“Preferably.”
Laughing, Luke exclaimed, “I’ll try my best.”
Darius began straightening an already tidy pile of books. “What have you been doing to occupy yourself all these years?”
“This and that.”
His brother’s countenance remained grave. “The last message we had from the army was that you were injured and honorably discharged. For six months, we expected you home, but then we received a parcel containing your boots and a medal instead, with a note that you were believed dead.”
“Yes, that was a slight…mishap.”
“So since then you’ve gambled and drunk your way around the world, while it didn’t occur to you that some folk might have liked to know where you were and that you still breathed? But perhaps that would have been asking too much of your free spirit.” His tone was achingly polite but venturing closer now to the jabs he clearly wanted to use but had forbidden himself. Darius didn’t like to lose his temper. He kept to a strict schedule, which any outburst or argument would interrupt and delay. He was the most frustrating, bottled-up, self-tormented boy Luke had ever known.
Leaning forward, Luke reminded his brother, “Did you not just say we should leave the past where it is—or was—and look to the future? In that case, you should not be so keen to suspect me of the worst, Handles.”
Darius winced. “Quite.”
“Now that I’m back, I could sell some property—this place, for instance—and put a bit of coin back in my pockets. I am rather light at the moment.”
Darius reached across the desk and snatched the paperweight from his hand, placing it carefully back atop a neat pile of documents. “You must do what you think best, Lucius. As you say, it is all legally yours now.” He paused. “As long as you can fulfill the requirements of our father’s will.”
“The part about settling down with a bride? Yes, I’ve been informed of the terms.” He nonchalantly swung his cane up and aimed it like a cue at the small silhouette of their father above the mantel. “The shrewd old man pockets his last ball from the grave.”
“You are willing to comply?”
“Need the money, don’t I?”
His brother’s irritable glance once again grazed the front of Luke’s grimy and ragged attire. “So I see.”
“Now you’re wishing I was still dead, eh?”
Darius had no answer for that, but his face kept getting grayer.
“Don’t fret, old chap.” Luke relented with a chuckle. He shook his head, too weary to continue the pretense. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about the money. I haven’t come back for any of that. You can have it all. You and that pretty young wife of yours.”
Darius stared. “But I can’t—”
“What would I want with it?”
“Of course you must take your inheritance now you’re returned,” Darius insisted firmly. “It is your right, Lucius.”
“But I told you, I haven’t got long left.”
Darius tightened his skeptical lips.
“And can you honestly see me as lord of the manor, Handles?”
“The responsibility might do you some good. What about Sarah? You have her future to think of now.”
“I do, don’t I?” What the devil was he going to do about that? A daughter. Of all things to find washed up on his island’s shore. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d taken a stray under his coat, he mused, glancing at Ness who was sprawled by the hearth, already making himself at home. “Worry not, Brother. You know me. I’ll work out the—”
“—details later,” his brother interrupted with a smirk. “Yes, I remember your modus operandi.”
“My what?”
“Your methods. Leap first, blindly into chaos, and put together your reasons and excuses after the fact. As long as you get away with it, all’s well in your world.”
“Pah.” Luke sniffed. “Never did trust a man who speaks Greek.”
“Latin.”
“Splendid! You can write something for my headstone. The only words I remember aren’t fit for ladies’ eyes.”
“Then I would think they were perfect for your epitaph.”
Luke laughed at that, and after a moment, Darius smiled too.
“I daresay it’s the part about finding a bride that scares you off,” said Darius suddenly, fingers tapping on his leather desktop as he scrutinized his brother’s face. “You’d give up your rightful inheritance rather than comply with Father’s terms. You’ve always been deathly afraid of giving your heart to one woman and settling down.”
“’Tis not fear. ’Tis good sense. For their sake as well as mine.”
“Yes, I used to think I’d rather be alone too. But life’s successes, I’ve found, are so much more fulfilling when you have someone to share them with.”
Luke gave a sudden, loud, very wide yawn. “If you don’t mind, Handles, you can save the preaching for tomorrow. I’ll go to my bed now. It’s been a long journey.”
Darius’s eyes narrowed further and his lips twisted in the faint hint of a smirk, but he merely nodded. “Of course. I’ll show you up to a room.”
The old Luke would have teased him further, kept up the pretense of being back for his inheritance, but if he was going to make up for past mistakes, he’d have to curb that instinct for mischief. Especially mischief at his brother’s expense.
As he undressed for bed later, Luke found, tucked down inside his greatcoat pocket, a large slice of pork pie wrapped in a handkerchief. As he opened the surprise package to share with Ness, he paused. There, in one corner of the linen, was an embroidered letter R.
Smiling, he ran his thumb over the silky shape of her initial. Of course, she had no idea that he was still in the village. Expecting never to see him again, she was probably preparing him as one of her amusing anecdotes—like the hat-stealing orangutan and the many-fingered, monocled passenger of a mail coach. He could imagine her chattering to the next poor fool who leant her an ear.
Once I met a man with a limp and an odd sense of humor, who groped me in my own kitchen, made me a chicken stew, and kissed me in a very peculiar place…
Groaning, he lay back on the bed, his arms cradling his head.
