Midnight Quill Trio

Chapter 7-1

Chapter Seven

Sunday was notable for two reasons. Firstly, it rained all day, a cold, driving rain that was almost sleet. Secondly, the members of the household attended three Bible readings in the small, dark chapel attached to Creed Hall. Edward went to the first one and listened to Arthur Strickland read from the Corinthians for an hour in a thin, dry voice and then lead the household in prayers.

“Usually we attend services in the village,” Miss Chapple told him afterwards. “But the weather, the broken bridge . . .” She shivered and pulled her shawl more tightly about her.

Edward didn’t attend the next two Bible readings. He agreed with Tigh. “I ain’t a godless man,” the bâtman said. “But thrice? Nobody needs that much preachin’.”

Edward stayed in his room, dragging the armchair as close to the fire as he could, and read Pride and Prejudice. He was aware of Chérie’s confessions lying hidden beneath his mattress. Resolutely, he ignored the temptation to read them instead, bending his concentration to Elizabeth Bennett and her family. It was Sunday, and Chérie’s confessions could remain where they were for the day.

The footman, Durce, collected the mail each morning from Soddy Morton and placed it on the refectory table in the entrance hall. On Monday morning, one of the letters was addressed to Mattie. The handwriting was familiar: her friend Anne Brocklesby in London.

Mattie’s pulse quickened. At the top the postmaster had scrawled 1/4, postage eight pennies dearer than usual, which meant there were two sheets of paper inside. Anne’s letter—and one from her publisher?

“Matilda!”

Mattie’s heart lurched in her chest. She turned swiftly, clutching the letter.

Her uncle stood in the doorway of his study, leaning on his cane. “A word with you, please, Matilda.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

Mattie followed him into his study. The letter seemed to burn in her hand.

“Sit, sit!” her uncle said testily, waving at a chair.

Mattie did, laying the letter on her lap as if it was nothing important. She endured her uncle’s frowning stare, trying not to shift nervously. Was guilt stamped on her face? Please, don’t ever let him find out. She owed Uncle Arthur for the gown she was wearing, for the shoes on her feet, for the breakfast she’d eaten—and not just for today but for every day during the past ten years. Repaying him by causing him distress would be unforgivable.

“I have been giving serious thought to your future,” her uncle said. “With Tobias dead . . .” He cleared his throat and continued. “As you know, I’ve decided to gift my entire estate to the Missionary Society. Creed Hall is to become a school.”

“Yes, Uncle.” Uncle Arthur had announced his intention shortly after news of Toby’s death had reached them. The Tobias Strickland School for Missionaries’ Children—a memorial to his son.

“You may, of course, assist at the school in some capacity—but when we spoke about this, I had the impression that the prospect didn’t appeal to you.” His thin lips pursed in disapproval and—which was worse—disappointment.

Mattie flushed and lowered her eyes. It wasn’t the thought of teaching she disliked; it was the thought of spending the rest of her life at Creed Hall.

“If you have no wish to assist with the school, then the only other solution I see for your future is marriage.”

Mattie’s head jerked up. For a moment she stared at him, speechless, then she found her voice: “I’m to have a Season, Uncle?”

Her uncle frowned. “At your age? Of course not!”

Mattie bit her lip and looked down at the letter on her lap.

“I have been in correspondence with an acquaintance of mine. A most worthy gentleman. He is seeking a wife. I have suggested to him that you might be suitable. Fortunately, he is prepared to overlook your age and lack of fortune and appearance on account of . . . er.”

Mattie looked up. “On account of what, Uncle?”

Uncle Arthur cleared his throat. “Mr. Quartley has lost two wives in childbirth. He has only daughters. He wants an heir.”

Mattie blinked. “And he thinks I can provide him with one?”

Her uncle’s pallid cheeks colored faintly. His gaze slid away from hers. “You have childbearing hips,” he muttered.

Mattie opened her mouth, and then closed it again. Childbearing hips. Uncle Arthur had written to Mr. Quartley about her hips.

Uncle Arthur continued briskly: “I have just received a letter from Mr. Quartley.” He tapped a piece of paper lying on his desk. “He is arriving tomorrow and will stay for several days.”

“Tomorrow?” Mattie said, startled.

