Midnight Quill Trio

Chapter 7-2

Cecy sighed. Her gaze fell to the embroidery, but she didn’t ply the needle. “He doesn’t compare well to other men, does he?”

“Mr. Humphries?” Mattie shook her head. “Mr. Kane is a thousand times more attractive, for all he is so scarred!”

“And Sir Gareth Locke.”

“Sir Gareth?”

Color crept across Cecy’s cheeks.

Mattie stared at her friend. “You like Sir Gareth?”

Cecy picked up her needle again. “I don’t know him well enough to make that judgment.”

“But . . . ?” Mattie prompted.

Cecy’s blush deepened. “He has a nice face.”

Mattie considered this for a moment, and then nodded. Gareth Locke did have a pleasant face—marked with pain, but attractive nonetheless.

But his friend, Edward Kane, was far more attractive, despite the red scars that slashed across his cheeks and brow. She liked the square solidity of his jaw, the humor in his eyes.

What would it be like to be married to Edward Kane?

Mattie pushed the thought away. She cleared her throat. “Did you get the impression that Sir Gareth is looking for a wife?”

Cecy refused to meet her eyes. “Perhaps,” she said, and then she bent all her attention to her embroidery.

Back in her bedchamber, Mattie sat down at her writing desk. On it were fresh sheets of paper, a newly trimmed quill, and an inkwell. She stared at the paper, turning over in her head what she would write. No streams of blood, she decided firmly. And no fainting.

She picked up the quill and dipped it in ink. Dear reader, I begin my memoir with that momentous event in a woman’s life: the plucking of her virgin flower. This occurred on my wedding night, when I was a shy and blushing maiden, not yet eighteen years of age. The mixture of anticipation and apprehension within my bosom you can well imagine, for I was quite innocent and had no idea what to expect.

Mattie rubbed her brow. Now what?

Pain and awkwardness, according to Cecy.

She glanced out the window. Edward Kane was riding across the fields to Soddy Morton.

In the act of intercourse, how much of a woman’s pleasure depended upon the man she lay with? Mattie tapped the quill against her chin, pondering this question, while her eyes followed Mr. Kane.

According to Cecy, intercourse was an uncomfortable and messy experience; according to the countess, it could be wondrously pleasurable. And yet both had loved the men they’d lain with.

Mattie frowned. What could she conclude from that?

That the groom knew what he was doing, and Cecy’s husband didn’t.

Mattie followed Mr. Kane’s progress across the fields. He was a giant of a man, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, battered and scarred, but something about him—the gentleness with which he’d handled the kittens, the laughter in his eyes—made her fancy that he’d be like the countess’s groom. A good lover.

Mattie tore her eyes from Mr. Kane’s distant figure and turned her attention firmly back to Chérie’s wedding night.

Edward found Gareth in the private parlor of Soddy Morton’s inn, midway through a late and leisurely breakfast. He looked at the food spread out on the table, at the tankard of ale by his friend’s elbow, and experienced a moment of pure envy.

Gareth grinned. “Sit,” he said around a mouthful of sirloin. “Eat.”

Edward needed no second urging. He pulled up a chair.

“So what’s this about Chérie?” Gareth asked, as the servant went off to procure a second tankard of ale.

“I promised Strickland I’d look for her.”

“Why?”

Edward grimaced. “So he can run her out of the village.” He reached for a plate and began to pile food on it.

The servant returned with the tankard of ale. Edward took a deep swallow. Bliss. He began to attack his food. Between bites of sirloin he told Gareth how he’d come to offer his aid to Strickland.

Gareth shook his head. “You’re far too soft-hearted.” He pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair. “Toby would’ve been the first to toast Chérie.”

“I know, damn it.”

“Then why on earth are you—”

“Because I gave my word of honor!”

Gareth shook his head, grinning. “You’re a fool, Ned.”

Edward didn’t disagree.

