Midnight Quill Trio

Chapter 6-1

Chapter Six

The morning was gray and chilly, but it wasn’t raining. Edward rode to Soddy Morton across the increasingly swamp-like mire of the fallow fields, and interviewed two more people on the list of possible Chéries: the beadle’s wife, and a retired schoolmaster. The beadle’s wife was a plump, cheerful woman with no understanding of grammar whatsoever, so he crossed her off the list; Chérie had an excellent command of the King’s English.

The retired schoolmaster had a thorough understanding of grammar and a prim, pursed-mouthed face. The primness could be a cover, but the lines were so deeply etched into the man’s face that Edward doubted it. He crossed him off the list, too.

The schoolmaster, Mr. Crippington, wanted to see the letter, but Edward evaded him. “It’s of a personal nature.”

Mr. Crippington frowned. “But shouldn’t Joe Potts be doing this? He’s responsible for the post in Soddy Morton.”

“He’s too busy for a task like this,” Edward said. “Oh, is that the time? I really must be going, Mr. Crippington.”

He escaped the man’s gray cottage, put his hat back on his head, and wondered, for the umpteenth time, how he’d allowed himself to become involved in this fool’s errand. “You’re a cod’s head, Ned!” he told himself.

He fortified himself for his next interview with a large steak pie, half a roasted fowl, and a tankard of ale at the inn, and then set out to find Widow Weeks, who, it transpired, was half-blind and dictated her letters to her housekeeper. The next person on the list—a farmer by the name of Plinhoe—wasn’t at home. “Market day in Gripton,” Mr. Plinhoe’s wife informed him.

Edward gave up for the day. He stopped in at the village bakery on his way back and emerged from that fragrant establishment bearing several slices of gingerbread for himself and Miss Chapple.

Fortuitously, Miss Chapple was in the stableyard when he reached Creed Hall, a thick cloak over her shoulders, a bonnet on her head, and sturdy half boots on her feet. From the unmuddied state of her boots he deduced that she was departing, not returning.

“Walking down to the village?” Edward asked, swinging down from Trojan’s back.

She shook her head. “I’m going around the park.”

A gust of wind rippled the muddy puddles.

“In this weather?”

“I walk every day,” Miss Chapple said. “Unless it’s raining.”

Edward handed Trojan off to the elderly groom and glanced up at Creed Hall’s grim façade. It looked half-blinded, with so many windows bricked up. He shivered, reluctant to enter that bleak, cold building. “May I join you?”

“Are you well enough to be walking?”

“I’m not an invalid.”

“Yes, but—”

“I’ll be fine,” Edward said firmly. “As long as there are no steep hills.”

The park was larger than Edward had thought, five square miles of sodden, leafless woodland. The wind was raw, mud sucked at his boots, and water splashed up from the puddles, but Edward found that he was enjoying himself. It was a pleasant experience to walk with Miss Chapple. He was able to stretch his legs and breathe deeply.

They maintained a brisk pace. He saw Miss Chapple glance sideways at him while they climbed one muddy incline. “How do you feel, Mr. Kane?”

“Fine,” he said, ignoring the faint ache in his thigh bone.

“Do you intend to stay long? There are other walks.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be here,” Edward said, relieved when they reached the top of the rise. He was almost out of breath and the scar tissue over his ribs had begun to twinge. If Miss Chapple walked this route every day, at this pace, then she was a remarkably fit young lady. She didn’t look athletic, she looked well-padded, but clearly that was deceptive. “Perhaps another day or so.” He shrugged. “Perhaps a week.” I hope not. “I’ve undertaken to perform a . . . uh, a small task for your uncle.”

“A week?” She frowned. “But weren’t you planning to go down to your property in Cornwall? Surely my uncle doesn’t expect you to put off your own plans?”

I doubt he’s given any thought to my plans. Sir Arthur appeared to have a decided streak of selfishness. If he ever placed other people’s comfort above his own, Edward had yet to see evidence of it.

“What is the task, Mr. Kane? Perhaps I can help?”

“Thank you,” Edward said. “But no.” Chérie’s confession was not something Miss Chapple should see.

“But—”

“The task is . . . somewhat difficult to explain,” Edward said.

She turned her gaze to him. “What do you mean, Mr. Kane?”

“Um . . .” Edward found himself unable to prevaricate beneath that steady gray gaze. “Your uncle has asked me to return a letter to its sender in the village.”

