his hat and gloves, and drew his hand quickly over his brow. Hidden in his palm he kept a tightly folded handkerchief to swab the first beads of perspiration. “Yes. It is worth it. I must get this out.”

  The dark blue velvet of her gaze seemed even more startling today in the cool light through the parlor window. He had missed seeing her face that morning, and her unexplained absence had driven him here to confront her with a hasty proposal. It was madness, but there was nothing else to be done about the situation. She had him utterly at sixes and sevens.

  “I should not have spoken as I did yester
day…at the dance,” he mumbled awkwardly. “I did not know you were behind me.”

  Her eyes narrowed, simmered. “Oh, I’ve already forgotten it, sir. Wiped it clean from my mind.”

  There followed what was possibly the longest silence he’d yet known in her company. Darius swabbed the hidden handkerchief across his brow again.

  Finally she said, “Is that all, sir? I am rather busy in the kitchen this morning.”

  His heart stumbled over its usually steady rhythm. “Miss Penny, I am aware that our recent encounters have not been conducted with propriety.”

  “If you’re going to lecture me again about my behavior, you needn’t put yourself out. I can promise you, sir, that I will not be under your feet any longer. You won’t see hide or hair of me from now on. I’m sure it will save us both a considerable number of headaches.” The words tumbled out swiftly, like rambunctious children released into the fresh air after a Sunday visit with strict relatives.

  So much for wiping her mind clean, he mused.

  “Miss Justina, I fear we are at cross p…purposes. I did not mean to say that you are to bl—”

  “Please don’t give it another thought,” she replied sharply, eyes flaring. “As I said to you before, I know my faults. If only other people always knew theirs!”

  “I never said I was without f…fault. I’m sure I have made p…plentiful errors.” He stopped, aware of his tongue beginning to stumble as it had not done since he was a boy.

  “If I might say so, sir, I think it was a rather foolhardy decision you made to come here this morning, considering every encounter with me has caused you wounds and stains of one sort or another. I wonder what you can mean by it.” Again she glanced at his savaged flowers and frowned.

  “Foolhardy? Madam, I have never made a foolhardy decision in my life.”

  “Apparently you’ve never had a tender feeling or a modest thought, either,” she scoffed. “But I shall stay silent and let you chastise again, as you like to do, and then perhaps we can be done with it. I suppose I ought to be grateful that you take on the trouble of setting me straight, as no one else bothers and I am an unguarded little trollop.”

  Well, he was quite certain he’d never said that, but before he could protest, she continued.

  “How charitable of you! First Sir Mortimer Grubbins and now my training! So many burdens you are willing to take on.”

  Darius squared his shoulders, wishing he had something other than his handkerchief to keep his hands occupied while she stood this close, looking so angry and at the same time as wildly beautiful, dangerous, and breathtaking as a thunderstorm at sea. A face to sink a thousand ships, he mused, shocking himself with the ability to feel a lighthearted tremor at such a moment. Whatever spell she’d cast over him, it was powerful and warm. It refused to let him lose his temper with her, even while she railed at him and seemed intent on a quarrel.

  “Do tell me something, sir, I am genuinely curious.” She put her hands on her waist. “Is there any woman, anywhere, who ever met with your approval? I should like to meet her. Or, on second thought, perhaps not. I might be completely overwhelmed in the presence of a living saint.”

  “There are some—”

  “Have you no appreciation for the spontaneous, Mr. Wainwright? Life is not always neat and tidy and all in its place. I feel sorry for you that you cannot simply enjoy life and dance without worrying about the right steps or what you look like while doing it. There is no romance in your life, no pleasure for the sake of it, no emotions. I pity you, indeed I do.”

  Pity was the last thing he wanted from her. “Mrs. Birch was right,” he muttered. “All those novels have gone to your head.”

  “Pardon me for reading.”

  “It’s not the reading, madam, that matters. It is the choice of material which clearly does more harm than good.”

  “Explain!”

  “You expect life to mimic fiction and when it does not you are disappointed. You wait for a man like one of those you read about. One who spouts poetry and makes an ass of himself on bended knee.”

  “Why not? You ably make an ass of yourself upright.” She snorted. “I only hope, for your sake, you find a woman one day who does not mind risking her happiness on a man who can barely put himself out to be gracious.” Stopping abruptly, she flushed pink. “Still, that is no business of mine and does not concern me at all.”

