Underestimating Miss Cecilia

by Carolyn Miller

Verity cracked open an eye and stifled a gasp. One bony hand was stretched toward her, was almost touching her shoulder! She shifted fractionally, squashing poor Helena even more in the process, until the hand withdrew, to be followed by a hard slap on the desktop, which reverberated in Verity’s ears.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I have my pince-nez, my dear.” And the scurry of feet suggested it would not be long.

  After a few seconds of awkward maneuvering, Verity and Helena escaped from their hidey-hole. Verity snatched the letter from Helena’s grasp. “I’ll replace it while you go up the far stairs.”

  “But—”

  “Go!”

  With a quick grin Helena melted into the dark hall, while Verity stuffed William’s letter in the bodice of her nightgown, and rounded the corner to the front door. She crouched behind the small table, replacing the rewritten letter with the others to be posted on the morrow. Her heart raced as she waited until she saw the white of Miss Pelling’s nightgown return to the study. Quick as a flash she sped to the main stairs, slipping through the shadows, being careful to avoid the creaking steps as she neared the top.

  “You there! Stop!”

  Something like terror bade wings to her feet, but she forced herself to halt. Verity Hatherleigh was no coward. Neither did she want to run the risk of Helena being discovered. She turned and met Miss Pelling’s angry glare.

  Her face seemed pinched, all except for her nostrils, which appeared twice as large as normal. “I knew it was you! What have you got to say for yourself, young lady?”

  “I am very sorry your sleep was disturbed?”

  An angry hiss suggested her attempt at humor had fallen sadly flat. “Were you or were you not in Miss Haverstock’s study?”

  “I was.”

  “Yet you did not speak up when I asked you to! Why?”

  “I did not want to get into trouble, Miss Pelling.”

  “A likely story.”

  “It is the truth.”

  A loud sniff. The pale eyes narrowed. “And can you tell me why you felt it necessary to be there?”

  “She had something I needed.”

  “At this hour of the night?”

  “She was going to dispose of it tomorrow morning.”

  “And this item is … ?” Thin brows rose.

  “A letter.”

  “Have you got it in your possession?”

  Verity sighed inwardly and withdrew the blue paper from her nightgown. Miss Pelling snatched it and whipped it open, her eyes widening as she read the brief missive from William.

  Verity’s thoughts ran quickly. Did Miss Pelling think it was addressed to her? She might assume such a thing, for he never wrote Lucinda’s name, save on the direction. Of course, if Miss Pelling turned the paper over she would realize, but if Verity pretended …

  “Can you tell me who this William is?”

  “He … he is a neighbor, Miss Pelling.” Lucinda’s neighbor, but so far she wasn’t actually lying.

  “And can you tell me why he finds it necessary to write in such lurid detail?”

  “No, miss. I can only assume he is religious. It is a description from the Bible,” she added helpfully.

  “I know very well where it is from!” Miss Pelling drew in a deep breath. “Can you tell me why you stole it?”

  “Is it stealing to retrieve your own possessions?” A philosophical argument, so not technically a lie. “I rather think it stealing for it to have been taken from my room.”

  “Do not—!”

  “But you asked why I retrieved it.” Verity gave a deep sigh. “You see, I do not want to lose his words as I have never had anyone express such admiration to me.”

  Which was true. It was also true that she had not met any man from whom she wanted to hear such words. Not that she wanted to be described in quite the same way as Lucinda preferred. But still, it would be nice if one day a gentleman could think her as alluring as a heroine in Miss Austen’s work, and express such thoughts to her. She bit her lip. Was such a thing possible? “Miss Pelling, wouldn’t you like to see the words penned from your paramour?”

  The older woman rubbed her forehead and glanced away.

  Verity took a step forward. “My father would not like to be the recipient of such a letter. He’s not religious, you understand, and I do not imagine he should like to be burdened with such things.”

  “You do not, do you?”

  “No. I am so terribly sorry to appear to be so underhanded—”

  “Or so sorry to have been caught?”

  That, too. “But I really thought it best for everyone if William’s letter was not included in any correspondence to one’s father.” Verity put on her most pleading face. “Please, Miss Pelling, please tell me you understand?”

  The teacher squinted, studying her as though Verity were an unpleasant specimen in a museum. “And the letter to your father?”

  “Is undisturbed.” An unwritten letter to her own papa could not be disturbed, could it?

  “I agree that the, er, contents are not appropriate for a young girl to receive”—Verity held her breath—“but I can also understand your reasoning in removing unnecessary pain from your parents.”

  Verity nodded. “I am sure Miss Haverstock has written a full account of my misdemeanors. Anything further might result in my immediate removal from this place.”

  And such an event would likely result in the removal of the Viscount Aynsley’s sizable financial support, thus possibly affecting Miss Pelling’s future at the seminary, too.

