Once Upon a Kiss (Book Club Belles Society)

by Jayne Fresina

  The next afternoon, her mother caught her leaving the house and wanted to know where she was off to.

  “I am on a mission of discovery,” she replied proudly. “I may be gone some time.”

  While she might have expected her mama to insist upon knowing her destination, or at least to ensure she was back for dinner, the only reply was a swift, “Well, for goodness’ sake, use the boot-scraper before you come back in.”

  The ordinariness of her life was, at times, quite mortifying.

  Ten minutes later, when Mrs. Dockley opened her door and found Justina standing there in the rain, she looked extremely cautious. Perhaps she wondered what new atrocity had now been committed against her property.

  Justina quickly put the old dear at ease and explained it was purely a social visit. Even as she said it, she felt sorry that she had paid so few of those in the past to Mrs. Dockley. But at least she had brought treacle tarts, filched from the pantry while Clara was busy with her corns. Few things could ensure a better welcome in anybody’s house or a warmer forgiveness for past sins.

  She sat with the old lady for a while, enquiring into her health and the status of several relatives. Finally she angled the conversation around to Phineas Hawke and asked if he had ever courted anyone in the village.

  “You have lived here longer than anyone, Mrs. Dockley. Surely you must remember.”

  At first the lady could not recall anything on the matter. It must have been many years since anyone showed an interest in old Hawke or gave thought to how he once was, so Justina supposed memories had become buried. But after another cup of tea and a treacle tart, glimmers of light began to break through the darkness and confusion.

  “I believe there was an aristocratic young lady once. Very haughty, very superior. She came to Midwitch a few times and there were rumors of an engagement, but nothing ever came of it. I was a little girl then, no more than eleven or twelve, but I remember she had some lovely gowns and jewelry. We only saw her from a distance, of course, and when her carriage raced by it spattered us all with mud. Goodness, the dirt I used to get on my petticoats, Miss Jussy! Much like you do now.”

  Justina did not want to lose the purpose of their conversation, so she merely smiled and said, “I wonder why Mr. Hawke did not marry her, then.”

  After another bite of tart the old lady dug out more memory. “If I am not mistaken, the engagement fell through when the fancy miss discovered that Phineas was in love with a farmer’s daughter from Hawcombe Mallow. His betrothed left in a huff and the village was all abuzz with it for days.” She gazed into the distance. “Yes, he was supposed to marry that fine, very noble lady, but he was quite in love with the dear, sweet little thing who hadn’t a penny to her name. But shining copper hair she had. Long waves of it. I remember that.” She looked at the crumbs on her plate. “Of course, Phineas was a kinder, gentler young man in those days.”

  “Really?” It was hard to imagine, but she did have those oddly touching poems to consider.

  “The young Phineas was quite different to how he became later after the hunting accident. In youth he was reserved. Even shy, some would call it, and not at all the dashing, rakish sort. I do not think he had much self-confidence. His elder sister was the one who made all the noise and ruled the roost.”

  “His sister?” Justina inched forward in her chair. “That would be Mr. Wainwright’s grandmama.”

  “Yes, and as I remember it, she put an end to his romance with the girl from Hawcombe Mallow. She did not approve, thought a farmer’s daughter too lowly. And Phineas, I suppose, did not think enough of himself to stand up for what he wanted. Until it was too late. By the time he sought to get his love back again, she’d gone off and married another. A soldier from the camp nearby, I believe. They moved many miles away. I doubt he ever saw her again.” Mrs. Dockley sipped her tea. “Very sad really, when one considers how everything changed after that.”

  “Then his sister moved away too and married.”

  The old lady nodded slowly. “Phineas had quarreled with her bitterly, blamed her for the loss of his sweetheart. The siblings were estranged for the remainder of their lives. Then Phineas had the accident…well, it ended his life in many ways. Perhaps things would have been different had he been brave enough to defy his sister and marry where he wanted.”