  Words suddenly would not come to him. He felt as if only spare letters fell over themselves in a meaningless jumble on his tongue, forming stupid sounds that made no sense.

  “You pride yourself on being a gentleman of sophistication, education, and manners,” she added. “Good Lord, you are so quick to fault mine. If your arrogant behavior is the fashionable idea of manners, I’m glad I have none.”

  It was unbelievable that this little person in her rumpled attire, with custard on her nose, should make him feel small and insignificant. This woman who jumped, reckless and naked, onto strange men’s beds. He knew far more about life than she did. Yet he let her preach to him. Suddenly he could do nothing else but listen.

  His silence apparently troubled her as much as anything he’d said.

  Her brows arched even higher. “What now?” she demanded. “Why do you look at me that way?”

  “You have custard on your face, madam.”

  She screwed her lips tight in an angry moue and then exploded. “It’s batter!”

  Unmoved by the gust of furious air blown out with those two words, Darius raised his folded handkerchief and wiped the mark from the end of her nose. “I don’t suppose that happens to the heroines in your books.”

  It would, apparently, cost her too much to thank him, but her lips softened very slightly and her dark lashes fanned downward in a slow blink. “Shall I show you out, sir?”

  “Perhaps you’d prefer throwing me through the window? I hear you like drama.”

  “I may be a common, provincial girl with terrible, brazen manners,” she stepped closer, “but I am perfectly capable of civilly showing you the door.”

  “And I may be a fancified London toff,” Darius advanced a half step until they were almost touching, “but I know a door when I see one.”

  “I meant I could open it for you.”

  “So that you might have the pleasure of slamming it after me?”

  “That, sir, would be childish.”

  “Exactly.”

  She exhaled a small, exasperated huff. “Are you still here?”

  He held out his arms. “Apparently. I must not have had enough insults from you yet today.”

  Her eyes widened as if she’d just swallowed a walnut whole and was about to choke.

  “Insults from me?” she sputtered. “Of all the blasted cheek!”

  For a long moment his gaze held hers.

  The doorbell rang. They had both been too caught up in their argument to hear anyone pass through the gate.

  Only seconds later the parlor door burst open and there was Captain Sherringham, grinning as he invited himself in, not even waiting for the maid to announce his presence.

  “Jussy, here I am as promised, to—”

  When he saw the two of them standing so close his smile drooped, but only for a moment.

  “Sherry!” she cried, hastily moving away from Darius. “Have you met Mr. Wainwright?”

  “We were introduced yesterday evening. Didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”

  “Of course not.” She laughed, her color deepening.

  Darius knew she waited for him to leave. So did the merry, bloody captain. “Sherry” indeed! His jaw hurt. His head ached.

  He should leave them to it, he thought furiously.

  Instead he stayed. He took a chair at the small table, lowering his weight so suddenly to the worn seat that its fragile legs creaked in surprise and alarm.


  The captain had ruined his visit and now he would repay the favor. He muttered a gruff “Good morning” to the other man and then stared at the embroidered screen by the fire.

  ***

  It was, quite possibly, the most uncomfortable fifteen minutes she’d ever spent in that parlor. Justina had never enjoyed the company of two men there to visit her at the same time, and she was quite certain there must be proper etiquette for such a circumstance, but sadly she was a poor student of any rules. She’d never had cause to consider this predicament a likely one for her.

  The captain had a box of cigars under his arm, and he placed them on the table beside the shattered bouquet of chrysanthemums before taking a seat by the fire, quickly making himself at home and launching into one of his amusing stories. It was a tale Justina could attend to with only half her mind, for she was still in a state of confusion in regard to Mr. Wainwright’s very strange visit. She turned to face the captain, but all her senses were distracted, most of them focused on her other visitor.

  Although he remained silent, every slight move and sigh he made seemed heavy with portent. She expected him, at any moment, to leap up from that chair and storm out. Sherry would rib her about Wainwright and his flowers, no doubt.

  Their unfinished debate hung in the air like the augury of a thunderstorm. At last, to her relief, Mr. Wainwright stood abruptly and took his leave.

  When she prepared to walk with him into the hall, he snapped, “I’ll see myself out.”

  Perhaps it was just as well. Perhaps they’d both said quite enough.

  She heard the front door close so firmly it even shook the little silhouettes above the fireplace.

  “What on earth was he here for?” Sherry asked at once. “He looked as if he’d sat on a hatpin.”