  “I will need to mention this to Miss Haverstock—”

  “Oh, but do you think that prudent? I am sorry to say she often does not seem to make the wisest of decisions.”

  “Neither do you, it would appear,” replied Miss Pelling tartly.

  “Of course.” Verity hung her head. “I have done all number of unwise things, but you do understand there has never been any malicious intent. Please, Miss Pelling, do not mention this to Miss Haverstock, as I fear she will insist on mailing William’s letter, and I am sure that will not serve anyone’s interests.” Not Lucinda’s interests, to be sure, and after tonight’s little charade, definitely not Verity’s, either.

  Miss Pelling sighed. “Very well. I will not mention it to her.”

  “Oh, thank you, Miss Pelling!”

  “And you may keep your letter, but I must insist you tell your young man to never write to you at this address again.”

  “Of course, Miss Pelling! I will ensure he never does again.” She would throttle Lucinda should he do so.

  “Now go straight to bed, and catch whatever sleep you can before dawn arrives. And I will need to cancel your privileges for the next month, and shall expect you to attend to the juniors for another two weeks as punishment for such shameless behavior.”

  “Of course, Miss Pelling. Thank you, Miss Pelling.”

  Helping the younger girls was no great trial, as she suspected Miss Pelling knew.

  She curtsied and ran up the stairs, quickly checked that Helena had made it back safely, then headed to her room, where Lucinda snored in blissful oblivion. After placing William’s letter underneath the loose floorboard she’d suggested weeks ago, Verity stripped off her cloak, climbed into bed, dropped against the pillows and closed her eyes.

  “Verity? Is that you?”

  A wave of tiredness refused her eyelids from opening. “Yes, Lucy.” She yawned. “And yes, I have your letter.”

  “Good.”

  “Good night, Lucy.”

  “G’night, Verity. Oh, and thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Verity smiled in the darkness, pulled her blankets up to her chin, and allowed the tension of the evening to slowly ebb away. Her mind drifted, wondering what the enamored William looked like, and how he could think of plain, plump Lucinda in such exalted terms. Truly the heart was a mysterious thing. She rolled to her side as her earlier thoughts resurfaced. Would she ever meet a man who caused
her heart to flutter faster? Did he even exist, or was she doomed, like poor Miss Haverstock and Miss Pelling, to don the cap of spinsterhood? Her lips flattened. Somehow she didn’t think Mama would permit such a thing, even if her dowry were not a very respectable fifty thousand, sure to make her one of the upcoming season’s most eligible young ladies.

  No, she sighed internally. She would probably marry. But would her future husband’s feelings be that of ardor or mere friendly esteem? Her sisters had both found love; was such a thing possible for her, too? And if he were someone for whom she held tender feelings, what title would he hold? For, to be sure, Papa, and especially Mama, would never allow Verity to be so unevenly yoked. She’d sensed her mother’s disappointment that her sisters had settled for mere second sons, gentlemen who were unlikely to attain the high titles their brothers held. Not that she had any desire to be a marchioness or countess. Such things had never held appeal. No, other things mattered far more. Would he share her fascination for other lands? Would he enjoy the outdoors and riding? What would he look like? Where did he live? What was he doing now?

  The questions continued to prod and tease, ideas swirling and shifting, until finally exhaustion dragged her into oblivion, and she lay dreaming of faraway castles and a starlit sea.

  Sydney Town, New South Wales

  “Stop! Thief!”

  Anthony Jardine ran after the weedy youth, whose skill at dodging pedestrians and carts alike suggested this was not the first time he had fled his crime. Around him, the sound of Irish and English accents filled his ears, while January sunshine beat down as mercilessly as whips upon a convict’s back, sending clouds of dust into his nose. Yet he could not give up. Newly widowed Mrs. Hetherington could scarce afford to lose her purse. He sped past a wagon piled high with skins (calf, sheep, kangaroo—the stench was appalling), then continued the chase, along George Street, following the urchin around the corner into Brown Bear Lane, whereupon he disappeared into the darkness of The Romping Horse.

  His nose wrinkled as he pushed past the sweat-drenched mass of swarthy-faced laborers, of whom he suspected not a few were recently emancipated, judging from their ragged clothes and foul language.

  “Has anyone seen a young lad?”

  There was a jeering sound. “Ye should be ashamed of yerself, reverend!”

  Anthony fought the urge to tug at his clerical collar and raised his voice. “He has stolen from a widow—”

  “Cor, it’s a widder now!” A woman cackled. “He gets around, this one does, worse than a bull in a paddock full of—”

  “Please! Can anyone help me?”

  A woman—she was hardly a lady—of indeterminate age and hair color pushed her ample bosom into his side and smiled up at him, revealing stained teeth. “I can help yer, luv.”