“I expect you to do everything in your power to make him look favorably upon you.” Her uncle’s expression was stern.

“How . . . how old is Mr. Quartley?”

“That is irrelevant,” her uncle said, shuffling paper on his desk.

Not to me. “How old is he, Uncle?”

“He is sixty.”

Sixty! Mattie tried not to let her uncle see how appalled she was. “Um . . . how old are his daughters?”

“I believe that the youngest are still in the nursery,” her uncle said evasively.

“And the eldest?”

“His eldest daughter was born the same year as Tobias.”

Her mouth opened in a gasp. Mr. Quartley has daughters who are older than me?

Her uncle’s eyebrows drew sharply together. “Must I remind you again, Matilda, that you are in no position to be particular?”

“No, Uncle,” Mattie said hurriedly, standing. “I know.” She tried to smile. “Thank you. I am most grateful.” It was a lie; it wasn’t gratitude she felt, but horror. Sixty! More than twice my age!

Uncle Arthur looked at the unopened letter in her hands. “And please ask your friend to confine her letters to one page in the future. One shilling and fourpence that cost me!”

Mattie bowed her head. “Yes, Uncle. I apologize.”

Her uncle sniffed. “You may go now.”

Mattie hurried upstairs. In the privacy of her bedchamber, she tore open Anne’s letter. Just as she’d thought, a letter from her publisher was tucked inside. Mattie closed her eyes for a moment, holding the letter to her breast—Please let him want the memoir!—and then she broke the seal with trembling fingers.

She read swiftly, and with growing hope. Mr. Brunton liked Chérie’s Memoir. He wished to publish it. He named a sum that made the breath catch in her throat. Two hundred pounds! It was a fortune. Enough to buy a small boarding house.

Mattie closed her eyes, feeling light-headed. No more charity. She could be independent.

She opened her eyes and reread that marvelous sentence: Two hundred pounds.

Of course, two hundred pounds wouldn’t last forever. If she wished to keep food on her plate, she’d need to pen more confessions. But the boarding house would be hers.

Mattie blew out a breath. She resumed reading. My partner and I are of the opinion, however, that the memoir requires an additional chapter before it can be published. At present, it traces Chérie’s journey from young widow to courtesan to wife. One important milestone is lacking. The most important milestone, perhaps! We strongly feel that your loyal readers would wish to experience the very beginning of Chérie’s journey, namely the surrender of her virgin flower to her ill-fated husband.

Upon receipt of this chapter, p*****t will be deposited in your name and the memoir will be most expeditiously published.

I remain, yours, etc.,

Samuel Brunton, Esq.

Mattie stared at the letter. One more chapter. “I can do that,” she said.

Casting the letter aside, she scrambled off the bed and crossed to the hidden cupboard.

The countess’s diary began several months after her wedding night. Her growing intimacy with the groom was described in its pages, from their first kiss to when they had run away together. Mattie turned to the entry detailing their first s****l encounter. She read, frowning. The countess dwelt mainly on the gentleness and tenderness of the groom, and her astonishment at the physical sensations she experienced. Nothing could have been more different from that dreadful night when my husband wrested my virginity from me! I had not dreamed that such wondrous pleasure was possible.

Mattie sighed. There was nothing helpful in those passages.

“The surrender of her virgin flower,” she muttered as she thumbed through the copy of Fanny Hill.

She found the passage detailing Fanny’s loss of virginity and skimmed it quickly. Extreme pain . . . reek of virgin blood. Mattie pulled a face. How true to life was that?

She flicked ahead further, to where the young whores swapped accounts of the loss of their maidenheads. I lay utterly passive, the first one said, till the piercing pain rous’d and made me cry out. But the pleasure rising as the pain subsided, I was soon reconciled to fresh trials, and before morning, nothing on earth could be dearer to me than this rifler of my virgin deserts.

Mattie snorted. She turned ahead to the next description and read quickly. A sense of pain that pierced me to my vitals . . . streams of blood.

“Streams of blood!” she said aloud. “Streams!”

Mattie closed the book with a snap and resisted the urge to throw it at the wall. “Claptrap!” How could anyone believe such nonsense?

It had been written by a man, she reminded herself. For men. Which would account for its absurdity.

