Midnight Quill Trio

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Edward changed into dry clothes and gave his wet ones to Tigh. “Sorry about the mud.”

“I seen worse.”

Edward went downstairs again. In the shadowy corridor, the sound of a raised voice echoed. Lady Marchbank.

He trod cautiously towards the library and halted in the doorway.

“—will not have novels in this house!” Lady Marchbank said shrilly.

Miss Chapple and Mrs. Dunn sat side by side on a sofa upholstered in faded brown damask, looking for all the world like a pair of naughty schoolgirls. Lady Marchbank stood over them, shaking a slender volume bound in calfskin. “Whose is it?” she demanded. “Which one of you is reading this nonsense?”

Mrs. Dunn seemed to shrink slightly. She looked up at her employer and opened her mouth.

“It’s mine, Aunt,” Miss Chapple said.

Mrs. Dunn closed her mouth.

“I might have guessed!” Lady Marchbank said, and boxed Miss Chapple’s ears soundly with the book.

Miss Chapple winced. Mrs. Dunn looked as if she wanted to cry.

Lady Marchbank opened the book to its title page. “Sense and Sensibility,” she read aloud, and shut the book again with a snap. “If you had any sense, girl, you wouldn’t read such rubbish. Filling your head with lies and absurdities! No wonder you can’t find a man to marry you!”

Miss Chapple looked down at her hands.

Lady Marchbank turned to the fireplace and cast the book into the grate. Mrs. Dunn’s mouth opened in a gasp of horror. She rose from the sofa.

Miss Chapple caught her gown and pulled her back down.

Lady Marchbank picked up two more calf-bound volumes from the mantelpiece and threw them briskly into the fire. “Let that be a lesson to you,” she told her niece.

“Yes, Aunt,” Miss Chapple said in a colorless voice.

“I’m disappointed in you, Matilda. Extremely disappointed! Your uncle gives you a roof over your head and this is how you repay him!”

Miss Chapple bit her lip. Mrs. Dunn looked even closer to tears.

“Come, Mrs. Dunn.” Lady Marchbank turned away from the sofa. “It’s time I took my cordial.”

Edward backed away from the doorway and down the corridor.

Lady Marchbank swept out of the library and headed for the staircase, as fast as an elderly lady using a walking stick could sweep. A very subdued Mrs. Dunn followed her. Neither lady noticed him standing in the shadowy corridor.

Once they were out of earshot, Edward returned to the doorway. Miss Chapple no longer sat on the sofa; she knelt beside the fire, trying to snatch the burning volumes from the flames.

“Careful!” Edward said. “You’ll burn yourself.”

Miss Chapple glanced at him. “I already have.” She sat back on her heels and sucked a fingertip.

He trod across the threadbare carpet and came to stand beside her. The books were well alight, the pages burning with hungry crackling sounds. “Sense and Sensibility?”

“Yes,” Miss Chapple said, and sighed.

“I thought it quite a sensible novel,” Edward said, watching as one of the covers blackened and curled up at the corners. He held out his hand to her.

“You’ve read it?” Miss Chapple asked, as he helped her to her feet.

Edward nodded. “It wasn’t yours, was it?”

She glanced at him sharply. “How much did you hear?”

“I arrived just before she boxed your ears.”

Miss Chapple grimaced. “Not my finest moment.”

Edward disagreed. What she’d done—taking the blame for her friend—was the mark of a fine character.

Miss Chapple sighed. “Poor Cecy. She saved for months to buy that copy. She hadn’t even read the first chapter.”

Edward felt a flash of anger towards Lady Marchbank. He swallowed it and said mildly: “I thought you said there were no novels in Creed Hall.”

Miss Chapple glanced at him. “None that my aunt and uncle know about.”

Edward raised his eyebrows in silent query.

“We had a number of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels, but the mice ate them all.” She pulled a face expressive of dismay. “But the last time Toby was home he brought me Pride and Prejudice, which is excellent!”

“You still have it?”

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. “If you borrow it, you must promise to be careful. It’s the only novel we have now.”

Edward laid his hand on his heart. “I shall guard it with my life.”

The dimples showed.

He followed Miss Chapple across the library. She stood on tiptoe, pulled out one of the Histories of Herodotus, in its original Greek, and produced from behind it three slender calf-bound volumes, like those now burning in the fireplace. “Well hidden,” Edward said. “I’m astonished Lady Marchbank found Sense and Sensibility.”

“Cecy hid it behind The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, because she’s shorter.” Miss Chapple glanced at the spines and put two of the volumes back. She held the third one out to him. “Have you not read this?”

Edward shook his head.

“It’s quite the most amusing book I’ve ever read. Mr. Humphries is so like Mr. Collins.”

