The Spinster's Guide to Scandalous Behavior

by Jennifer McQuiston

  Lucy breathed a sigh of relief. She would have hated to destroy her aunt’s journals, especially given that she hadn’t even finished them yet, but she supposed she would have done it if she needed to destroy evidence of a murder.

  She was a bit in awe of what her aunt had accomplished with a bit of poisoned pudding. She thought of the other diary entries she had read, and tried to imagine how different Lizard Bay might be today if her aunt hadn’t ridden into town, once upon a time. It sounded as though Aunt E had touched the lives of most of the town’s residents, turning some of those lives upside down, lifting others out of despair.

  Lucy was reminded, then, of all the faces who had gathered close yesterday when she stepped off the coach. No one had offered to help her find Heathmore yesterday evening, but perhaps she hadn’t found the right person yet. Somewhere in this town there were people in Aunt E’s debt, people who might be convinced to help the woman’s niece. Someone, after all, must have helped her aunt by mailing the package after Aunt E had died.

  And surely there was someone in this town who would help her, too.

  “Mrs. Wilkins,” she said slowly. “May I ask you a question?” When the older woman nodded, she plowed on. “It sounds as though you were good friends with my aunt.”

  Mrs. Wilkins beamed. “Oh, I was.”

  “Did you perchance mail a package on her behalf?” Lucy gestured with her hands. “It was about this big, and wrapped in brown paper. It had to have been posted after her death.”

  “Oh no, she didn’t have time to ask me to do anything like that. She wasn’t sick for long, you know. Just woke up one morning with chest pains.” Mrs. Wilkins collected another plate. “We barely had time to call the vicar to come and see her, and then she was gone by evening. I’ve a theory on that, you know. She was a good woman, and I think her big heart must have plain tuckered out from all that worrying over everyone else.” Her wrinkled face softened. “We all miss her. The town isn’t the same without her. We’ve been talking about what we might do to honor her. A monument of some sort, placed in the center of town.”

  Lucy bit her lip. She’d not known Aunt E very well when she was growing up, but she was beginning to get a stronger sense of the woman. And though she hadn’t mourned properly when news had come of her aunt’s death, a part of her was mourning the loss of Aunt E now.

  “Mrs. Wilkins . . . may I ask you for a favor?”

  “Of course. Anything for Miss E’s niece.”

  “I had thought to inspect Heathmore Cottage this morning. Would you perchance be willing to show me where it is?”

  Mrs. Wilkins froze, a plate in each hand. “Oh, no.” She shook her head, setting gray curls bouncing. “Not after what happened the last time.”

  Lucy frowned at the woman’s theatrics. “Whyever not?”

  “Lord Branston hired me on to wash the windows.” Mrs. Wilkins set the plates down and clasped a hand to her heart, her gnarled fingers curled in fear. “But Miss E’s spirit pestered me something awful. Moaning and carrying on. Warning me to stay away. It’s not safe.”

  Lucy gritted her teeth. So, Lord Branston was tied up in all this talk of ghosts, was he? Just when she’d begun to reconsider her doubts, too. She felt oddly disappointed.

  Mrs. Wilkins fixed Lucy with a stern look. “And you shouldn’t go up there either. There’s haints about up there on the cliff, and hidden dangers, too. It’s much better to stay down here in town. The vicar was always worried about Miss E living alone up there. Why, you would have thought it was the Lord’s own war, the way those two carried on about it. He was pleased when she finally moved down to town.”

  “Haints?” Lucy scoffed. Surely Mrs. Wilkins didn’t believe that nonsense from the orphans. “I don’t believe in ghosts, Mrs. Wilkins. And my aunt left me the property for a reason. She must have imagined I would want to visit.”

  Mrs. Wilkins looked doubtful. “Better to sell it to Lord Branston, I should think. In fact, everyone in Lizard Bay thought you already had.”

  Lucy shook her head. “No. I’ve not sold it yet.” And she’d come to make sure she wasn’t swindled into it, hadn’t she? “But I do need to sort out what it’s worth before I make that decision. Is there someone else in town who might be willing to show me the property?” she pressed. “What about Reverend Wellsbury?” According to her aunt’s diary, he well knew the way. And surely a vicar didn’t believe in ghosts.

