Thus, with no one else to take her place, she returned to her duty that day, joining her friend on the walk to Midwitch Manor.
“Mr. Wainwright says there is not much left to be done,” Lucy told her as they arrived at the tall wrought iron gates. “Our task will soon be complete and the house in a fit state to be sold or leased. He says Catherine is a much more efficient worker than you, Jussy, and less distracted. I heard him talk to Mr. Forester of his plans to return to London. Such a pity! I had hoped he would stay until the New Year at least.”
Justina tripped over a tussock of grass, but recovered swiftly. Of course, she’d always known he meant to go back to his life in London once the house was ready for sale, but it was still a sudden shock to find the moment almost upon them. Wainwright had turned everything and everyone on their heads. At least, it felt as if he had.
“I was just becoming accustomed to him being here,” Lucy muttered. “I do not know what we shall do with Sir Mortimer when the house is sold.”
“We’ll just have to find a new home for him.” Aware of a stone that had crept through a hole in her boot and now rubbed painfully under her big toe, Justina leaned against the fancy swirls and forbidding bars of the gates and rapidly attacked her laces. “I daresay your wonderful Mr. Wainwright has not given a thought to Sir Mortimer. He would not trouble himself with it.” Why would he? He had not even come back for his hat and gloves and now he was leaving. Planning to leave without another word to her.
And why would Wainwright have anything to say to you, hussy?
She tipped her boot upside down and shook it until the offending stone fell to the grass. It was much smaller than she’d expected. Funny how something no bigger than a pea could become lodged where it caused a person so much pain that she felt a tear in her eye.
Lucy lifted the latch without pulling the bell cord that hung beside it. “He never locks his gate now,” she said.
“How lax of Mr. Wainwright. Is he not afraid of being visited by uncouth villagers at all hours?” Having banged her boot hard against the wall, expending some necessary energy on an item that could not object, Justina replaced it on her foot and followed Lucy through the orchard to visit Sir Mortimer Grubbins in his new sty. The pig greeted them with a merry twitch of his curled tail.
“He looks remarkably clean,” Justina exclaimed.
“Yes. I do believe Mr. Wainwright has him bathed regularly.”
She huffed. “Why am I surprised?”
Inside the house, Mrs. Birch was washing the hall tiles on her hands and knees. “What are you two doing here? He’s gone out with his friend and won’t be back till late. He said no one was coming today. Have you girls nothing else to do but chase after these gentlemen?”
“Well, really! He sent no message to us,” Justina protested. “My sister is indisposed and told me to come in her place. I have plenty of other things to do rather than waste my time here, I can assure you.”
The housekeeper was more troubled, at that moment, by the mud they’d brought in on their boots than anything else. “Look out, dozy clodhoppers! I just scrubbed this floor once and my knees are all in. And don’t get that look in your eye, Miss Justina Penny! The master of the house may not be in, but that’s no reason for you to go off exploring where you’re not wanted.”
Justina made a swift decision. Grabbing Lucy’s sleeve, she tugged the girl into Wainwright’s study, shouting over her shoulder that they would wait until the man returned. “He can tell me to my face that our work is done. I won’t have it said that I did not complete my task.”
“He won’t want you in there while he’s not home, saucy madam.”
“Mrs. Birch, I smell something burning. I suggest you tend to your own work and let us do ours.”
She shut the door firmly and after a moment heard the housekeeper waddling off back to the kitchen with her buckets clanging. “I’ll let him sort you out,” the woman complained loudly. “I warned him it was trouble letting you over the threshold in the first place. But, oh no, he thought he could handle you. Ha! Let him try then.”
Lucy walked to the fire to warm her hands. “Perhaps we should not stay, Jussy. I don’t want to make Mr. Wainwright angry.”
“Heaven forbid he be forced to express an emotion! That man is utterly inconsiderate. I daresay he thought we had nothing else to do but traipse all the way here only to be sent away again.”
Justina examined his desk which was now in neat order and polished to a good shine. The day was so grim an Argand lamp had already been lit. It cast a glow across his empty blotter and the neatly arranged seals. With Lucy looking on anxiously, she pulled out his leather chair and sat in it. Then she leaned back, propping her booted heels on the desk. “If he wasn’t going to be here and he didn’t want us roaming his corridors unattended, he should have told us not to come today.”