Edward blinked, bemused. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mr. Humphries, our new curate, is like Mr. Collins.” Miss Chapple tapped the cover of the book he held. “In here.”

“He is?”

She nodded solemnly, but mischief sparkled in her eyes. “Cecy and I think so. Mr. Humphries isn’t so precipitate as Mr. Collins, but in every other way—they could be twins!”

That gleam of laughter was contagious. Edward found himself smiling. “I look forward to making both gentlemen’s acquaintance.”

He read a chapter before dinner, in the privacy of his room, but Mr. Collins didn’t make his entrance onto the page. Thus, it was Mr. Humphries, the curate at Soddy Morton, whose acquaintance Edward made first.

Mr. Humphries was a short, stout young man with a round and self-satisfied face. Edward knew within less than a minute of meeting him that the curate couldn’t possibly be Chérie. He also—within that one minute—formed a strong dislike of Mr. Humphries. The man was pompous, not very bright, and basking in an inflated sense of his own worth.

The curate recoiled slightly at his first glimpse of Edward’s face. He blinked several times, an exaggerated opening and closing of his eyes, like a coquette batting her eyelids. “My, my,” he murmured, after Sir Arthur had made the introductions. “My, my. A soldier, one assumes?”

“Yes,” Edward said curtly.

“Not one of our heroes from Waterloo?”

No. Not a hero. “I was at Waterloo,” Edward said, even more curtly. “But I fell early in the piece.”

Someone less self-absorbed than Mr. Humphries would have listened to his tone and turned the subject, but the curate had espied a possibility to expound. He tutted loudly. “Wellington made a dreadful mess of that battle. Really, the man should have been stripped of his command long ago.”

Edward bridled. He opened his mouth, caught Miss Chapple’s anxious gaze, and shut his mouth again. Not worth it, he told himself. Let it go. A man as portentous and self-important as Humphries wouldn’t listen anyway.

And so he gritted his teeth and smiled tightly, while anger built inside him. What did this soft, overweight curate know about Waterloo and the decisions Wellington had been forced to make in the turmoil of battle, and how dare he think he could have done better?

After five endless minutes, dinner was announced. Edward was relieved. His jaw had begun to ache.

Mr. Humphries obtained Mrs. Dunn’s arm with alacrity, so Edward found himself escorting Miss Chapple from the parlor. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, as they exited the room.

“Not at all,” Edward said, though anger still burned in his chest.

Miss Chapple glanced at him, then rose on tiptoe. “He’s a pompous i***t,” she breathed in his ear.

Edward bit back a sudden laugh. His anger vanished. “Yes,” he said. “He is.”

“Thank you for being so forbearing.”

He nodded as they entered the dining room. The smell of last night’s boiled cabbage still lingered in the room.

Dinner was as silent as it had been the previous two nights. The only sounds were the clink of cutlery and the loud chewing of Lady Marchbank. The curate spent much of the meal gazing admiringly at Mrs. Dunn, who ate with her eyes fixed firmly on her plate.

Miss Chapple watched Mr. Humphries watch Mrs. Dunn, a faint frown furrowing her brow. Edward agreed silently with her; the curate was not a good match for Mrs. Dunn. Or any woman—unless she was desperate.

Edward speared some overcooked beans with his fork. Was Mrs. Dunn desperate?

He glanced across the table at her, seeing the shining blonde hair, the porcelain fragility of her features. Mrs. Dunn was an uncommonly attractive young woman. Surely she could do better than an overweight fool of a curate?

But her choices in Soddy Morton are limited, Edward reminded himself while he chewed the beans. They squeaked against his teeth.

Mrs. Dunn was a widow, obviously impoverished or she wouldn’t have taken this position. If she wanted to escape life as a paid companion, she must marry.

Edward glanced from Mr. Humphries to Lady Marchbank and back again. Which was worse?

He grimaced—both options seemed equally bad—and focused his attention on a piece of boiled pork.

The dinner dragged to its conclusion, the ladies withdrew, and Edward braced himself to endure both oversweet port and Mr. Humphries’ further commentary on Wellington’s errors.

He kept Miss Chapple’s words in the forefront of his mind—pompous i***t—and managed not to snarl at the curate when the man picked up his criticism of Wellington where he’d left off.

Arthur Strickland sat at the head of the table, nodding his head. “My son would still be alive if Wellington had known what he was doing,” he said once, when the curate paused to draw breath.

I doubt it, Edward thought. But he saw that Strickland believed it. Humphries believed it, too. “Yes, yes,” the curate said fussily. “Without doubt, my dear sir. Without doubt.”

Edward gritted his teeth. He was still in possession of his temper when Strickland pushed back his chair and announced it was time to go into the drawing room—but only just. As they filed out of the dining room, he realized that he was actually eager for the evening’s sermon to start. I’ve been in this house too long.