Miss Chapple blinked. “A letter? But surely that’s easily done?”

“The sender is unknown.”

“Oh,” she said. “But even so, that’s something I can do for you! You needn’t stay. You can go down to Cornwall.”

“No,” Edward said firmly, remembering several of the more explicit sentences.

“But—”

“It isn’t something for a lady to be involved in, Miss Chapple.”

Not something for a lady to be involved in. Mattie knew instantly what he meant: Chérie’s confession.

Horror gripped her. She stumbled and almost fell. Mr. Kane took her arm for an instant, steadying her. “Are you all right, Miss Chapple?”

“Perfectly,” Mattie said. But she wasn’t. Her throat was almost too tight for breath, almost too tight for speech.

Uncle Arthur had seen Chérie’s latest confession. He knew someone in the village had written it. And worst of all, he had set Mr. Kane the task of finding her!

She gripped her trembling fingers tightly together and forced herself to inhale. Don’t panic!

They reached the lake. The water was a dull gray-brown. Mattie forced herself to speak calmly as they stopped in front of the folly. “In the summer it’s quite pretty here.”

“Hmm,” Mr. Kane said, his tone unconvinced.

Mattie glanced sideways at him. He won’t be able to find me out. There was nothing in the confession that could identify her. However many days he stayed at Creed Hall, her secret was safe.

She began to regain her self-control. “It does look very unattractive right now, I grant you, Mr. Kane. But in the summer I often come here to sit in the folly and sew.”

Mr. Kane turned to look at the folly. The faux Greek temple was rather shabby, its pillars streaked with mold, its marble steps half-hidden beneath deep drifts of rotting leaves, but it was still recognizable from the countess’s diary—perfectly round, with a pantiled roof and colonnade. Here, the young countess and her groom had spent many happy hours. And here, Lord S. beds Chérie in the latest confession.

Would Mr. Kane recognize it?

“This property used to belong to the fifth Earl of Malmstoke,” Mattie said hastily, turning back to the lake. “His wife is believed to have drowned here. Suicide.”

Mr. Kane spun on his heel and regarded the lake, his eyebrows rising. “Suicide?”

Mattie nodded and began to walk away from the folly. “Her husband was an extremely unpleasant man, so I believe.”

“Oh?” Mr. Kane matched her stride.

“He liked to inflict pain.”

“Ah.” Mr. Kane grimaced. “The poor woman.”

“Yes.” Mattie glanced at the lake. “Her body was never found.”

They walked for several minutes along the curving shore, until the dark roof of Creed Hall came into sight, rising above the treetops. Mattie halted and stared across the lake at it. If Uncle Arthur discovered she was Chérie . . .

“It’s hard to believe the remains of a countess lie beneath these waters,” Mr. Kane said.

“I don’t think so,” Mattie said, unthinkingly.

He turned to look at her. “You don’t?”

Mattie blushed, annoyed with herself. “I think she ran away.”

His eyebrows rose as he surveyed her. “You do?”

She nodded. I know she did. She fled with her lover, the groom.

“Hmm.” Mr. Kane turned back to look at the lake. “A nicer version of the tale, I grant you.”

“Yes.”

“And on that note . . .” He pulled something from one pocket. “Would you like a slice of gingerbread?”

“Gingerbread?” Mattie blinked, and stared at him. At this moment Mr. Kane was quite surprisingly attractive. It was the color of his eyes—that warm dark brown—or perhaps the smile lines creasing his face beneath the disfiguring scars.

She swallowed. “Thank you.”

They strolled in companionable silence along the lakeside path, eating gingerbread. Mattie was acutely aware of Mr. Kane’s closeness. Their shoulders almost brushed as they walked. I like him.

She gave herself a mental shake. If Mr. Kane was hunting Chérie, he was no friend of hers.

“Better than Gunter’s,” Mr. Kane said.

“One day I hope to visit Gunter’s,” Mattie said. “Toby always said they made the best ices he’d ever tasted.”

Mr. Kane paused in mid-bite, his surprise clear to see. “You’ve never been to London?”

“My parents died just before I was to make my début.”

“But surely . . . once you were out of mourning?”

“Uncle Arthur felt that a début was an unnecessary expense.” Mattie smiled brightly at him. “He was quite correct; it’s extremely unlikely that I should have taken.”