He spent several frustrating hours in Soddy Morton, running to ground the last four letter writers on his list. First was Farmer Plinhoe, a stolid, worthy man who was—in Edward’s opinion—no more capable of writing Chérie’s confessions than he was of dancing on the moon. Next, he crossed the apothecary’s wife off the list, a hubble-bubble female with more hair than wit, followed half an hour later by Miss Spencer, the butcher’s daughter, who was eight years old. Which left one name on his list: Mrs. Thomas.

Mrs. Thomas’s cottage wasn’t a particularly attractive specimen. Nor was Mrs. Thomas. She was a slatternly woman, running to fat, with a heavy, jowled face. It wouldn’t have surprised Edward if she had once been a w***e, but Chérie she most definitely was not. Mrs. Thomas was vulgar and not particularly intelligent, and Chérie—whatever else she was—was neither of those things.

Scowling, Edward rode back to Soddy Morton. “Who the blazes is Chérie?” he demanded of Gareth, striding into the private parlor at the inn and casting his hat upon the table.

Gareth glanced up from the newspaper he was reading. He shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t particularly care, either.”

Edward grunted. He stripped off his gloves and threw them down alongside his hat. He settled himself in an armchair beside the blazing fire. Unlike the chairs at Creed Hall, the armchair was sturdy. It didn’t groan beneath his weight. “I’m going to die in Soddy Morton,” he said glumly.

Gareth laughed.

“If you were staying at the Hall, you wouldn’t laugh.” Edward slumped deeper in the armchair. “God-awful food. Freezing rooms.”

“Don’t forget the sermons.”

Edward closed his eyes and basked in the warmth of the fire. “Don’t get me started on the sermons.” Although Miss Chapple’s voice was very pleasant to listen to.

“No wonder Toby hardly ever went home.”

Edward grunted—and thought about Chérie. Where had he gone wrong? He’d been so certain Chérie was one of the people on the list . . . and yet she wasn’t. I made a mistake somewhere. But where?

He opened his eyes and pushed to his feet. The letter had been found in Soddy Morton; therefore, Chérie lived here. He would find her. Somehow.

“Where are you going?”

“Creed Hall.” Where the fires were too small and the food as bad as any he’d ever eaten on campaign. “But I’ll come down here and dine with you tonight.”

“I’ll be up at the Hall.”

“What?”

Gareth shrugged. “Strickland invited me to dine at Creed Hall for as long as I’m in Soddy Morton.”

“And you accepted? Are you insane?”

“Apparently.”

Edward observed his friend for a moment, then turned away. “Pretty little thing, Mrs. Dunn,” he said casually while he pulled on his gloves.

“Is she?” Gareth said, returning to his newspaper. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Looks a lot like Miss Swinthorp, I thought.”

Gareth lowered the newspaper. “She’s nothing like Miss Swinthorp!”

“Pretty. Blonde. Petite.”

“Anyone would look petite alongside Miss Chapple. She’s a colossus.”

Edward bridled. “She’s not a colossus. She’s statuesque!”

Gareth’s eyebrows rose. “Touchy.”

Edward felt himself flush. He crammed his hat on his head and strode to the door.

“That wasn’t a slur, by the way. On your Miss Chapple.”

“She’s not my Miss Chapple,” Edward said. And he shut the door behind him with rather too much force.

Back at Creed Hall, in the gloom and the chill of the entrance hall, Arthur Strickland waylaid him. “Have you found anything yet?” the old man asked.

“Not yet, sir,” Edward said. “But I will soon.” Because I’m damned if I’m going to stay in this wretched place for much longer.

He looked in the library. Miss Chapple wasn’t there. Nor was she in the drawing room or the parlor.

He climbed the stairs, and met her on the first landing. She wore stout half boots, a bonnet, and a thick cloak.

“Going for a walk?”

She nodded.

“May I accompany you?”

Miss Chapple led him on a different route this time, looping around the gray lake from the south. They fell into an easy way of conversing, as if they’d known one another for years. Her frank, open manner, her laugh, her sense of humor, reminded him of Toby. She was an unusual woman, quite unlike the simpering females one met in London’s ballrooms.

