In the Spinster's Bed

by Sally MacKenzie

  Mikey erupted into shooting noises. Thomas yelled and made the sound of horse hooves charging over the ground. Cat’s soldier was knocked down and dragged off to the dungeon.

  “Cat.”

  Cat looked over her shoulder. Mama had poked her head into the schoolroom. “Yes, Mama?”

  “I need you to take a basket over to Mrs. Barker. Papa said he heard her gout is bothering her.” Mama smiled as her eyes drifted to a point just over Cat’s head. “I thought she could do with some treats.”

  Right. Nasty old Mrs. Barker, whose son just happened to be a prosperous, churchgoing, unmarried farmer.

  “Can’t Henry or Walter take it?”

  “Of course not,” Pru said, giggling. She’d finished helping Sybbie with the water and was back to her book. “They can’t marry Mr. Barker.”

  Mama laughed uneasily. “Now, Pru, don’t be silly. The boys are with Papa, studying their Latin.”

  And they would leap at the chance to get free of their lessons. Neither was an enthusiastic scholar.

  “And Mary?” Cat asked. But Mary would be busy, too, of course.

  “Mrs. Greeley will be here shortly to finish fitting her for her wedding dress.”

  Mama would love it if Mrs. Greeley could start in on Cat’s dress the moment she finished Mary’s.

  Tory and Ruth, the two sisters right under Cat, were already wed and procreating. Mary was going to step into parson’s mousetrap in just a few weeks, and then there would be no more daughters but Cat to marry off for seven or eight years, until Pru was old enough.

  If things were bad now, they were about to get infinitely worse.

  Perhaps she should consider Mr. Barker. He was certainly willing. He popped the question every few months and then laughed and patted her arm when she declined, promising he’d try again—and again—until she said yes.

  Which only made her want to kick him in his patronizing shins.

  However, marrying Mr. Barker would get her away from the vicarage—

  And into his house, with his cross-tempered, managing mother.

  Oh, no, she was not doing that. Of course not! Even if Mrs. Barker were a saint—which she most certainly was not—her son had squinty little eyes and a beaklike nose and crooked teeth. He wore the distinct, pungent scent of manure the way other men wore eau de cologne.

  And he would expect children. She’d have to—

  Her stomach knotted.

  She wasn’t that desperate to get free of the vicarage.

  “Mama, surely someone else can take the basket.”

  “I’m afraid there really is no one else.” Mama’s face was set, her eyes steely.

  Cat sighed and played one last, desperate card. “All right. I’ll bring Michael and Thomas with me.” Neither Mr. Barker nor his mother liked the twins, so their presence should keep the visit short.

  “I don’t want to go,” Thomas said. “Mrs. Barker’s mean. She has a wart on her nose just like a witch. And her cook makes nasty biscuits.”

  Mikey nodded. “And Mr. Barker’s horse tried to bite me when I petted him.”

  Mama frowned at the twins but refrained from lecturing them for criticizing their elders. “It is much too far for you boys to walk.” She smiled at Cat. “You go by yourself, dear. Take your time and have a nice visit with Mrs. Barker.”

  “There are no nice visits with Mrs. Barker,” Sybbie said.

  Mama glared at Sybbie before turning back to Cat. “And then perhaps Mr. Barker will be free to give you a ride home in his gig.”

  Now there was a treat. Mr. Barker’s sullen, plodding horse could make a fifteen-minute ride last thirty, and the man’s excruciatingly boring conversation made those thirty minutes feel like an eternity. The last book he’d read—perhaps the only book he’d read—was Jeremiah Johnson’s Thoughts on the Methods of Raising Sheep, Including a Discourse on Breeding and Shearing.

  “That will give him ample opportunity to propose.” Pru sounded as if she was going to choke on her laughter. “It’s almost time for him to ask again, isn’t it?”

  “Pru!” Mama said sharply, her patience clearly at an end. “It is unbecoming to be so pert.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Pru sounded contrite, but the look she sent Cat rivaled Thomas’s for evil glee.

  Cat narrowed her eyes . . .

  No, she was twenty-four. She should not stoop to a ten-year-old’s level.

