Midnight Quill Trio

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

It was raining steadily in the morning. Edward ate breakfast alone in the gloomy breakfast parlor. Afterwards, he wandered the ground floor. Creed Hall was echoingly empty, as if it had been abandoned. The only footsteps were his own. Strickland’s study was cold and dark, as were the drawing room and library. Small fires lay unlit in the grates.

Edward frowned as he looked around. The curtains were faded, the carpet threadbare, the chairs in need of reupholstering. Surely this shabbiness was more than a dislike of spending money? Was Arthur Strickland under the hatches?

He rang the bell to have the fire and candles lit in the library, and stood at the window looking out over the sodden landscape while these tasks were done. Then he fished Chérie’s confession from his pocket and sat beside the fire. The pages were stiff and wrinkled and the writing less legible than it had been yesterday, as if the ink had faded as the paper dried.

He studied the handwriting. Was Chérie a woman—or a man pretending to be a woman? To his eyes, the handwriting was quite ordinary, neither overly bold and masculine, nor delicate and feminine. It lent no clue as to Chérie’s gender.

Edward turned his attention to the content. The confession was six pages long, of which he could read only two: the first page and the third. He tried to peel the other pages apart and stopped when the paper tore.

So, he had two pages. Better than nothing.

He read the paragraphs carefully. The content was titillating, yet not crude, a romanticized description of a w***e being bedded by a gallant.

Edward frowned down at the wrinkled pages. So . . . what did that tell him? That Chérie was a romantic? Which meant that she was most likely a woman?

Or not?

He read the pages again, and wished he had a copy of Fanny Hill to compare them to. Wasn’t there a scene like this, where Fanny and one of her beaus sported in the water?

Edward glanced up at the library shelves and the sparse rows of leather-bound volumes. He didn’t bother getting up to examine them. Of all the houses in England, Creed Hall was most definitely one in which he’d not find a copy of Cleland’s infamous erotic novel.

He read the water scene again. The writing was rather good. Chérie—whoever he or she was—wasn’t as given to hyperbole and euphemism as Cleland had been.

We sported in the water for some time, until Lord S.’s passion was manifestly aroused again. He pulled me close and devoted himself to a detailed examination of my naked charms. The pale roundness of my breasts, dewed with drops of water, in particular captured his interest, so much so that he felt himself compelled to sip from my skin, all the while uttering low murmurs of delight.

An image flowered in Edward’s mind: sunlight sparkling on water, the soft weight of a woman’s breasts cupped in his hands. He imagined bending his head and licking drops of water from warm, silken skin . . .

Astonishingly, he felt a stir of arousal.

Edward blinked, and lowered the page and considered the sensation for a moment. Yes, definitely arousal.

For the past few months he’d thought Waterloo had castrated him—not physically, perhaps, but with as much finality as if a cuirassier’s sword had made that fatal cut.

Now he wasn’t so certain.

All the things he’d not allowed himself to think of flooded his mind. He could take a lover. More than that, he could take a wife. He could sire children, have a family.

Emotion surged painfully in his chest. His eyes stung, as if tears gathered there.

Edward blinked fiercely and cleared his throat. He forced his attention back to the confession.

Lord S.’s kisses grew more heated and his hands roamed greedily over my nakedness, until finally he could rein in his passion no more. He took me in the stream, as if he were Poseidon and I one of his nymphs. And the heat of our combined passion and the coolness of the water combined so delightfully that I was almost dizzy from the pleasure of it.

“Mr. Kane?”

Edward’s attention snapped to the doorway. Miss Chapple stood there, the crown of her head nearly brushing the lintel.

His arousal fled. Edward hastily folded the confession and stuffed it into his pocket. “Uh . . . Miss Chapple.” He stood and bowed. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she said, advancing into the room. Her smile was cheerful. “Terrible weather, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Edward said. Chérie’s confession felt as if it was burning a hole in his pocket. “Terrible. I, uh . . . had hoped to find a novel to read.”

Her face screwed up in a brief grimace. “My uncle disapproves of novels. He won’t allow them at Creed Hall.”

“Shakespeare?” Edward asked, hopefully.

Miss Chapple shook her head. “Not even Shakespeare. There are, however, a number of religious works.” Her voice was demure, but dimples showed in her cheeks. “I can recommend Sherlock’s sermons.”