But then, simpering wouldn’t sit well on a female who was six feet tall.

“How are you progressing with Pride and Prejudice?” Miss Chapple asked.

“Slowly,” Edward replied. “I’ve been reading something else. Er . . . business matters.”

“Oh?” Her nose wrinkled. “How dull for you.”

He had an abrupt recollection of the confessions he’d last read: the bashful young gentleman, the brawny sailor. No. Not dull.

Edward cleared his throat. Memory of the confessions made him uncomfortably aware of Miss Chapple’s physical charms. They were quite abundant: the deep bosom, the ripe hips. She had a robust, voluptuous figure. “I shall read a few chapters of Pride and Prejudice tonight,” he promised.

They maintained a brisk pace, covering the two miles to the lake in half an hour. “How’s your leg?” Miss Chapple asked, when they halted at the lakeshore.

“Fine, thank you.” The pewter-colored water rippled sluggishly before a raw breeze. How the devil was he to find Chérie? The answer came as he gazed across the dismal lake. He turned to her. “How well do you know the villagers, Miss Chapple?”

“Oh, I know everyone! Why?”

Against this bleak backdrop, her cheeks flushed with exertion and her gray eyes sparkling, Miss Chapple was almost beautiful. The straight nose, the high brow, the lush mouth . . . Edward shifted his weight. “As you know, I’m attending to a piece of business for your uncle. Looking for someone.”

The smile faded from Miss Chapple’s face.

“I was wondering . . . is there anyone you can think of in the village who has come into money recently?”

Miss Chapple blinked. “Money?”

“Yes,” Edward said, feeling foolish. “Someone who has money that can’t reasonably be accounted for.”

Her eyes were fixed on his face.

“The person I’m looking for is engaged in an activity that . . . that would earn them money.”

“What kind of activity, Mr. Kane?”

“I’d rather not say.”

Her gaze dropped. “Forgive me, Mr. Kane. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, no,” Edward said hastily. “There’s nothing to forgive. It’s merely that . . .” Merely what? Damn it, why had he promised Strickland he’d find Chérie? He sighed. “I should never have agreed to do this for your uncle. Call me a fool, Miss Chapple. Gareth does!”

She glanced up at him. A smile glimmered in her eyes. “I would never be so rude.”

They resumed strolling along the muddy path. Edward looked sideways at her, seeing nut-brown hair half-hidden beneath an ugly bonnet, and smooth, creamy skin, and cheeks flushed pink in the chill air.

“You should wear red. Once you’re out of mourning.” And then he bit his tongue. Where had those words come from?

Miss Chapple glanced down at her gown. “Gray is a practical color. It wears well.”

“You mean . . . ?”

“I mean that I always wear gray, Mr. Kane. Whether I’m in mourning or not.”

“All the time?” Edward said in disbelief.

She nodded, and then laughed at his expression. “I’ve shocked you!”

“But . . . a red scarf,” he said. “Red gloves! Red ribbons on your bonnet.”

“And how, pray, would I buy such things?”

He recalled her words from yesterday: I have no money. “I shall buy some red ribbons when I’m next in the village.”

The amusement vanished from Miss Chapple’s face. “Oh, please don’t!”

Edward frowned. “Why not?”

“Because my uncle particularly dislikes baubles and ribbons and such. He thinks they’re a sign of vanity.”

“Vanity?”

She nodded. “So, please, Mr. Kane, don’t buy ribbons for me!”

But cherry-red ribbons would look good on her. Either trimming that plain bonnet, or even better, wound through her hair. The color would enhance the rosy flush of her cheeks and the rich brown of her hair.

Your uncle is a miserable clutch-fist. But Edward didn’t say the words aloud. Instead, he said: “Very well. No ribbons.”

Miss Chapple smiled her relief. “Thank you.”

Edward didn’t reply. He frowned across the lake. The steeply pitched rooftop of Creed Hall was visible through the trees. Someone needs to rescue her.