  Michael’s small fingers crept into hers. “You won’t really marry Mr. Barker, will you, Cat?”

  “Now, Michael, Mr. Barker is a fine man,” Mama said. “I’m sure you’ll come to like him once you know him better.”

  “I will?”

  “Well, I won’t.” Thomas thrust his chin forward and crossed his arms over his little chest. “I’ll never like him.”

  Cat gave Mikey’s hand a reassuring squeeze and hurried to speak before Mama could snap at Thomas. “I know Mr. Barker quite well, Mama, and I am convinced we shall not suit.”

  Mama frowned. “But eligible men don’t grow on trees, Cat, and you are twenty-four, after all. Try to see the man’s good qualities.” She raised her brows, giving Cat her “significant” look. “None of us is perfect, you know. At least keep an open mind.”

  An open mind? Did Mama think she was suddenly going to find footrot and tapeworm and other sheep maladies fascinating?

  Not bloody likely.

  Cat smiled. It was that or scream. “Yes, Mama.”

  Why couldn’t she be free of her family like Miss Franklin was? The woman had the entire Spinster House to herself. She ran the village’s small lending library, but when she wasn’t there, she had the freedom to do what she wanted when she wanted. She could read or write or stand on her head, and no one would interrupt or criticize her. Just the other day, she’d told Cat she’d been learning to play the harpsichord.

  If only she could have such wonderful solitude. Then she could write any number of books.

  “I only want you to be happy, Cat,” Mama said.

  She knew that. She just didn’t agree that marriage was her path to happiness.

  Blast it all, she would find another way.

  Mama’s eyes had dropped to Cat’s bodice. “Good heavens, whatever happened to your dress?”

  “I had a bit of an accident.”

  “I should say so. You’ll want to change before you go to see the Barkers.”

  Normally she would, but Mrs. Barker hated any untidiness. Mr. Barker, too. This might be a golden opportunity to give them a disgust of her. “Oh, no. If dear Mrs. Barker is in pain, I shouldn’t delay an instant.”

  Mama saw through her ruse, of course, but chose not to pursue the matter. “Very well. Just keep your cloak on.” She frowned. “Though you may be a trifle warm.”

  She would be melting. Mrs. Barker always insisted on a roaring fire in her sitting room. “Yes, Mama.” She gave Mikey’s hand one more squeeze before she let go. “Where is the basket?”

  “In the kitchen. And do give Mrs. Barker my best.”

  Cat stopped in her room on her way downstairs and found Mary dancing around in her shift. She was tempted to roll her eyes like Pru.

  Mary paused to stare at Cat’s bodice. “What happened to you?”

  “Sybbie and the twins got into a bit of a brangle.” Cat grabbed her cloak.

  “Aren’t you going to change?”

  “No.”

  Mary’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you off to?”

  “To deliver a basket to Mrs. Barker.” At least once Mary wed, Cat should have a bed to herself . . . unless Mama decided to move Pru in with her. Pru often complained that Sybbie thrashed in her sleep.

  “She won’t like it if she sees you’re not precise to a pin.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  Mary laughed. “And you know she’s sure to complain about it to Mr. Barker.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why you don’t accept the man’s offer. You could have been wed long ago.”

  “And sh
aring a house with Mrs. Barker.”

  Mary grinned. “There is that. I’m not sure even Mr. Barker’s broad shoulders trump his mother’s carping disposition.”

  “They don’t. Nor do they trump his unattractive features, his barnyard scent, his braying laugh, or his deadly dull conversation.”

  “Well, no one’s perfect.”

  “I know that.” Did everyone think her a silly girl dreaming of a knight in white armor? “I’m certain Mr. Barker will make a wonderful husband—for someone else.” She snatched her bonnet off its hook. “I have no interest in marriage.”

  “You will someday, Cat. You just need to meet the right man.” Mary stared dreamily at herself in the cheval glass and started dancing again. “Someone like my Theo.”

  Theodore Dunly was a nice enough fellow. He worked at Loves Castle as an assistant steward. He was even moderately well-read. But he’d never made Cat’s heart beat faster.

  A good thing, as he was head over heels in love with Mary—as Mary was with him.