  Mrs. Wilkins picked up the plates again. “Oh, I wouldn’t ask him, dear. He and Miss E didn’t get along, and you seem rather cut from the same cloth as your aunt.” She headed for the kitchen door, dodging a pair of cats as she went. “Best to just potter around Lizard Bay,” she called over her shoulder. “And remember, there’s tea at two.”

  From the Diary of Edith Lucille Westmore

  January 4, 1817

  Since my arrival in Lizard Bay, Mr. Jamieson has continued to offer me his hand in marriage. But it’s clear he’s not the right man for me. He has no idea what to do with a strong-willed woman. Or a dog, for that matter.

  I’ve told him over and over again it is too cold to leave his dog tied out of doors. I’d hoped the regard he held for me might encourage him to action, but as I headed home yesterday after the weekly meeting of the Fisherman’s Wives Relief Society, I saw the poor thing shivering outside in the snow again.

  It was then that I decided to teach Mr. Jamieson a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget.

  Despite the weather, it didn’t take much to convince him to meet me outdoors. He even obligingly shrugged out of his coat and dropped his trousers. I still can’t believe he let me tie him up. Apparently, the grocer is the sort of man who appreciates a woman who sews red ribbons on her petticoats and can tie a good knot. Oh, the look on his face when I blew him a kiss and walked away. But I wasn’t entirely heartless.

  I gave him a blanket, and I untied him after three hours.

  Mr. Jamieson hasn’t asked me to marry him again. But his dog lives in the house now. Sleeps on an embroidered pillow, to hear the gossip.

  I’d consider that a knot well-tied.

  Chapter 12

  By late afternoon Lucy had learned the meaning of Mrs. Wilkins’s word “potter.”

  It meant do nothing productive, despite one’s best efforts.

  She’d been up and down Lizard Bay’s single street no less than a half-dozen times, trailed by a gaggle of caterwauling cats who had decided she was either Miss E in the flesh or a suitable substitute for their adoration. The few townspeople she’d met were quick to greet her with a smile or a nod. When she initiated a conversation, several proved willing to share amusing—and sometimes downright scandalous—anecdotes about her aunt. But to a one, when Lucy’s inquiries turned toward finding Heathmore Cottage, they shook their heads and hurried away. After what seemed like her hundredth refusal, she wanted to scream.

  Worse, her sense of worry—always honed and ready for a good cause—was starting to simmer. Something felt . . . wrong. On the surface, Lizard Bay appeared to be a charming coastal town of a few hundred or so people, built up slowly over hundreds of years until it had settled firmly into the small, comfortable space permitted by the surrounding cliffs. But in the harsher light of day, Lucy was beginning to realize the town appeared to be in some trouble.

  For a start, many of the townspeople she passed had a worried, haggard look, as though finding a way to make ends meet was beginning to wear them down.

  And for another, there seemed to be little evidence of industry.

  She counted a butcher’s shop, a posting house, the grocer’s, Mrs. Wilkins’s boardinghouse, and a schoolhouse—where presumably young Danny was squirming in his seat, suffering through his math lesson. Up on a small rise sat a small stone church, no doubt where the infamous Reverend Wellsbury attempted to save lost souls and determined spinsters.

  But where was the backbone of the town, the main business that fed those other establishments?

  There was a small wharf where, p
resumably, baskets of herring were supposed to be unloaded. She counted the fishing boats—three of them, in total, all tied to the posts. But she could see no evidence of a bustling fishing trade, and when she ventured out onto the dock and looked down into the water, the only fish she’d seen were floating on top, grotesque and bloated.

  But as curious as it all was, she couldn’t take the time to sort through the mystery. Time was marching by and she felt its loss keenly. At some point her absence from Cardwell House would be discovered and her father would presume where she had gone and come to haul her back.

  It was nearly enough to tempt her to set out on her own, directions and escorts be damned. But despite her rising frustration, she wasn’t a fool. She’d seen enough from the mail coach window to know the moors were vast, endless stretches of grass and rock.

  And she hadn’t yet tried everyone who might be convinced to help her.