  Justina agreed that it was very unfortunate and deeply sad. The story changed much about the way she thought of Phineas.

  The front door bell interrupted her musings and the old lady flew into quite a tizzy.

  “Well, goodness, two visitors today! I am lucky.”

  A few moments later Darius Wainwright appeared with a basket of apples and pears. He paled when he saw Justina sitting there and she was no less startled, but Mrs. Dockley expressed more delight.

  “My dear Mr. Wainwright, how good of you to visit me again. As you see, I have a young friend with me today, Miss Justina Penny. Ah, but I believe you know each other, do you not? I saw you dancing at the harvest festival.”

  The gentleman recovered with a bow for both ladies and then explained that he had brought Mrs. Dockley the last of the fruit from his orchard. “I doubt there will be any more this year, and I thought you would make better use of it.”

  “Mr. Wainwright, that is too kind of you.”

  Justina realized she’d been staring and quickly looked down at her knees and then the fireplace.

  “Do sit, sir,” the old lady urged. “Coincidentally, Miss Penny and I were talking of your great-uncle Phineas Hawke.”

  “Oh?”

  Justina raised her eyes sheepishly to his.

  “Miss Penny wanted to know whether he ever had a sweetheart. She has been testing my memory.”

  “Ah.” He hovered uncertainly and then backed toward the door. “Unfortunately I cannot stay. I merely wanted to bring you the fruit, madam. I have some other matters to attend. Please, excuse me.” He bowed again, uttered a hasty “Good afternoon,” and went out.

  Justina’s pulse would not settle. She glanced at the basket of fruit. “How very generous of Mr. Wainwright,” she muttered.

  “He is indeed. The young man often visits me, you know, and brings a basket for me.” She hitched forward in her chair and winked. “I rather think he just likes an excuse to come here and talk. We have some lovely chats.”

  Justina almost burst out laughing. “Chats? I did not think Mr. Wainwright was very loquacious.”

  “I daresay he is not so shy with an old lady like me. And I rather like his quiet company. He lets me do most of the talking. As indeed you have done today too, my dear.” Her squinting gaze drifted toward the door. “I wonder why he did not stay this afternoon. What a pity.”

  That Wainwright should take time out of his day to bring Mrs. Dockley fruit was very strange. That he should have called upon her regularly was extraordinary. How could she not have known this?

  Even in the rain he had gone there. It was galling for Justina to discover she did not know everything that happened in Hawcombe Prior. Right under her nose.

  Twenty-seven

  When she returned home, Justina stood in the hall and looked at the console table where his hat and gloves remained. No one dared touch them, it seemed. Her gaze wandered upward to the mirror above and she saw Cathy coming out of the parlor behind her.

  “Mr. Forester called, Jussy, and you missed him.”

  “Well, he did not come to see me, did he?” Still slightly distracted by her thoughts, Justina looked at her sister, who was much improved after her cold. “I expect he came only to see the bloom back in your cheeks.” She paused. “If Mr. Forester was here, why did he not take his friend’s hat?”

  “Oh. I forgot it was here.” Cathy appeared similarly distracted, until her eyes sharpened in their reflection above the console table. “Jussy, you are soaked! Look at you! Did you fall in the pond?”

/>   Standing beside her sister never did her many favors, but in her current state, there was no hope. Usually it didn’t matter, for Justina was perfectly happy to remain in the background. Today it spurred her into action.

  She went directly upstairs and came down a few moments later, carrying an old, burgundy velvet gown that her aunt had given her last year. The material was slightly worn in places, but she’d heard that the pile of velvet could be raised again with the application of a warm iron and a wet cloth on the underside. As the most mature style of gown she possessed, it was seldom worn. She’d always felt it was wasted on her. It had been made for her aunt, a lady of elegance and fashion who never made a spectacle of herself. Justina always joked that the gown must have felt as if it were being punished when it was put into her custody. For a year it had lain in a drawer, which was the safest place for it. Now it was brought out into daylight again.