“Cruel, Miss Chapple.”

She smiled.

Edward’s attention fixed on her mouth. It was surprisingly lush. He found himself wondering what she’d look like, disporting naked in a stream.

His mind fastened on this thought, and for a moment he actually saw it: a rippling stream with Miss Chapple standing naked in it, her smooth, pale skin glowing in the sunlight. It wouldn’t be like Poseidon consorting with a nymph—as Chérie had described—but rather, Poseidon consorting with Venus, a tall and voluptuous goddess, with lush breasts and ripely curved hips.

His mouth went dry. The breath choked in his throat. Edward began to cough.

“Are you all right, Mr. Kane?”

“Yes,” he said, once he’d got his breath back. “Something in my throat.”

“Shall I ring for some tea?”

“Uh, yes.”

They sat. Edward cast desperately about for a topic of conversation. He glanced around at the half-empty bookshelves, the faded curtains, the fraying carpet.

“The new curate will be dining with us this evening,” Miss Chapple said, smoothing the ugly gray wool of her gown over her lap. “Mr. Humphries.”

“Oh?” said Edward. And then, cautiously, “Will there still be a sermon afterwards?”

“Yes,” Miss Chapple said. “And after that you shall have the pleasure of listening to the curate discuss it. His opinions are always . . . extensive.”

“It sounds delightful,” Edward said dryly.

Miss Chapple grinned.

Edward’s attention fastened on her mouth again. His throat tightened and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. Fortunately, the butler arrived with the tea tray.

Miss Chapple poured. “Shortbread?”

“Please.”

The shortbread was pale and crumbly and, when he bit into it, very dry. Crumbs caught in his throat. Edward laid the rest of the shortbread aside and swallowed a hasty mouthful of tea.

“I apologize for the shortbread,” Miss Chapple said. He noticed that she hadn’t taken a piece. “My uncle dislikes extravagance in the kitchen, so Cook cuts down on the butter, but the shortbread always suffers.”

“No need to apologize, Miss Chapple.” Edward brushed crumbs from his knee. “I hadn’t realized your uncle’s circumstances were so straitened.” Too late he realized how rude the comment was. “I beg your pardon, Miss Chapple. What I meant to say was, uh . . .” What?

Miss Chapple seemed unoffended by his blunder. “My uncle’s circumstances aren’t straitened, Mr. Kane,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact. “He merely likes economy. He prefers not to waste money on unnecessary luxuries.”

Unnecessary luxuries? Such as sufficient butter in one’s shortbread? The word to describe Arthur Strickland wasn’t economical; it was miserly.

Edward opened his mouth to make that comment aloud, and then closed it. “Hmm,” he said. He crossed his legs the other way. The faint crackle of paper in his pocket reminded him of the confession—and his promise to Sir Arthur.

Edward glanced at the water streaming down the windowpanes. He didn’t relish the thought of riding into Soddy Morton in this weather. He sipped his tea—and froze, the cup held to his lips.

Hadn’t the curate been one of the people on the list? A possible Chérie?

“What did you say the curate’s name is?”

“Mr. Humphries.”

Edward felt a twinge of excitement. Mr. Humphries was on the list. He glanced at the rain-blurred window again. Despite the foul weather, he might be able to cross someone off his list. “Will he come in this weather?”

“With any luck it will have cleared by evening,” Miss Chapple said. “But even if it hasn’t, I expect he’ll come. It’s become his custom to dine with us on Fridays.”

“The curate likes a free meal?”

“The curate likes Mrs. Dunn. He’s courting her.”

Edward blinked, and registered her tone. “You, er . . . disapprove?”

“Mr. Humphries is . . .” Miss Chapple hesitated. “I shall let you form your own opinion, Mr. Kane.”

He lifted his eyebrows, amused by her careful neutrality. “I look forward to it.”

Her lush mouth quirked, as if she suppressed a smile—and abruptly, Edward was reminded of the scene he’d just read in Chérie’s confession.

He dragged his gaze from her, cleared his throat, and took a large swallow of tea. It wasn’t that he was attracted to Miss Chapple; it was that—finally—after months of believing himself impotent, his body was returning to life. He could be sitting in the presence of any woman right now, and wonder what she’d taste like if he kissed her.