His gaze went to Miss Chapple as he entered the drawing room. She was watching him, a slightly anxious expression on her face. Her eyebrows rose in a silent question.

Edward rolled his eyes.

A dimple appeared briefly, and was quickly subdued.

Edward bit back a grin, and immediately felt better. He sat and tried to decide what to count tonight. The, or and? He settled on the.

The reading was from Fordyce’s sermons again. Edward sat back in his chair, listening to Miss Chapple’s warm contralto, sipping his tea, counting the thes.

Ten minutes slid past, and then another ten.

Mrs. Dunn wasn’t counting words this evening; she sat stiffly, her hands clasped in her lap and her gaze fixed on Miss Chapple.

“Nothing can be more certain than that your s*x is, on every account, entitled to the shelter of ours,” Miss Chapple read.

Mr. Humphries nodded as he listened to these words, his eyes on Mrs. Dunn.

“Your softness, weakness, timidity, and tender reliance on man; your helpless condition in yourselves, and his superior strength for labor . . .” Miss Chapple read the words without expression, either in her voice or on her face.

Mr. Humphries nodded sagely, secure in his conviction of his own superiority.

Edward almost snorted. Miss Chapple was easily superior to the curate in character, intellect, and physical strength.

He allowed his gaze to rest on her for a moment. Her hair was tightly pulled back, her gown shapeless, but he no longer thought her as plain as he had that first night. In the last day he’d learned to see past the drab exterior. The dimples were hidden now, as was the smile and the mischief gleaming in the gray eyes, but he knew they were there, and that made her attractive.

Edward blinked. Attractive?

He scanned her, no longer listening to the sermon.

Miss Chapple wasn’t pretty like Mrs. Dunn. Other than her mouth, her features were unexceptional. Her figure, though, was another matter. She was tall, wide-hipped, deep-breasted. Goddess-like in her dimensions. Edward’s thoughts slid sideways. Venus would be just as lushly built . . .

He jerked his thoughts back to the drawing room, to the book of sermons in Miss Chapple’s hands, to Mrs. Dunn sitting stiffly on the sofa while Mr. Humphries observed her from across the room. He straightened in the chair and concentrated on counting the thes again.

Mattie knocked softly on the door to Cecy’s bedchamber. After a moment, she heard a quiet, “Come in.”

Mattie slipped inside. The room was dark. She shielded her candle with one hand and whispered, “Did I wake you?”

Bedclothes rustled as Cecy sat up. “No.”

Mattie tiptoed across the floor and climbed up on the end of the bed. “His attentions were quite marked,” she said, reaching over to place her candle on the bedside table. “He never took his eyes off you.”

Cecy sighed. “I know.”

Mattie hugged her knees. “If he should ask you to marry him . . .”

Cecy didn’t reply for a long moment. She pleated the bed sheet between her fingers, unpleated it, and then pleated it again. At last she looked up and met Mattie’s eyes. “If he asks me . . . I shall accept.”

“Cecy, no! You can’t!”

Cecy looked away. “What else would you have me do?”

“Say no!”

Cecy sighed again. “I’m not likely to get a better offer.”

“But if you marry Mr. Humphries you’ll have to spend the rest of your life with him. And even worse . . .” Mattie lowered her voice into a whisper, “you’ll have to share his bed.”

Cecy swallowed. “I want children,” she said staunchly.

“Yes . . . but with him?”

Cecy looked down at her clenched hands. “I’m penniless, and I’m twenty-five. Where else am I going to find a husband? If I was in London or Bath, or . . . or York, or somewhere larger, it might be different. I might meet a gentleman who didn’t mind my lack of fortune. Who . . . who liked me for who I am. But here?” She shook her head.

Mattie opened her mouth to disagree, and then closed it. Cecy was right.

“The only respectable bachelor in Soddy Morton is Mr. Humphries, and if I don’t have him, there are others who will.”

“He may be respectable . . . but is he someone you can respect?”

She read the answer on Cecy’s face. No.

“This may be my only chance, Mattie. If he offers for me, I’ll have to accept. You must see that!”

Mattie shook her head. “But you don’t even like him.”

“He has a good income.” Cecy flushed faintly. “I know it sounds mercenary, Mattie, but money is important.”

“But—”

“Mr. Humphries will be able to provide for his wife and children. They’ll never want for food or clothes or a roof over their heads.”

Mattie frowned. “Shouldn’t there be more to marriage than that?”

“I married for love,” Cecy said flatly. “And when Frederick died, I couldn’t even afford to bury him decently.” Sudden tears filled her eyes. She blinked them back and said fiercely, “If I marry again, it will be to a man who can afford his own funeral!”

Mattie found herself unable to say anything.