  “I think I’m just not the marrying kind.”

  She must have sounded a little wistful because Mary’s face stilled into her annoyingly serious, slightly pitying expression.

  Blast it, she wasn’t wistful. Or . . . well, maybe she was just a little, when she saw how happy her married sisters were.

  “You will find a man to love, Cat. I’m sure of it.”

  But once Cat reminded herself how much Mama and Tory and Ruth had to work—all the cooking and cleaning and sewing and nursing they did, how they never had a moment to themselves—then she was very happy she had no intention of marrying.

  “I doubt it. But in any event, that man is not Mr. Barker.”

  Mary came over and touched her arm. “Perhaps not, but don’t give up hope.”

  Cat snorted. “Hope? What am I to hope for? That one of the village toads suddenly turns into a prince? I’ve seen all the available men, Mary, and not one of them tempts me for even an instant to give up my freedom.”

  Mary shook her arm, impatience creeping into her voice. “But you don’t want to live with Mama and Papa for the rest of your life, do you?”

  “I’d rather live with them than Mr. Barker and his mother.”

  Mary waved that away. “All right, I’ll agree Mr. Barker isn’t a suitable candidate for your hand, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a man out there somewhere for you.” Mary grinned. “Perhaps he’s riding into Loves Bridge right now.”

  She would not roll her eyes. She was not ten years old. “Don’t be ridiculous. No one ever comes to Loves Bridge.”

  “I don’t know why. We’re not that far from London.”

  “Oh, come, Mary. You do know why. There’s nothing to see or do here. We’re a sleepy, little, boring village.”

  Boring didn’t begin to describe Loves Bridge. Each day was exactly the same as the one before it. There were never any surprises. How could there be? Everyone knew every little detail about everyone else all the way back to their great-great-great-grandparents. Life was all gossip and weather and sheep. Perhaps if she lived in London, she’d have something to write about.

  But she wasn’t going to Town. And, truthfully, the thought of London made her nervous. She’d never been there, but she’d read about its crowds and noise and filth.

  Mary put her hands on her hips. “How can you say Loves Bridge is boring? What about . . . what about our fairs?”

  “What about them?” The fairs were enjoyable enough, but only the villagers attended.

  “I met Theo at the one last summer.”

  “You didn’t meet him there—you just noticed him there. You’ve known him for years.” Or perhaps it was Theo who had noticed Mary. Whichever it was, the two had been inseparable ever since.

  Mary stomped her foot. “Oh, you can be so maddening, Cat.”

  “Yes, I can, so it’s a good thing I have no plans to wed.”

  “But what about love?”

  Cat felt herself flush. Love—the love between a man and a woman—was not something she knew much about. She’d seen Papa catch Mama around the waist from time to time, and try to steal a kiss while Mama laughed and pretended to push him away. And Mama and Papa did have ten children . . .

  It was all exceedingly embarrassing.

  Mary was blushing, too, but for other reasons. “Love is wonderful, Cat. When Theo kisses me . . .” Her eyes grew soft and dreamy.

  Good God. She would gag if Mary kept this up.

  Frankly, kissing had never sounded the least bit appealing, not that she’d tried it. But having a man’s lips mashed up against hers? Ugh. And how did one keep from bumping noses?

  She did not intend to find out.

  Mary was quite correct about one thing, though—she did not want to live with Mama and Papa for the rest of her life. She just needed to think of some way to avoid that fate that didn’t involve yoking herself to a male. The Spinster House would be the perfect solution, but there was no vacancy. Miss Franklin would likely live there for many more years.

  Mary had waltzed back to the cheval glass and was looking at herself from various angles. “You never know what fate has in store for you, Cat. Perhaps the man you’ll fall in love with is standing on the vicarage steps right now.”

  “I thought you said he was just riding into the village. He must move very quickly. Loves Bridge is small, but it’s not that small.” Fall in love? That sounded as pleasant as falling into a dunghill.

  Mary glared at her. “Must you be so literal?”

  Someone should keep focused on the real world. “Pardon me. Of course, he’s on the steps—right next to the king of the fairies.”

  “Oh, you’re impossible. It would serve you right if you did go to your grave a spinster.”