“How long has Mr. Humphries resided in Soddy Morton?” he asked.

“Two months. He has the curate’s position my uncle hoped to gift to Toby.” Miss Chapple put aside her teacup. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Kane, I have a letter to write.”

Edward set down his own cup. He stood and bowed. As Miss Chapple disappeared through the doorway, he found himself wondering what her hair would be like if it was released from that tight knot at the back of her head. Sleek and straight, or curly?

Edward abruptly halted that train of thought.

His gaze turned to the window and the rain outside. He would ride into Soddy Morton this morning. The sooner he found Chérie, the sooner he could return to London—and find a nice, plump, clean w***e, and prove to himself that he was as virile as he’d been before Waterloo.

Mattie spent some time rubbing the stub of a wax candle over brown paper, in the hope of rendering the paper more weatherproof. She wrapped Chérie’s Memoir in the paper, tied it tightly with string, and sealed the knots with wax. When she tried to write the address, the ink slid off the waxed paper.

“Damnation,” she muttered under her breath, and unwrapped the parcel, turned the paper over, and started again. This time she wrote the address before she applied the wax.

The package wrapped and sealed again, she prepared another sheet of paper, writing the address of her friend Anne Brocklesby before waxing it. She wrapped it around the parcel and tied it with string. After a moment’s hesitation, she sealed those knots with wax, too. There. With luck the manuscript would reach its final destination unscathed.

Mattie looked out the window. She wanted to deliver the precious parcel to the postmaster herself, but rain still streamed down outside. She imagined her drenched gown, the heavy weight of wet wool, the smell, and pulled a face. No, she’d let Durce, the footman, with his oilskins and knee-high boots, carry the parcel into Soddy Morton.

Gathering the manuscript in her arms, Mattie went downstairs. Hope and anxiety twisted in her belly.

The fire was dead in the library and the candles had been snuffed. Mr. Kane was gone. Mattie rang the bell and waited, shivering slightly, in the dark, drafty room. After a minute she heard familiar footsteps, slow and measured. She bent her head and quickly kissed the parcel. “God speed,” she whispered.

“You rang, miss?”

Mattie turned and smiled at the butler. “Yes.” She held out the package. “Can you please see that this gets to Soddy Morton today? I’d like it to catch tomorrow’s Mail.”

Her uncle, had he seen the parcel, would have commented on its size and weight and how much it would cost Anne to retrieve from the post office. Griggs merely said, “Very good, miss,” and took it.

Mattie listened to the sound of his footsteps fade from hearing. Her future—her freedom from Creed Hall—lay within that waxed-paper package. “God speed,” she whispered again.

She had a gown to finish sewing, gray worsted, to the same pattern as every other gown she possessed—loose-fitting and fastened down the side, so that she needed no maid to help her dress—but Mattie was too restless to sit still. She peeked into her aunt’s parlor, on the chance of finding Cecy unoccupied, but her friend was reading aloud to Lady Marchbank.

Mattie backed away on tiptoe.

She changed her shoes for half boots, grabbed a shawl, went downstairs, and let herself out through the side door. Rain pelted down. Mattie drew the shawl over her head and dashed across to the stables.

There were stalls for dozens of horses, but fewer than a handful were occupied. Horses, in her uncle’s opinion, were an unnecessary extravagance. The big gray Mr. Kane had hired was gone.

Mattie spent a few minutes rubbing the noses of the four horses that pulled Creed Hall’s carriage to church every Sunday, made the acquaintance of the matched bays that had drawn Mr. Kane’s curricle, and then climbed the ladder up to the loft. “Puss puss puss,” she whispered, blinking in the half-dark.

She heard tiny rustlings—and then the squeak of kittens.

Mattie climbed the last few rungs and crawled on hands and knees into the hay. More peepings came, and a low meow from the mother. “I have a sausage,” she said, reaching into her pocket. “See, Mama Cat? I saved it from breakfast.”

The cat mewed again. The hay rustled more loudly, and then a warm, furry body rubbed against her.

“Hello, sweetheart.” Mattie stroked the cat, then broke the sausage into pieces and laid it on the hay.

The mother cat ate hungrily, wolfing down the sausage, while the three kittens clambered over Mattie’s skirts. Their furry little black-and-gray-striped bodies were almost invisible in the gloom.