Odd that he hadn’t seen her in his dreams. The Sherringham woman clearly had some sort of dangerous hold upon him. She was the one thing he should have avoided, but he’d followed her home like a lost pup and then let her talk him into kissing her.
She was in for a shock when she found out who he was, but he hadn’t lied. Just left out a few facts. He was a rogue and a scoundrel. About that much he’d tried to warn her.
Nine
The Book Club Belles met the next morning in Diana’s front parlor. This location was chosen for their meetings primarily because it had a convenient window that overlooked not only part of “the Bolt”—the lane running along the front of this row of cottages—but also a good portion of the High Street, since the Makepieces’ gate was situated directly at the point where both thoroughfares joined. Almost everyone in the village was sure to pass that window at least twice a day, and an eager observer could keep track of all business to-ing and fro-ing. As, indeed, Mrs. Makepiece usually did.
Anyone using the Bolt also had to pass that window, but a lot of folk who took the shortcut did so not just to save themselves steps and time, but rather to linger at the tail end of the path where trees had grown to arch overhead and where no one could see what they did. The Bolt was a popular walkway for lovers and those who were, in Mrs. Makepiece’s words, “up to no good deed.” It had been named for its narrowing shape, but since many who used it did so to dash away and hide from others in the High Street, it was a fitting title in many ways.
Today Becky stood at that parlor window and drearily counted the layers of gray that made up her view. So far there had been no sign of Mrs. Kenton. She must h
ave taken her donated parcels to Manderson early that day and perhaps she was not yet back. Once she was, undoubtedly she would spread the tale of whatever she saw last night through the Sherringhams’ kitchen window. Until then, Becky’s chance to explain herself was delayed, her nerves in a state of agonizing suspension.
Meanwhile, behind her in the room, Diana poured tea for herself and Lucy Bridges, the tavern-keeper’s daughter.
“I do wish we had something stronger,” Becky exclaimed with a disheartened sigh, still watching through the window. “Does your mother not have a bottle of sherry somewhere?”
“Really, Rebecca,” Diana scolded her. Yes, she was always Rebecca within the walls of that house, for Mrs. Makepiece did not approve of shortening names. She might not be present in the room, but her rules lingered, along with the cloying sweetness of dried rose petals from an overabundance of potpourri. “Sherry at half past ten in the morning? With breakfast?”
“Why not? I don’t see what difference the hour makes.” After all, last night she’d kissed a strange man in her kitchen, fully aware of the impropriety. Who knew what she might do next? First lacy chemises and now this.
“I wish you would stop pacing before that window, Rebecca. I’m sure you’re wearing a hole in the carpet and Mama has just turned it to hide the faded part.”
Becky stopped and folded her arms, but only a moment later she resumed her restless motion.
When she looked at those fragile china teacups on the tray, she wanted to pick one up and throw it at the wall, just to see what the reaction would be. To discover whether Diana Makepiece was capable of expressing any unladylike emotion. She and Justina had often speculated on what it would take for Diana to lose her temper.
“I wonder why Justina is late today,” Lucy Bridges exclaimed. “I hope she is not ill. Or Sarah has not caught a chill after the play last night.”
“That barn is drafty,” Diana agreed. “Next year we really ought to move the play to Midwitch Manor as Mr. Wainwright suggested.”
Next year, thought Becky sullenly, you won’t even be here because you’ll be married to that wretchedly uninspiring William Shaw. But she stayed silent, reminding herself that Shaw was the best choice for Diana, the most practical choice, even if he was a dreadful “jaw-me-dead,” as Justina called him.
“Sarah Wainwright is a bony little thing,” pronounced Lucy. “She eats like a sparrow and claims only a meager appetite.” Having no such problem herself, Lucy was already tucking into a toasted, buttered crumpet. “I have made it my mission to see her fill out her clothes by the spring. She has some very lovely frocks, if somewhat plain, but they are utterly spoiled by the lack of a good bosom.”
Diana replied primly, “Some ladies have a naturally elegant, balanced figure, and Sarah Wainwright is perfectly proportioned. One hardly notices…that…which is just as it should be.”
“I don’t think a man would agree with you, Diana.” Lucy giggled. “Ask your fiancé.”
Becky’s gaze suddenly focused on the guilty face reflected back at her in the window and she realized her own bosom was not behaving in its usual calm manner. Lucy’s breathy giggles had reminded her of Lucky Luke’s fingers exploring. Her breath misted up the window so much that she had to rub it clean again with her sleeve.
Behind her, Diana’s voice became another degree sharper. “Lucy, you have spent far too much time around the militia. I certainly would not discuss such a subject with Mr. Shaw.” She lowered her voice. “And kindly do not speak of it in this parlor. A lady does not speak of…bosoms…while sipping from the best china.”
Becky watched desperately for Justina—the only one to whom she could confide her story of Lucky Luke. She couldn’t bear Diana’s disapproval today, and Lucy couldn’t keep a secret even if she was warned that the telling of it would cause every bouncing ringlet to fall from her head. If Justina didn’t come soon, Becky feared she might burst her seams and splatter all over Mrs. Makepiece’s spotless panes.