  As she headed toward a store whose sign identified it as the grocer’s, her mind drifted toward the latest diary entry she’d read. If Mr. Jamieson, the town grocer, had once fancied Aunt E, perhaps he might have a soft heart where the woman’s niece was concerned. And if he proved reticent, well now, she had a bit of blackmail material at her disposal, didn’t she?

  As they had all day, the wharf cats followed her, their tails high in the air. “Shoo,” she muttered outside the grocer’s, flapping her hands. “I don’t have any more sausage.”

  They sat down and meowed up at her, their pitiful cries softening her heart. Oh, damn the wily beasts and their Pied Piper theatrics. It was as though they knew—and were determined to exploit—her weakness. She sighed. “Although, I suppose I could ask inside.”

  A small bell tinkled on the door as Lucy stepped into the store. She was immediately struck by the dueling scents of licorice—which she attributed to the glass jar of candy on the counter—and unwashed dog—which she attributed to the large, gray-faced hound lounging in a patch of sunlight just inside the door. Given the passage of time, it could not possibly be the same dog Aunt E had mentioned in her diary. But the evidence was irrefutable. It seemed that Mr. Jamieson’s revised notions of pet care had stuck all these years.

  She crouched down, running a hand beneath the dog’s ears. The dog pushed its warm, wet nose against her hand. “I’m not Miss E,” she laughed. “But no doubt you owe her a great debt, given how comfortable you look in the sunlight.”

  The dog’s tail thumped on the floor.

  Smiling, she stood up and turned toward the counter. It was a neat, spare shop, made even more so because the shelves were nearly empty. A small rotund man was staring at her from behind the counter, his gray beard sprouting at odd angles from his cheeks.

  “Mr. Jamieson?” she asked, taking a step toward him.

  “It’s t-true then,” he stammered. “Miss E’s—”

  “Niece,” Lucy inserted firmly, then took a step closer. If she heard the word “ghost” one more time today, she was going to strangle someone. “My name is Miss L.” She reached the counter and placed her hands on the top. “And I would know you anywhere.”

  “How . . .” Jamieson swallowed. “That is, how do you know me?”

  Lucy bit her lip to hold in a giggle. Hanging on the wall just beyond the grocer’s head was a length of rope for sale, and her gaze insisted on drifting in its direction.

  He began to squirm. “Your aunt didn’t say anything about me to you, did she?”

  At his look of near-panic, Lucy relented, knowing there was no way she could leverage the information she knew against him. The poor sweet man looked as though he might piss his pants. She shook her head. “No. I scarcely knew my aunt, Mr. Jamieson. I hadn’t seen her since I was six years old.” She pointed toward the door she’d just come through. “It is just that your name is on the sign outside, above the door.”

  “Oh.” He straightened, looking relieved. “Well.” He tugged his old-fashioned smock down over his round frame. “I am sure if you had known her, you would know that I admired Miss E.”

  Lucy’s lips curved upward. “Yes, I have no doubt of it. The whole town seems to hold her in high stead.”

  “Most of the town. Between you and me, the vicar was always a bit hard-headed about her. Never did understand what lay at the heart of their quarrel.”

  Lucy hesitated, but she’d come for a reason, and even if blackmail wasn’t part of her plans, she still needed to ask. “My aunt left me Heathmore Cottage. Perhaps you’ve heard?” At his nod, she pushed on. “Well, I need to inspect my property. Do you know of someone who might be able to escort me to see it?”

  He shook his head. “I never went up there myself, mind you. Your aunt made it quite clear she valued her privacy, and didn’t welcome suitors traipsing about her property.”

  “Ah.” Lucy smiled. “Were you a suitor, then?”

  “Oh, no.” He looked alarmed by the notion. “Not for a lack of trying, mind you. We all were a little in love with Miss E. But I knew better than to cross her. You’ll not find many in town who know the way to Heathmore.”

  Lucy stifled a groan. Finding a person who both admired her aunt and was capable of showing her to the cottage was proving damnably difficult. “But if you never went up there,” she asked, “how did she get groceries and such?”

