The Spinster’s Secret

Chapter 2-1

Chapter Two

Edward woke at dawn. He listened for rain against the windowpanes, but heard only silence.

He climbed out of bed. His leg was stiff, as it always was in the mornings. He limped across the room and opened the shutters. A gray sky and bare winter trees met his eyes. Everything was sodden—the trees, the straggling lawn, the sweep of the driveway dotted with puddles—but it wasn’t raining. A few more hours, and he could leave. In fact, even if it did start raining again, he was leaving. He’d rather endure a march over the Spanish Alps than a second night at Creed Hall.

Edward shivered. His breath hung in front of his face, mist-like. There was no ice in the water in his basin, but it was still too damned cold. You’re getting soft, he chided himself.

He looked at the fireplace. No fire burned there, and no water steamed in his wash jug. He pulled the bell rope. A few minutes later a harried young housemaid brought hot water and laid a fresh fire. The sideways glances she cast him while she crouched at the grate were apprehensive. Edward wasn’t sure whether it was his scarred face or his gender that frightened her. I can’t force myself on you, even if I were a man who would want to do such a thing. He turned away from her and looked out the window again. Waterloo had taken his ability to bed a woman, to sire a child, to truly be a man. His mouth tightened. I am a eunuch, without being castrated.

Tigh bustled into the room, Edward’s cleaned and polished boots under his arm. “Not enough servants,” he said, as he shut the door after the departing housemaid. “Should have twice as many in a house this size. And as for the food!”

Edward grunted and stepped away from the window.

“I et better in Spain,” Tigh grumbled as he stropped the razor blade. He glanced up, his eyes twinkling beneath bristling eyebrows. “Remember those rats, sir?”

Edward shoved his self-pity aside. He grinned at the bâtman. “How could I forget?”

“Mighty tasty, they were,” Tigh said, laying the sharpened razor and a towel beside the wash basin. “Mighty tasty.”

Edward whistled under his breath while he shaved. He’d be back in London by evening, sitting down to a hearty meal—roasted capons, perhaps, or venison pie—in front of a roaring fire.

He glanced at the fire the housemaid had lit. It consisted of a bare handful of coal. His gaze drifted to the oilskin-wrapped packet lying on the dresser and the whistle died on his tongue. Before he left, he had to open that packet and distribute its contents.

Edward looked down at the water in the basin, at the scum of soap and the dark flecks of his whiskers. It should be Toby here. Not me.

Edward had the breakfast parlor to himself. The toast was cold and the eggs had been poached until the yolks were hard, but the sausages were flavorsome. Edward ate five of them before pushing his plate away.

He stayed seated for a moment, examining the room—the heavy moldings on the ceiling, the dark paneling, the stiff furniture, the view out the single, narrow window at leafless trees. Two other windows in the room had been bricked up and painted over; Arthur Strickland was avoiding paying window tax.

He remembered a comment Toby had once made: My father’s so mean he doesn’t dot his i’s, to save ink. At the time, Edward had laughed and thought it a joke; now he wasn’t so certain.

Creed Hall was even grimmer in daylight than it had been at night. Lord, how had Toby managed to grow up here and retain his sense of humor?

The housemaid who’d relaid his fire brought a fresh pot of tea. Edward poured himself a cup, and after a moment’s hesitation, added sugar. Creed Hall needed something to sweeten it. “When does your master rise?”

“Before dawn, sir.”

Of course he does. Strickland wasn’t the sort to relax abed. “Where would I find him?”

“In his study, sir.”

Edward drank his tea—the sugar failed to make the room any more cheerful—pushed back his chair, and wandered out into the corridor. Faintly, he heard the sound of voices.

He headed in the direction of the noise, passing the drawing room and the library, and arrived at a door that was open. A thin, peevish voice, raised in complaint, was clearly audible. “A mess! An absolute mess!” Edward had no difficulty recognizing its owner: Arthur Strickland.

“Well, get going, man! There’s no time to waste!”

“Yes, sir.”

Edward moved back as someone emerged from the room. In the gloom of the corridor, the man didn’t see him. He strode down the corridor towards the back reaches of the house, dressed in a bulky coat and bringing the smell of outdoors with him—wet clothes and mud.

Edward stepped into the doorway and glanced inside, seeing a desk and bookcases. He had found Strickland’s study.

Arthur Strickland sat behind the desk, scowling at a small pile of letters. He glanced up, saw Edward, and beckoned him irritably inside.

“Something’s wrong, sir?”

“The bridge has washed out.” Strickland picked up a letter, holding it fastidiously by one corner. Water dripped onto the desk.

Edward advanced further into the room. “What’s that?”

“Soddy Morton’s mail,” Strickland said, releasing the letter. It landed with a wet splat on top of the pile. “The innkeeper’s boy takes it to Gripton each morning, to catch the Mail.”

“What happened?”

“He rode into the creek. Fool of a boy must be blind!” Strickland shoved the letters aside.

“Was he hurt?” Edward asked, walking across to the desk. He picked up one of the letters. It dangled limply, dripping. The address was unreadable. “Or the horse?”

Strickland didn’t answer the question. He poked at the sodden pile. “A mess,” he muttered irritably. “An absolute mess.”

The wafer slowly slid from the letter Edward was holding, falling with a faint plop onto the desk. The letter unfolded. The crossed writing was smeared and illegible. “These will have to be returned to their senders.”

“I know that!” Strickland snapped.

Edward put down the letter. “I have something for you, sir. I’ll just fetch it.” And once he’d handed over Toby’s possessions, he’d depart—broken bridge or not. He’d drive the curricle across country if he had to. Just get me out of here.

He took the stairs two at a time back to his bedchamber, grabbed the packet on the dresser, and undid the string. His haste slowed, though, once the parcel’s contents lay exposed: letters, a pocket watch, a signet ring.