Cecy hunted under her pillow for a handkerchief and blew her nose. “I’m sorry. I know what you must think of me, but Mattie . . . I’m not like you. I don’t have family who’ll take me in. When Frederick died, I was alone, without any money and with no one to turn to. It was terrifying. And I will do anything to not be in that situation again.”

Mattie looked down at the counterpane. She picked at a loose thread.

“If I marry Mr. Humphries, I’ll have a home of my own,” Cecy said. “I’ll never have to worry about my future again. For that, I’d marry him.”

Mattie looked up and met her friend’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, Mattie. I know you’re disappointed in me.”

Mattie shook her head.

Cecy smiled crookedly. “If Mr. Humphries is Mr. Collins, then I’m Charlotte Lucas.”

Mattie stopped picking at the loose thread. “Cecy . . . I wasn’t going to tell you until everything was certain, but . . . I have a plan.”

“What kind of plan?”

“To leave Creed Hall. To buy a boarding house.”

Cecy’s mouth opened in a silent gasp.

“I want you to come with me.”

“But . . . how? A boarding house? You have no money!”

“Not yet. But I hope to within the month. And once I have it, I’m going to leave.” Mattie leaned forward. “Come with me, Cecy! Our own boarding house! We can run it together!”

Cecy blinked. “Where?” Her voice was bemused.

“By the sea,” Mattie said. “Somewhere fairly big. Where people won’t notice us.” And where there’ll be plenty of suitors for you. And maybe even one for a hulking great creature like me. But even if she never found a husband, it wouldn’t matter, because she’d have a home of her own.

Cecy’s brow creased in a frown. “Mattie . . . where are you getting the money from?”

“I can’t tell you. Not yet.”

“But . . .” Cecy bit her lip and then leaned forward. “Oh, please, tell me!”

Mattie shook her head. She looked down and found the thread again and pulled at it. “I’m not precisely lying to my uncle and aunt, but I’m keeping a secret from them. I guess you could say I’m deceiving them.” She glanced up. “It’s not a nice feeling. I don’t want you to be doing it, too.”

Cecy sat back, frowning. “Mattie . . . what you’re doing, it’s not illegal, is it?”

Mattie shook her head. “No, but it’s not entirely respectable. You may not approve.”

Cecy’s brow wrinkled in perplexity. “But what—”

“Please don’t ask me.”

Cecy sighed. “Very well.” She stared at Mattie. The tears were gone from her eyes. In their place was a bright, intent curiosity.

“If my plan works, will you come with me, Cecy? You might meet another man. Someone better than Mr. Humphries.”

For a long moment Cecy sat in the huddle of her bedclothes, staring at Mattie, and then she nodded, a decisive movement. “Yes. I’ll come with you.”

“Promise me you won’t give Mr. Humphries an answer until I hear about the money. Promise!”

“I promise,” Cecy said. “If he asks me, I’ll ask for a little time. But Mattie . . . if your plan falls through, I will have to marry him.”

“It won’t fall through,” Mattie said confidently. And even if it does, I won’t let you marry him. Cecy deserved better than a pompous i***t of a man. She had a sudden thought. “What about Mr. Kane?”

“Mr. Kane?” Cecy blinked. “What about him?”

“He’s a bachelor,” Mattie pointed out. “And he’s a nice man.” She remembered his gentleness with the kittens, surprising in a man so large. He’s even more of a giant than I am. “I like him.”

“Mr. Kane’s not looking for a wife.”

It was Mattie’s turn to blink. “How do you know?”

Cecy shrugged. “He doesn’t look at us that way.”

“What way?”

“Like we’re goods on display in a store.” Cecy yawned, covering her mouth with one hand. “And anyway, if he was looking for a wife, he’d probably prefer you.”

Mattie felt herself flush. “Why?”

“You’re more his size. He must weigh three times what I do. If he rolled over on me, I probably wouldn’t survive.” Cecy patted the mattress, her meaning clear.

Mattie’s cheeks became red-hot. She cleared her throat, scrambled off the bed, and reached for her candle. “Sleep well.”

“Sleep?” Cecy said. “After you’ve dangled your plan in front of my nose and not told me the details? I’ll be awake all night!”

Mattie let herself out of the bedchamber. She trod quietly back down the dark corridor, thinking of Mr. Kane. His appearance was intimidating—his hulking build, the brutal scars—but despite his size, she knew he’d be gentle in the marriage bed. He was like the countess’s groom: a rough exterior, but a kind heart. A good husband for Cecy. For any woman.

Mattie let herself into her bedchamber. Her reflection in the tall, warped mirror in the corner caught her eye. She grimaced and turned away. The mirror made the contrast between herself and Cecy abundantly clear. No man would look twice at me when he could look at Cecy.

Mattie climbed into bed and blew out her candle.