  She set to work on it at once in the kitchen, and her mother, finding her there shortly after, wanted to know what on earth she was up to.

  “Really, Mama, can a young lady not desire to be well-dressed when she goes out?”

  Her mother looked askance.

  “I have been waiting for a chance to wear this lovely gown, and I shall be warm in it tonight at the Sherringhams’ card party.”

  Mrs. Penny shook her head. “I hope this is not all for that wretched captain.”

  “No, Mama. Of course not.” As she reached for the handle of the iron to lift it from the range, her mother stopped her.

  “Gracious, child! You’ll burn your hand. Here…wrap this cloth around it. And be careful!”

  Justina’s mind had been too busy to think of it, but her mother acted quickly, muttering breathlessly about how she was surprised her youngest daughter hadn’t maimed herself by now with the heedless way she carried on. She wound the cloth around the iron handle and stood by watching as Justina proceeded to work gently on the velvet.

  “You know, my girl, that Captain Sherringham would do you no good at all. You and he are too much alike and there would never be a moment’s content between you.” For once her mother spoke with a gentler tone. “I know he’s not all bad, and oh yes, I can see the charm in a red coat. I was betaken by a few of those fancies in my day too, before I met your father. But Captain Sherringham is not the right fellow for you, Justina. I don’t want you thinking you’ll be alone when your sister marries. No need to do anything desperate. Not yet, in any case. You’ve got some qualities a decent young man would appreciate.”

  “I know, Mama,” she said, surprised.

  “All is not lost. Yet. You’ve got quite a bloom about you these days.”

  “Thank you, Mama.”

  Her mother reached up and patted her cheek. “You have a natural, country prettiness that does not require gilding, that’s for sure. You could give the Miss Augusta Milfords of this world—and their fancy viscountess companions—a run for their money, make no mistake! We’ll get you a husband, Justina, my dear, by hook or by crook.”

  She was genuinely moved by her mother’s attempt to lift her spirits and that determination to see her taken care of; however, little joy could be anticipated in the possible methods to which she might one day resort.

  It was a rare moment of civil tranquility between the two women and it lasted until Clara came in and had to be chided for picking her nose.

  ***

  Darius would usually anticipate a party, such as the one planned at the Sherringhams’ house, with nothing but dread. However, since it meant seeing Justina again he actually faced the event with some eagerness as the hour drew near. It would be a chance to try again, set his frown aside, and show his true self without hiding behind the arrogance to which he’d always clung. Unfortunately, his stepsister and her companion had decided they were bored enough to join the party. Captain Sherringham had met the ladies in the village and extended the invitation to include them.

  Of course he did, thought Darius grimly. The more women the better for a man like that. Exactly like Lucius.

  Major Sherringham’s house was one of the larger cottages in the village, well furnished and brightly lit in the evenings, which suggested he—unlike most of the residents—had no need to budget candles. The major was a jolly fellow with the look of a plum pudding due to his rounded shape, and a rough, mottled skin colored by long service abroad. His wife had apparently died many years ago, according to Miles, who had a knack for finding these things out. The major lacked both skill and inclination to care for his children in a traditional fatherly fashion, although he took them traveling with him whenever possible, rather like old luggage to be dragged and crashed along the cobbles after him. As a result, Nathaniel and Rebecca had been raised by a procession of nannies, tutors, and governesses. And each other. They were attractive, vivacious, somewhat noisy, and clearly had never known much discipline. It seemed as if their father left his commanding manner behind in the barracks and on the battlefield. He had, so Miles said, retired to Hawcombe Prior several years ago out of fondness for his wife’s memory, as it was where they first met.

  “See?” Miles had laughed. “There is something romantic about this place.”

  At which Darius had rolled his eyes.