  The inn filled with raucous laughter. “Millie helps anyone for a few bob a tumble!”

  Anthony’s cheeks burned. “Ma’am, please, have you seen the lad?”

  “Listen to him speak so fancy!” She fluttered a hand in imitation of a fan. “And so handsome, though I’ve never been overfond of red hair, meself.”

  Clearly no help was to be found here. “Excuse me.” He inclined his head and shoved through the stench of smoke, cheap whiskey, and lower values. A tattered blue coat caught his eye. He maneuvered around a giant with bullock-wide shoulders and followed the urchin. The hall led past a few closed rooms—whose occupants he had no wish to disturb—stepping down to a makeshift kitchen before a propped-open door gave abrupt exit onto a small courtyard. The boy hurried to a beefy-faced man and handed him the pink purse Anthony had seen him lift from poor Clara Hetherington back on William Street.

  “You there! Stop!” He stepped forward. “That money does not belong to you.”

  The large man looked him up and down. “I be fancyin’ it don’t belong to you, neither.”

  “A lady of my acquaintance—”

  “Of yer acquaintance, eh?” The red-faced man grinned at a couple of shadows that had detached themselves from the brick-lined walls and were moving in to listen.

  “From my congregation,” Anthony said loudly. Technically, it wasn’t his congregation—he was only the assistant curate after all—but he didn’t think these people would care about the niceties of ecclesiastical management. He held out his hand. “Now, if you please?”

  The shadows moved closer to the beefy man, their features wizened but eyes sharp, while the boy looked on from behind his protector’s large frame.

  The large man grinned unpleasantly. “And wot if I don’t please?” He slipped the coins into his coat. The courtyard chilled, the sun having disappeared.

  “Then … I shall have to report you both to the authorities.”

  “And how’s yer gonna do that?”

  Anthony glanced over his shoulder. The doorway was filled with spectators, their mouths curling as he imagined a wake of buzzards might regard a rabbit. His stomach clenched. Exactly what had they gathered to see?

  “Ye may be a parson, but ye won’t find much love ’ere. Yer a greedy lot, preyin’ on the weak an’ gullible.”

  Indignation dissipated, replaced by unfurling compassion—to not care about God or want to know His love? “I am sorry you feel that way.”

  The man shrugged. “It’s nowt to me.”

  Anthony’s oft-treacherous sense of humor begged his attention. How many times had his superiors decried the crass and difficult convicts as being “nowts”?

  “Do ye be laughin’ at me?” The beefy man frowned and turned to his henchmen. “I do be thinkin’ he is laughin’ at me.”

  Anthony swallowed as they nodded and murmured agreement. “Sir, I dinnae—”

  “Oho, sir is it now?” He stepped forward aggressively. “Y’know what I do with them that laugh at me?”

  “I was not laughing at you.”

  “But I thinks you was.” The space between them shrank into nothing as the man’s spit-flecked mouth drew closer. “And roight now, it don’t matter wot anyone thinks but me.”

  Anthony swallowed a retort as his predicament grew in stature. Would it be cowardly to run or simply the wisest course of action? His early morning reading of the exhortation to be as bold as a lion suddenly seemed as far-fetched as the sailor stories he’d heard of fish that flew. He gritted his teeth. Lord, give me courage!

  “I see ye might be a fool but a bold one for all that.”

  Anthony exhaled. Perhaps the man might be won over to reason, after all—

  Crack!

  Pain splintered through his cheek, piercing through to his brain as the beefy man lowered his fist. “That be for lying ’bout my Freddie, ’ere.”

  “But—”

  Ooof!

  Anthony doubled over, sucking in air as agony ricocheted through his midsection.

  “And that be for being a God-botherer.” The man spat and swore loudly. “We don’t need none of your sort ’ere.”

  Anthony groaned.

  “Did I asks ye to speak? Did I?” The man’s eyes seemed to hold a reddish glow, like an enraged boar, his mouth pulled out in an expression more snarl than smile. “Let ’im ’ave it, Jim.”

  At once a rain of blows fell on his back and legs. Anthony tried to defend himself, but memories of wrestling with his cousin seemed so far away, and his feeble attempts availed nothing. A thump on his skull sent him to his knees, a kick to his lower back left him gasping amidst the dirt and slurry.

  He wrenched open his eyes to see dung-covered boots inches from his nose. Sour whiskey fumes breathed in his face as the man bent down. “Don’t ever be letting me see your ugly mug again.”

  Anthony lay prostrate on the dirt, unable to move, his mind slipping between awareness and dark, conscious only of dust swirling in the cold breeze and pain so immense he could almost understand those who begged to be released from this mortal coil.

  His eyes closed as the first tears from heaven fell from the sky.

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  Carolyn Miller, Underestimating Miss Cecilia