Mattie lifted one kitten in her hand. She held it, soft and purring, against her cheek. “I shall take you with me, all of you, when I leave. I promise. No one will ever drown you.”

The sound of booted feet echoed in the stables. The mother cat looked up from grooming herself, but the kittens paid no attention. Mattie crawled to the edge of the loft and peered down. An elderly man with a crooked back and bowlegged stride walked down the aisle below, broom in hand.

“Hello, Hoby,” she called down.

He leaned the broom against the side of a stall and tugged his forelock. “Afternoon, miss. How’s the kittens?”

“Very well,” Mattie said. “How’s your wife?”

“Oh, aye.” Hoby put his gnarled hands on his hips. “She’s right tetchy at the moment.”

Mattie bit her lip to hide a smile. Mrs. Hoby was always tetchy. Prettiest lass in the village, she’d heard Hoby say on more than one occasion. And with a tongue like a razor’s edge. Lor’, she were a catch all right. “What is it this time?”

“Hens,” Hoby said darkly.

Water ran in rivulets from the brim of Edward’s hat and streamed off the shoulder capes of his coat. He dismounted in the yard and led Trojan into the stables, whistling under his breath. He’d managed to cross one person off the list of possible Chéries: the baker’s wife. And he’d eaten two extremely tasty meat pies, followed by an even tastier apple turnover. And he had two thick slices of gingerbread wrapped in a clean handkerchief in his breast pocket, where the rain couldn’t reach.

The groom, Hoby, was talking to someone in the hayloft.

Edward stopped whistling. He glanced up at the loft and saw the pale blur of a face.

Hoby hastened towards him. He had a rocking gait, like a sailor. “Sir?”

Edward’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light. He blinked and squinted up at the loft. The pale blur resolved itself into a face he recognized.

“Miss Chapple?”

“Kittens,” Hoby said cryptically, taking Trojan’s reins.

“Kittens?”

He saw Miss Chapple’s lips move, but the clatter of Trojan’s hooves on the flagstones drowned out her words. “I beg your pardon?”

“Three kittens,” she said, more loudly.

“Oh,” Edward said. Water dripped steadily from his coat. He wanted to take off his wet clothes, sit in front of a warm fire, and eat his gingerbread. But something about Miss Chapple’s face, peering down at him from the gloomy loft, caught his interest. “May I see them?”

He saw her shrug. “If you wish.”

Edward took off his greatcoat, shook the water from it, and hung it from an empty harness hook. He removed his hat and stripped off his wet gloves, and hung them up, too. Then he climbed the ladder to the loft.

Hay rustled as Miss Chapple moved back. He heard faint peeping sounds.

Edward halted with his head and shoulders above the edge of the loft and peered around. What am I doing here? I don’t even like cats. It was a fire and gingerbread he wanted, not a bunch of scrawny kittens in a dark, dusty loft. “How old are they?”

“Six weeks,” Miss Chapple said. She held out one hand to him. Cupped in her palm was a kitten.

Edward clambered the rest of the way up the ladder and crawled onto the hay. “Six weeks? It’s very small.”

“Take it.”

“Uh . . .” Edward hesitated and then obeyed. The kitten wasn’t scrawny; it had a plump, round belly.

Tentatively, he stroked the little creature. Its fur was soft and warm. After a moment, a faint vibration rumbled against his palm. “It’s purring,” he said, astonished.

“It likes you.”

Thoughts of a fire retreated. Edward settled down on the hay beside Miss Chapple, careful not to disturb the kitten. He discovered that the more he stroked it, the louder it purred. It was an oddly pleasant sensation—the warm, soft fur, the rumbling vibration, the tiny creature’s trust that he wasn’t going to harm it.

Above them, rain pattered on the slate roof. It was dark and shadowy and cozy up here, with the sound of the rain overhead and the rustling of the hay and the dry, dusty smell of late summer. He glanced at Miss Chapple. She lay on her stomach, playing with one of the kittens, a dimple on her cheek and a smile on her mouth.

He wondered if Chérie had written about a tumble in the hay. If she hadn’t, it was an omission. There was something about a hayloft that made a man amorous.

Control yourself, Kane.

But his imagination took flight, telling him that Miss Chapple’s mouth was made for kissing, that her breasts would be ripe in his hands, that her wide hips would cradle him while he made love to her.