She thought of what Cathy had told her about Wainwright’s broken heart. Still, she did not know if she could believe that story. Her sister might, but then Cathy was gullible in her own sweet way.
Now, after tossing them all up in the air like a handful of jackstraws, he was leaving. Just like that.
Looking around the study she saw only one pile of papers left to go through. The room was clean, tidy, devoid of anything else to search. She sat up and began opening the drawers of his desk. Each one was in perfect order, carefully laid out. “I’m not certain you ought to sit in his chair,” Lucy ventured cautiously.
But she rather liked sitting there. No sign remained of old Phineas, and the place was now very much Wainwright. She felt naughty sitting in his chair, without his knowledge.
Rain had begun to tickle the windows. It made her restless. The house was so quiet, greedily holding its dark secrets. There was, of course, still the matter of Nellie Pickles’ disappearance, as well as many other curiosities probably hidden away in those Tudor-paneled walls.
She got up. “You wait here, Lucy.”
“Where are you going?”
Justina took the Argand lamp from the desk. “To look around.”
“But Mrs. Birch said—”
“You stay here where it’s warm and make plenty of noise. That way she won’t suspect a thing.”
Lucy pouted. “Why can’t I go with you? I might like to explore too!”
“And what happens if you see a ghost, Lucy Bridges?”
Her eyes widened. “You said there are none here.”
“If there are any, they will be elsewhere in this house, won’t they? Where people seldom roam. Dark, sinister, silent corners.”
The other girl paled slightly under her excessive rouge.
“Besides, what if he comes back suddenly?” Justina added. “I’ll need you to warn me, shan’t I? And you can keep him distracted.”
“Yes…yes. I suppose you are right. I’ll wait here.”
“Sing something so that Mrs. Birch thinks we’re both in here.” Taking the oil lamp, she left his study and went exploring.
Behind her, as she closed the study door, she heard Lucy cough and then begin to sing. “Soldier, soldier, won’t you marry me, with your musket, fife, and drum? Oh, no, sweet maid, I cannot marry thee, for I have no hat to put on.”
***
In Manderson, Darius had visited the solicitor, the bank, the tailor, the cobbler, and finally, his tasks complete, he allowed Miles to drag him into a rowdy tavern. There was no rush to get back. No one at the house to expect him.
“You did relay the message to Miss Penny as I asked, did you not, Forester?”
His friend smiled. “Of course.”
Something about that smile seemed slightly off. Miles was never a good liar. “You told her that no one was needed at Midwitch today? You did not forget?”
“Yes, of course,” Miles repeated amiably. “I urged her to stay home and tend her cold.”
Darius examined his friend’s countenance until it disappeared in a tankard of cider.
“I must say,” Miles added, smacking his lips, “I’m quite accustomed already to this simple life in the country.”
“Because life is generally so very complicated for you,” Darius muttered drily.
“Pity you plan to sell the house. I’d like to have a peaceful place to come and stay away from Town.”
“You could always buy Midwitch, Forester.”
But he knew his friend didn’t want the responsibility of his own house yet. Miles spent his time traveling between friends, making the most of their hospitality. He never made himself unwelcome, was always charming and helpful, never stayed too long. It was a wayfarer’s lifestyle that kept things simple and easy for Miles, but must surely be exhausting after so many years of dashing about. Darius preferred to plant roots. He liked to know he could find things again once he put them down.
“If you kept Midwitch,” said Miles, “I could visit you every winter, before the Season starts, and every summer when the odors of Town become too rife for my delicate nostrils.”
“So you’d be here for half the year.”
“If you insist! I know how you cannot do without my company, Wainwright.”
Darius sipped his cider and found it surprisingly pleasant. Slowly he was acquiring a taste and a tolerance for the strength of the local brew, but perhaps it was inevitable since Miles insisted on drinking a great deal of it. “What has given you this passion for the country all of a sudden?”
Miles put on his innocent face. “Can’t a man appreciate the beauties of nature?”
“Which one? Miss Catherine Penny or Miss Rebecca Sherringham? I believe Miss Lucy is too young for you. Too young for anyone yet.”
“Why? She is only a year younger than Miss Justina and I do not think you would say she is not old enough,” Miles replied slyly. “I notice you do not offer her name as a possible love interest for me, Wainwright.”
Darius cleared his throat. “I merely had not thought of her.”
“Oh, of course not.”