  On the evening of the party, the major must have enjoyed several glasses of port before they arrived. He greeted Darius and Miles with a great, booming laugh, then made a genial fuss of the ladies, making certain they sat close enough to the fire to keep warm, offering them wine and sweetmeats, asking them how they liked Midwitch Manor, firing questions and bursts of laughter around the room. For the first quarter hour he was the cheerful, generous host. Then he fell asleep in a chair by the hearth and remained thus, snoring heartily, for the rest of the evening.

  Despite the warmth of the room, there was a chill between the ladies. His stepsister’s most annoying qualities were on display as she made no attempt to hide her disdain for her surroundings or her company. It was evident she had gone there that evening only out of curiosity and to keep watch over him. Somehow—and he was sure Miles had a hand in this—she had begun to suspect Justina Penny of being more to him than a mere acquaintance.

  Earlier that evening she had snapped at Darius as they waited for Miss Milford to join them in the hall of his house. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Unlike some women, I do understand that men must have their mistresses, but they are usually presentable, sophisticated, and cultured women. It is also far better if they are safely married in case anything…inconvenient might occur.”

  To which he’d replied, “Thank you for the advice, Mary. I will certainly keep it in mind.” No explanation or clarification, he felt, was necessary, since his intimate affairs were none of her business.

  He was even more reticent to set his stepsister straight when she added, “I shall say only this—while I believe a mistress is healthy exercise for a man, useful to keep him in docile spirits and out of his wife’s bed as much as necessary, a deeply pious woman like Augusta would never allow it. I’ve told her she’s a fool to expect or want fidelity in her husband. Once the act of procreation has achieved its purpose, there is no cause to want one’s husband in one’s bed. Yet Augusta insists on a faithful spouse. So it is as well for you to get all that business out of your blood now, if you must. Then you can dispose of the girl, when you have satisfied your prurient lusts, and settle down to marry a suitable woman—one who will not embarrass the family and who will take you despite your many foibles. I promise you, Darius, a fine, steady woman such as Augusta would never accept a husband who insisted on keeping his mistress even after the marriage.”

  “Your promise is duly noted,” he replied.

  “Good. Here she comes, so we will speak no more about it for now.”

  His stepsister’s lack of moral standards had always been clear to Darius. Her side of the family would do anything for money except work and would tu
rn a blind eye to any debauchery if it kept them in the manner to which they were accustomed. For all her self-important haughtiness she was, underneath that carefully polished and decorated veneer, a woman of fewer scruples than a grave robber.

  Her “friends” were always carefully selected, first and foremost, for their sycophantic talents, then for looks and social connections. Intelligence was far down on her list of measures, if it figured at all. Augusta Milford appeared to fit perfectly with Mary’s requirements, but Darius had a feeling Miss Milford was more wily than she first seemed; she was certainly not a spineless dullard. He had watched her only the night before take the precise number of potatoes at dinner, as dictated by Mary’s own portion, but then slyly shovel several more onto her plate while his stepsister was distracted.

  That evening as they entered the Sherringham drawing room, Miss Milford perched like a colorful parrot upon his stepsister’s shoulder, nodding along with everything she said and interjecting a word or two when a glance from Mary permitted it. Darius sensed at once the tension between the ladies of the Book Society and the female guests from Midwitch. There was a very definite divide and conversation was subdued at first, leaving the captain and Miles Forester to do most of the talking.

  “The Priory Players are planning to put on a play, Lady Waltham,” the captain exclaimed. “I hope you will remain in Hawcombe Prior long enough to grace the audience with your presence.”

  “A play?” Mary’s nostrils flared and finally there was a spark of genuine interest.

  “It is only an amateur production and all in good fun. I daresay, your ladyship, we might even have a part for you.”

  Darius sighed quietly and turned his gaze to his knees. There was nothing that would humiliate him more than to see his stepsister flounce about on a stage, but he had a feeling she would enjoy the attention.

  “There are only a few parts for ladies,” Justina muttered. “Even Rebecca has to play a man.”

  The captain shrugged. “Surely you can write in a few more female roles.”