Heat flushed his body. He felt a surge of arousal, stronger than it had been that morning in the library.

Edward looked abruptly away from Miss Chapple. He cleared his throat and forced his attention back to the kitten he was stroking. It began to chew on his thumb. The creature’s teeth were astonishingly sharp, like little needles. “Ouch!”

Miss Chapple laughed.

Edward released the kitten. It scampered off to ambush one of its siblings.

He shifted his weight, leaning back on one elbow, aware of the gingerbread in his pocket. He no longer wanted to eat it by himself. “I purchased some slices of gingerbread, Miss Chapple, while I was in Soddy Morton. Would you like one?”

Her eyebrows rose. “From Oddfellow’s?”

He nodded.

“Yes, please! Oddfellow makes the best gingerbread!”

Edward laughed—and discovered that she wasn’t exaggerating. The thick slices were delicious—moist, sticky, rich, sweet, spicy—and quite possibly the best he’d ever tasted. Oddfellow, the baker, hadn’t scrimped on butter or treacle or anything else.

They ate the slices sitting cross-legged in the hay, while the mother cat washed her kittens with ruthless thoroughness. Below them, in the stable, came the sound of a broom sweeping. Miss Chapple gave a sigh of contentment when the last crumb was gone. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had some of Oddfellow’s gingerbread. It’s every bit as delicious as I remembered.”

“I’m surprised you don’t buy some every day,” Edward said, resolving to do just that while he was at Creed Hall.

“I have no money,” Miss Chapple said simply.

“But surely your uncle gives you pin money?” Edward said, and then kicked himself mentally; it wasn’t his place to ask such personal questions.

She shook her head. “Uncle Arthur provides for all my needs. Pin money is . . . unnecessary.”

“Ah.”

“Whenever Toby visited, he’d buy me gingerbread from Oddfellow’s,” Miss Chapple said, hugging her knees. “Once, I persuaded Uncle Arthur to let me send Toby some for his birthday. He was in Spain. He said that by the time it reached him, it had grown a handsome colony of mold!”

Edward grunted.

The sound of sweeping below stopped. “Miss Chapple?”

Miss Chapple crawled to the edge of the loft. “Yes, Hoby?”

“I’ll be leaving shortly.”

Miss Chapple glanced at Edward. “I think that’s a hint,” she whispered, amusement in her voice. “I think he thinks you might compromise me.”

He wouldn’t—but that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about it.

The scene unfurled in his mind: peeling off her clothes, exposing her breasts . . .

Edward clenched his jaw and shoved the image from his mind.

Miss Chapple’s smile faded. “Don’t be offended, Mr. Kane.”

“I’m not,” Edward said hastily. He tried to smile, to joke: “Of course he’s worried; I look like a savage.”

“Nonsense!”

Edward raised his hand to his left ear. Her eyes followed the movement. He knew what she saw: the stumps of his fingers, the ragged remains of his ear.

“You look like a soldier, not a savage.”

Edward lowered his hand. He shrugged and changed the subject. “If Hoby is leaving, so should we.”

Miss Chapple nodded, but she made no move to climb down the ladder. Her frown became slightly anxious. “Please, Mr. Kane . . . don’t tell my uncle about the kittens. He has a profound dislike of cats! He’d drown them if he knew they were here.”

“I won’t tell him,” Edward said. “I give you my word of honor.”

Miss Chapple’s expression relaxed. “Thank you.” She stroked the kittens one last time, rubbed her knuckles over the mother cat’s head, and then scrambled down the ladder.

Edward followed.

Miss Chapple briskly brushed hay from her gown.

“Mr. Kane,” Hoby said, dipping his head. His manner was courteous, but also faintly aggressive.

Edward met the man’s gaze, amused. So Hoby thought him a threat to Miss Chapple’s virtue, did he?

Two days ago, the groom would have been wrong; he’d been no threat to any woman’s virtue. But today, Hoby was right. Today his body was telling him that he was ready for s*x again, that he wanted it.

“Afternoon, Miss Chapple.” Edward dipped his head in farewell. He gathered his hat, gloves, and coat, and strode out into the rain-soaked stableyard, whistling a jaunty tune under his breath.

The sooner he got back to London, the better.