  “It would certainly serve me well.”

  She left the room and started down the stairs. It should take her only half an hour—twenty minutes if she walked briskly—to get to the Barker farm. If she was lucky, Mrs. Barker would take one look at her stained dress, sniff, and send her on her way—after first grabbing the basket, of course. If she encountered Mr. Barker, a quick escape would be a bit more difficult, but she should still be able to—

  There was a knock on the front door. It was probably Mrs. Greeley, come to put the finishing touches on Mary’s gown. She hurried down the last few steps to let the woman in.

  “Mary’s waiting for you—oh!”

  She blinked. It wasn’t stout, bespectacled Mrs. Greeley. It was a tall, athletically built man. He took his hat off to reveal thick brown hair, bowed slightly, and smiled.

  He had the most attractive dimples.

  She’d always thought dimples effeminate, but these were completely masculine and strangely seductive, inviting her to come closer, daring her to do something dangerous—

  She took a deep breath. What was the matter with her?

  The man was clearly wondering the same thing. His right eyebrow arched up. He’d been saying something, and she hadn’t heard a word of it.

  She laughed nervously, feeling very much off-balance. “I’m so sorry, sir. I wasn’t attending. I thought you were Mrs. Greeley. Not that you look like Mrs. Greeley, of course, but, you see, I was expecting her.”

  Blast it, now she was blathering like a complete ninny. She had to get a grip on herself.

  His eyes—his very nice brown eyes, with long lashes that also should seem effeminate but didn’t—had widened and now gleamed with suppressed laughter.

  The situation was rather ridiculous.

  She pulled the door open wider. All she need do was remember her manners. He was just another man.

  The man she’d fall in love with . . .

  Ridiculous! He was just as likely—no, more likely—to be the king of the fairies. “Please come in. Are you here to see my father?”

  “If your father is the vicar, then yes, I am.” He stepped over the threshold. “And who is Mrs. Greeley, if I may ask?”

  His voice, now tha
t she was finally listening to it, was warm, educated, and as seductive as his dimples.

  And she was as shatter-brained as Mary, but with less reason. With no reason. Mary was on the verge of marriage; Cat was on the verge of making an utter fool of herself.

  She did wish she’d taken time to change her dress, though. His eyes had flicked down to her disreputable bodice.

  Idiot! The man wouldn’t care if she was dressed in sackcloth—which this dress much resembled even without the stains. She’d never been very interested in fashion.

  “Mrs. Greeley is the village dressmaker. She’s coming to finish Mary—my sister’s—wedding dress.”

  He was taller than any man she’d met before, with broader shoulders—

  No, he couldn’t have broader shoulders than Mr. Barker. It must be the cut of his coat.

  He certainly smelled better than Mr. Barker. Not a whiff of the barnyard about him.

  “I see. And you are . . . ?”

  “Miss Hutting, the vicar’s oldest daughter.” She forced her lips into a polite smile. The sooner she dumped this fellow with Papa, the sooner she’d get her errand done and her wits back. “If you would like to put your hat on the table there and come with me, I’ll take you to see my father.”

  “I don’t mean to keep you.” He gestured to her cloak and bonnet.

  “My errand can wait.” She hung her things up on a hook by the door. “Who should I tell him is calling?”

  “Hart.” His eyes watched her carefully, as if expecting her to say something. Odd.

  She turned toward Papa’s study. “Are you new to Loves Bridge, Mr. Hart?” Of course he was. A man who looked like he did couldn’t put his big toe in the village without everyone talking about it.

  “Er, not exactly, though I haven’t been here in many years. And I’m not Mr. Hart.”

  She turned, her hand raised to knock on the study door. “I’m sorry. Did I mishear?” Hart was not that complicated a name, but it did seem that her wits had gone wandering this afternoon.

  The right corner of his mouth tilted up in a very attractive manner, his eyes still oddly watchful. “No. You merely misunderstood. Hart is my title, not my name.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t thought of that. Silly of her. He was clearly a London gentleman, though, in her defense, it was as she’d told Mary—no one, and certainly not a member of the nobility, ever came to Loves Bridge. “My apologies, Lord Hart.”