Well, she wouldn’t write something so patently ridiculous! Chérie’s virginity scene would be tender, titillating, and realistic.

The only problem was, she didn’t know what realistic was. Exactly how much blood and pain did the loss of one’s virginity entail?

Frowning, Mattie replaced the diary and two volumes of Fanny Hill in their hiding place. How could she find out?

She closed the secret cupboard and went in search of Cecy.

Cecy wasn’t in Lady Marchbank’s parlor, or the downstairs parlor, or the library—but in the doorway of the latter room Mattie met Edward Kane.

“Miss Chapple,” he said cheerfully, bending his head slightly to avoid touching the lintel. “Good morning.”

Absurdly, her pulse fluttered at the sight of him. It was his height and his solidness, the smile in his eyes.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said.

Mattie blinked. “For me?” Sudden fear struck her, tightening her throat. He knows!

Mr. Kane nodded. “I’m riding into Soddy Morton to attend to . . . uh, that business of your uncle’s. I wondered if there were any commissions I might perform for you while I’m there?”

Mattie found herself able to breathe again. “Thank you,” she said. “But there’s nothing I require.”

“Nothing from the baker’s?” Mr. Kane asked, his tone faintly teasing.

He loomed in the doorway, huge, scarred, draped in shadows. He should have been frightening; instead, he was dangerously attractive. That smile hovering on his mouth, that silent laughter in his eyes . . .

Mattie felt herself blush. She felt flustered, as if she were seventeen, not twenty-seven. “No, thank you,” she said hurriedly.

“As you wish,” Mr. Kane said. He dipped his head to her and turned away. She heard his footsteps echo in the corridor.

Foolish girl! Mattie scolded herself. To be overset by a smile! Mr. Kane’s kindness towards her didn’t mean anything. Unlike Mr. Quartley, he wasn’t looking for a wife.

She found Cecy in the morning room, which should have been flooded with sunlight but was shrouded in gloom on this gray, wintry day. “My aunt is napping?”

“Yes.” Cecy glanced up from her embroidery. “Have you been out walking? I couldn’t find you.”

“No, I was in my uncle’s study.” Mattie sat alongside her friend. “Cecy . . .” How to broach the subject of losing one’s virginity? Not for the first time she wished she could tell Cecy the truth. Not yet, she told herself. Not until I have the money. “My uncle is encouraging me to marry.”

“Marry!” Interest lit Cecy’s face. “Who?”

“An acquaintance of his.”

“Oh? That’s good.”

Mattie grimaced.

Cecy’s eyebrows rose. “It’s not good?”

“He’s sixty.”

“Oh.”

“I was wondering . . .” Mattie cleared her throat. “The first time one performs one’s marital duty . . . how painful is it?”

Cecy’s mouth opened and then closed. After a moment she said, “It is rather painful.”

“Did you faint?”

Cecy blinked. “Faint? Of course not!” She laid down her embroidery. “It’s not that painful. It’s like . . . like stubbing one’s toe.”

“Oh,” Mattie said, thinking of Fanny Hill’s fainting heroines. “Um . . . is there any blood?”

Cecy’s brow creased. “I don’t remember. A little bit, perhaps.”

“Not streams of blood?”

Cecy laughed. “No! Of course not! Whoever told you that?”

“I . . . um, can’t recall.”

Cecy leaned forward. “Don’t worry about it,” she said earnestly. “The first time is painful and . . . and awkward and a shock in its newness, but after that . . .” She shrugged. “It’s uncomfortable and messy, but one gets used to it. It never takes very long. A few minutes at most.”

“Oh.”

Cecy picked up her embroidery again. She set a stitch. “If this man should offer for you,” she said diffidently. “Will you marry him?”

“I haven’t even met him!”

“Yes, but . . .” Cecy looked up. “A husband, Mattie. Children. It’s what every woman wants.”

Mattie looked down at her lap. She smoothed the gray fabric of her gown over her knees. Then I must be an unnatural woman. “All I want is a home of my own. Which I hope to have shortly.” She looked up. “And I hope you will join me. Just think, Cecy! In Scarborough or Brighton you would meet many eligible bachelors. You wouldn’t have to settle for Mr. Humphries.”