Emotion ambushed him, grief and guilt entwined. His chest tightened, making breathing difficult.

Edward squeezed his eyes shut. He inhaled a shallow breath, wrestling the emotions back into the shadows.

Soldiers died. Toby had known that. They’d all known it.

He took a deeper breath, expanding his lungs, and then opened his eyes and looked at Toby’s belongings again. This time, the grief stayed locked tightly away. The guilt was there, though, as it always was, a smothering weight.

After a moment Edward picked up the pocket watch. The silver was cool and smooth.

The stumps of his missing fingers framed the watch—little finger and ring finger gone, middle finger chopped off at the first knuckle, forefinger missing its tip. The hand of a soldier.

He felt the familiar sense of disbelief—that’s not my hand—and on its heels, a surge of loss.

Edward hissed out a breath, annoyed with himself, and gathered up the rest of the items for Arthur Strickland. Surely the day must soon come when he’d see his hands and recognize them as his own? When he’d not mourn the missing fingers?

He went downstairs. It was the house that was affecting him—so grim and cold and cheerless. No wonder his mood was dark.

Strickland sat where Edward had left him, behind the desk. He’d spread the letters out. Some were still sealed, others lay limply open. “Just look at that!” the old man said, looking up as he entered. “Ruined!”

Edward made no reply.

Strickland turned his attention to a letter. “Fool boy. Must have been blind or drunk . . .” His voice stopped.

“Sir?” Edward said. “I have some items belonging to—”

“Quiet.” Strickland didn’t look up.

Edward took a slow breath. He’s an old man. He swallowed his annoyance, advanced to the desk, and laid Toby’s belongings on one corner, away from the damp pile of mail. “I’ll leave them here for you, sir.”

“Look at this!” Strickland thrust a wet letter at him. His thin face was flushed with outrage. “This . . . this is filth!”

Edward took the letter. It was several pages long. The ink was smeared, but still readable.

Dear reader, in answer to your request, here is a further confession from my pen.

Edward raised his eyebrows. What the hell?

Previously, I told of my first encounter with Lord S. Now, if you are willing to be the recipient of another confession, I should like to share some details of my time as Lord S.’s mistress.

“Filth!” Strickland said again, struggling to his feet. “Disgusting filth!”

Edward ignored him. His gaze skipped down the page: For some time we wandered, exchanging fond touches and kisses, until presently we came upon a little folly built in the form of a Roman temple, perfectly round, with a pantiled roof and a colonnade. A pretty wilderness of trees surrounded it, and at its marble feet ran a sparkling brook. Lord S. led me inside the folly, wherein a fine, large divan tossed with pillows stood squarely in a shaft of sunlight.

The page ended. Edward tried to peel the corner up to read the next page. He couldn’t. The sheets of paper were stuck together. He tried the next page.

. . . until finally his passion was spent. We lay entwined, sunlight warm on our skin. From outside came the sound of birdsong and the ripple of running water. After several minutes Lord S. roused himself and suggested that we refresh ourselves with a swim.

Taking me by the hand he led me outside and coaxed me into the brook. We sported in the water for some time, until Lord S.’s passion was manifestly aroused again.

Edward read swiftly to the bottom of the page. “Filth!” he heard Strickland mutter while he paced the study, his cane thudding angrily with each step. “Filth!”

Alas, the next two pages were stuck together. Edward tried to peel them apart, but the limp paper disintegrated into shreds. Only the final sentence was legible: And on that note, dear readers, I shall end this latest confession from my pen.

Chérie.

He set the pages together again, disappointed.

“Here!” A thump of the cane. “In Soddy Morton!” Another thump. “To find such filth!”

Edward nodded his agreement. Soddy Morton was the last place he’d have expected the notorious Chérie to reside. “She’s thought to live in London.”

Strickland swung around and pinned him with a fierce glare. “You’re familiar with the writer?”

“Uh . . . I have heard of her, sir.” And he’d read the last three installments of her confessions. “She claims to be a courtesan by the name of Chérie. Her confessions are quite popular in London.” That was an understatement; Chérie’s Confessions had taken London by storm. Well, half of London, Edward amended. The male half.

“She must be stopped!” Strickland shook his cane at him. His face was mottled with rage. “I won’t have such depravity in Soddy Morton!”

Edward looked down at Chérie’s letter. It was addressed to a publishing house in London. Of a sender’s address, there was no sign.

“I won’t have it!” Strickland said again. He thumped the cane on the floor to emphasize this statement, and then bent over wheezing.

“Sir?” Edward dropped the letter and strode across to him.

“Can’t breathe—” Strickland gasped.

Edward half-carried the man to an armchair. Strickland collapsed into it, his face an alarming shade of puce.

“Sir?” Edward went down on one knee and swiftly loosened the man’s neckcloth. “Calm yourself. There’s no need to be in such a taking.”

With the neckcloth loosened, Strickland’s breathing became easier. “I won’t have it,” he wheezed. “Not in Soddy Morton. Not on my doorstep!”

Edward suppressed a shrug. Chérie’s Confessions weren’t something he’d wish a lady to read, but they were harmless enough entertainment for gentlemen.

Breath whistled in Strickland’s throat. His face was alarmingly flushed.

“I’ll ring for a servant, sir. You should rest in bed.”

“No,” the old man said stubbornly, wheezing. “I must find her.”

Edward resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He stood and glanced around the study. A decanter of sherry sat on a narrow sideboard. He strode across, poured a healthy slug into a glass, and brought it back to Strickland.

The man took the glass. “I won’t have such filth in my village,” he muttered. “I shall find her!”

“If you find her, sir, what do you hope to achieve?” Chérie had every right to live in Soddy Morton if she wished. Although God only knew why anyone would choose to do so.