The scene through the parlor window was grim. Last night’s fragile, fairy-tale snow was now an unprepossessing slurry, mixed with thick brown clots because Mr. Gates had driven his herd along the Bolt not half an hour ago. The romantic scene of the snowy lane from last night was gone—like Lucky Luke, nothing but a memory.
She felt a little like Sleeping Beauty, awoken by a single kiss. But without the beauty part. Or the handsome prince. Or the happily ever after.
At last, she spied a figure hurrying toward them down the High Street in a hooded cloak.
“Here comes Jussy,” she cried. “Alone, however. No Sarah.”
“Aha!” Lucy speared another crumpet on the toasting fork. “I knew Sarah should not have been out last night in the snow. She is a mere wisp without a bit of good fat on her bones, poor thing! She is probably deathly ill.”
A few moments later, Justina burst open the door and dashed into the parlor. Her face flushed, her eyes bright, she exclaimed dramatically, “He is back from the dead!”
The three young women stared at her.
“My husband’s elder brother, Colonel Wainwright, is alive and has come home,” she added, rushing to the fire to warm her hands. “Oh, blast! I had meant to make you all guess. But I couldn’t keep it in.”
At once, she was bombarded with questions from all but Becky, who had too much else on her mind and could not care a fig about old Colonel Wainwright’s return.
“What is the colonel like?”
“Is he handsome?”
“Is he well-mannered and amiable?”
“Does he mean to stay long in the village?”
Justina handled all the questions with one answer. “You may see for yourselves tonight, for we are having a party to welcome the colonel. Just a small gathering. You are all invited.”
As Justina took her teacup to the sofa, Lucy excitedly and loudly contemplated the possibilities of a new bachelor in the village, while Diana gently urged her to show a little more restraint and less desperation.
“It might not matter to you, Diana,” Lucy was saying. “You’re engaged. But for the rest of us who remain unattached, it is very good news. Is it not, Rebecca? So few new men ever come here. I sometimes think we might as well live on the moon.”
“I’m sure I don’t care,” Becky snapped. “I wish I did live on the moon. At least I could do what I wanted there and the likes of Mrs. Kenton wouldn’t be present to spy and lecture me.”
In the silence that followed this loud exclamation, she finally looked up from her feet to find them all staring at her.
“What?” she cried. “Why are you all looking at me that way? What have I done? What has that gossiping woman told you?”
Justina frowned slightly and then reminded her, “It’s your turn to read.”
She’d almost forgotten about Sense and Sensibility altogether. Packing her frustrated mood away as best she could, Becky dropped to the sofa with a heavy groan and opened the book to the beginning of a new page, wherein the fictional sisters, Marianne and Elinor Dashwood, had just settled into their new home and met the friend of their neighbors—a gentleman who had been teased regarding his supposed fancy for the younger sister.
In an effort to forget her own troubles, Becky read with spirit.
“…Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be my father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long outlived every sensation of that kind. It is too ridiculous! When is a man to be safe from such wit if age and infirmity will not protect him?”
“Infirmity!” said Elinor. “Do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my mother, but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of his limbs!”
“Did you not hear him complain of the rheumatism? And is not that the commonest infirmity of declini
ng life?”
“My dearest child,” said her mother, laughing, “at this rate you must be in continual terror of my decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty.”
“Mama, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony.”
* * *
“Would you like to meet Sir Mortimer Grubbins?”
Luke rested both hands on his walking cane, bowed his head, and replied that he would indeed. With his brother watching him so warily, he was on his best behavior, and even the prospect of being introduced to a pig must be met with forbearance.
Sarah smiled pensively—which appeared to be her usual way of smiling—and led him through the orchard, carrying a bucket of scraps from the kitchen.
“Sir Mortimer is a very friendly fellow,” she explained, “and extremely intelligent.”
This young lady, who thought she was his daughter, certainly had a look of Sally Hitchens about her, but her manners were much more refined. Apparently his brother had raised her well, provided her with excellent governesses, and seen to it that she received every proper instruction. Luke had been told that she was quiet and shy but mature for her age—in that respect, she took after Darius, her guardian for almost a dozen years.
It was the young Mrs. Wainwright’s idea that he spend the morning with Sarah, and Luke had agreed, although he didn’t believe it would take the entire morning to get to know her. The girl was not quite sixteen. How much, as he’d said to his brother’s wife, could there be for him to find out? Mrs. Wainwright had smiled broadly, patted his arm, and hurried off, leaving him to it.
“I’m sure Sir Mortimer is very lucky to be looked after this well,” he remarked to Sarah as they neared the large sty beside the orchard. The fence, he noted, needed some fortification. Someone not terribly handy with a hammer had made an effort to bang a few nails into some old door panels, but he could do a better job of it. Behind him, he heard Ness approach with his usual ambling gait, and he looked back to warn the dog. “You be respectful. The pig was here first.”
Sinfully Ever After (Book Club Belles Society) Page 9