Mr. Kane frowned. “Yes, but—”

“I have no dowry to speak of,” Mattie said matter-of-factly. “And I’m far too tall. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, Mr. Kane, it’s that men prefer not to dance with females who tower over them!” It was far better to stay at home than to be a wallflower, sitting out almost every dance—she’d learned that from the few assemblies Toby had taken her to in Gripton.

Mr. Kane’s frown deepened. “I would dance with you.”

“Yes,” Mattie said. “But you’re uncommonly large.” Like me. “We are both of us giants!”

Mr. Kane smiled at this sally, but it was a mechanical movement; his eyes were unamused. “London is a mere seventy miles from here, Miss Chapple. A day’s journey. Surely your uncle would allow you to visit—”

“For what reason, Mr. Kane? Merely to taste the ices at Gunter’s? My uncle would consider that a great waste of money—and he would be correct!” Mattie turned the subject: “Tell me about your property in Cornwall. Have you visited it before?”

Talking about Cornwall gave Edward the same itchy feeling of frustration that he’d experienced while waiting for his leg to heal. He didn’t want to talk about Blythe Manor, he wanted to be there. The stableyard came into sight, and the grim, gray bulk of Creed Hall. One more day, he promised himself. One more day and I’ll be gone from here.

He turned his head at the clop of hooves. His mouth fell open as a man rode into the stableyard, a valise strapped behind his saddle cantle.

“Gary! What the devil—!” He recollected Miss Chapple’s presence. “What on earth are you doing here?” He strode forward, heedless of the puddles.

“Bringing your clothes, as requested,” Sir Gareth Locke said, sliding down from the saddle. He managed it creditably, despite the lack of his left arm.

“I didn’t expect you to bring them!” Edward gripped his friend’s hand, hard. “You didn’t ride all the way?”

Gareth shook his head. “Came by carriage. I rode up from the village because the bridge is out.” His gaze went past Edward’s shoulder. “I have the . . . uh, papers you wanted.”

Edward remembered Miss Chapple. He turned and made the introductions.

Miss Chapple held out her hand. She seemed not at all disconcerted by Gareth’s missing arm. “Sir Gareth, I’m so pleased to meet you!” Her smile was welcoming and friendly. “Toby spoke often of you.”

Miss Chapple was an inch taller than Gareth and looked as if she outweighed him by quite a few pounds; Gareth’s frame was lean, his face thin and lined with pain—but he smiled as he shook Miss Chapple’s hand.

Seeing Gareth like this—with only one arm—was jarring. For a moment, Edward felt a dizzying sense of dissonance, of wrongness. Gareth should have two arms, not one.

Edward shook his head to get rid of the feeling.

“Do come inside, Sir Gareth. My uncle will be delighted to meet you.” Miss Chapple turned to the elderly groom, now hurrying from the stables. “Hoby, see to Sir Gareth’s horse, please, and have the valise sent up to Mr. Kane’s room.”

Miss Chapple led them indoors through a side door. In the gloomy corridor they encountered a maidservant. Edward leaned close to Gareth. “If they invite you to stay, make your excuses,” he whispered, while Miss Chapple issued instructions to the maid. “The inn will be a thousand times more comfortable—and the food immeasurably better!”

Amusement flickered across Gareth’s face. “It can’t be that bad here.”

Edward grimaced. “You’d better believe it.”

The maid hastily lit the fire and half a dozen candles in the chilly library. A few minutes later, a tea tray was brought in. The thump of Strickland’s cane echoed down the corridor while Miss Chapple poured the tea.

Miss Chapple made the introductions. Strickland shook Gareth’s hand and then gestured to the man’s missing left arm. “Waterloo, I understand. Bad luck.”

“There were men worse injured than I,” Gareth said. He paused, and then said, “My condolences on the death of your son, sir.”

Strickland’s mouth tightened. He gave a curt nod. “Thank you.”

In the silence that followed, Miss Chapple offered shortbread and plum cake. Edward declined; Gareth took a piece of each.

“What brings you to Soddy Morton?” Strickland asked.

“Soddy Morton?” Gareth glanced at Edward. “No particular reason, sir. Just passing through.”

Strickland grunted. “Not a good time of year to be traveling.” He embarked on a complaining monolog about the washed-out bridge. Edward sipped his tea and watched Gareth bite into the shortbread.