  “We had a man who made those deliveries, but he moved to Marston last year. Not many could make it carrying a load. Oh, it’s a terrible path. Steep and rocky. Dangerous, too.”

  Lucy frowned. That sounded less than promising. “But . . . if the road is so terrible, how was the house even built?” she pressed.

  “There used to be a road back to town, once upon a time. But after she moved in, Miss E let it all grow over. She preferred to walk down to town, you see, and never kept a horse. Something about objecting to harnessing the poor creatures and forcing them to labor at our bequest.” His whiskers twitched at the memory. “You know, you might ask the Tanner lads. They know the way, and they’ll be in here soon.” As though struck by inspiration, he reached in the candy jar on the counter and drew her out a piece. “Speaking of the boys, you might want to claim a piece before they get here.”

  Lucy stared at his palm, still sorting through the notion that despite being somewhat intimately acquainted with her aunt, Mr. Jamieson didn’t even know the way to Aunt E’s house. “How did you know I liked licorice?”

  “I didn’t.” He looked sheepish. “It is just that your aunt enjoyed a bit, every now and again, and you seem so much like her. I always kept it stocked for her.”

  “It is kind of you, but I really shouldn’t,” Lucy said, thinking of the precious coins she had left. She shook her head. “I need to save my money.”

  “Oh, ’tis already bought and paid for. Miss E ordered it up from London every few months but left it here so she wouldn’t eat too much at once. This is what is left from her last order, God rest her soul.”

  “Oh.” Lucy smiled, relenting. “Well then, I suppose I might have just one.” She accepted the piece of candy and placed it on her tongue, sighing at the pleasure of its melting sweetness.

  Mr. Jamieson chuckled. “Your aunt had a sweet tooth, too. She always rewarded the Tanner lads with a piece when their school day was done. It will be a shame when this order’s all gone.” He checked a pocket watch. “The boys should be here in just a minute now. One of my favorite parts of the day. Those rascals are a handful, but they are sweet boys who need our help.” He slipped the watch back into his apron pocket and put the top back on the jar of candy. “I’d heard you’d come to town, but when you walked through that door and I saw it with my own eyes, I could hardly believe it. Have you come to collect your aunt’s snuff, perchance?”

  Lucy choked on her candy. “I beg your pardon?”

  He ducked behind the counter and came up holding a small tin. “Miss E ordered it from London every month. Refused to buy it out of Marston. Hated that town something awful.” He shook his head at the memory. “She claimed Marston was r
uining Lizard Bay’s economy.” He placed the tin on the counter and regarded it sadly. “She never did pick up her last order.”

  Lucy eyed the snuff tin with curiosity. “I am afraid I never developed the habit.”

  “Oh.” He frowned. “I don’t know what I am going to do with it, then. No one else in town can afford the five shillings it costs, except Lord Branston, and he’s been a teetotaler ever since Miss E shook out his hide and set him on the straight and narrow path.”

  “Lord Branston? A teetotaler?” Lucy scoffed, remembering how he had smelled like brandy that day on the train. She’d like to forget how she’d taken secret, covetous sniffs of him, but she suspected she was bound to keep remembering. The bloody man had been burned onto her brain. “Surely you jest.”

  But Jamieson shook his head, all seriousness. “No spirits. No snuff either. Not for a couple of years now.” He looked forlorn. “I suppose I will just be out the money, then.”

  Lucy considered again the two precious sovereigns tucked in her reticule. She shouldn’t spend them, given they were all she had left in the world. But she couldn’t stand to think of Mr. Jamieson suffering a financial hardship on her account. Neither could she imagine going back out and facing her expectant feline friends empty-handed. They were liable to follow her back to Mrs. Wilkins’s house if she did, and then she’d be forced to share her dinner.

  She reached into her purse and pulled out one of the precious sovereigns, placing it on the counter. “I suppose I can give the snuff a try, just this once. And do you perchance have any salve?” She scratched at her neck, cursing Geoffrey and his pranks. “I’d like to buy some fish for the wharf cats as well.”

  Mr. Jamieson began to wrap the tin up in brown paper. “I am afraid we don’t have any salve. Items like that have to be ordered from Marston, and they take a few days to get here. And there’s been no fishing here for months.”