“She would not suit you, in any case.”
“Why not?” Miles studied his face so intently that Darius felt it necessary to turn away and signal for more cider. “Perhaps I might like her best of all, Wainwright.”
His stomach tightened. Anxiety and frustration had twisted his insides into a heavy knot, and each time he remembered his abandoned attempt at a proposal that knot hurt with greater intensity.
Miles Forester would never understand how it felt to keep thoughts and words and longings inside until they stabbed at one’s innards like a thousand little knives.
At that moment they were joined by Captain Sherringham, who seemed to have the irritating habit of turning up to interrupt his conversations. Having spied them across the tavern, he now came over with his big, stupid grin to begin to greet Miles. Of course, Darius thought churlishly, Forester had quickly made friends in the village, knew minute, trivial details about everyone, and was well liked already.
“I don’t suppose you’ve given Captain Sherringham much of a chance since he monopolized your fresh little daisy at the harvest dance,” Miles had said to him only a few days before. “But he is a merry fellow. I like him.”
“You like everybody,” had been his terse reply.
Now there was no escaping further acquaintance. It was the one drawback to friendship with Miles. The man was so easygoing he befriended anyone, and then Darius inevitably found himself forced into company with those he would rather not know better.
Before too long, the captain had invited them both to a night of cards at the Sherringhams’ house, and Miles accepted eagerly. For them both.
“We have nothing else to do, Wainwright,” he exclaimed. “It will be tremendous fun.”
Fun, like nonsense, thought Darius, meant different things to different people.
He could only hope he might contract some terrible disease before Thursday evening.
As he rode back to the village with Miles, Darius remarked to his friend that he had never been dragged against his will to so many social functions as he had been since he came to Hawcombe Prior.
“It’s doing you a world of good then, this country life,” Miles replied with a laugh.
Darius looked away.
How could this place do him any good? He’d made a fool of himself with that young woman and yet still he felt a pang of wistfulness. It was surely unmanly and just as humiliating as a return to boyhood stammering. But he couldn’t help wishing he might turn back his clocks and begin again with her.
Twenty-four
She quickly found her way to his bedchamber. There were only two rooms on the upper floor that appeared lived in, the furniture not shrouded in dust covers. Miles Forester’s room was easily identified by the casual mess of clothes and books strewn about. Wainwright’s room, on the other hand, was neat as a pin, just as recognizable as a mirror of his character.
Justina shivered in wicked anticipation. This was his bed. His washstand. There was a waistcoat folded and laid upon a chair, and she ran her fingers across the silk. He was not very adventurous with his garments and wore mostly dark colors, even in his waistcoats. It seemed sad to her.
If she was his wife she would sew him a few brighter things to wear.
What a strange thought that was, she mused, shaking her head.
Wainwright had his waistcoats properly and expensively tailored. What would he possibly want with one of her poorly sewn, badly fitted creations?
The room was dimly lit by slate gray lines that fell through the windows, the drizzle of autumn rain leaving mottled shadows around the walls. It was an eerie light, for it made movement where there should be none. The gentle patter of rain might be mistaken for other footsteps, and the lilting drift of wind occasionally tugging on corners of the house, finding its way in through slender cracks and old window frames, made unearthly whispers.
She was grateful for the oil lamp as that soft glow traveled with her across the creaking floor boards, and also for the low murmur of Lucy singing in the room below. “….Oh, no, sweet maid, I cannot marry thee, for I have no boots to put on.”
This, it seemed, was the only song she could come up with so she repeated it, over and over. Mrs. Birch was very probably about to yell at her to stop her noise. But Lucy sang on.
A bird flew at the window, startling her, making her heart leap. She stood in the center of the room and listened. Her own heartbeat briefly obscured Lucy’s song, thumping out a rhythm harder than that soldier’s drum.
Now, where to search for his secrets? No doubt he had some. Just like Phineas Hawke.
She set the oil lamp on his dresser and found, to her surprise, the old bonnet with the wax cherries that she’d left behind in his orchard weeks ago. He had set it over Hawke’s wooden wig stand and from there he must be able to see it every night when he prepared for bed. How odd. Justina had expected it thrown out by now or sent back to her with a terse note.
But there it was. Pride of place on his dresser, her frayed ribbons neatly tied under the faceless wooden egg that once held old Hawke’s moth-bitten white wigs. She imagined Wainwright, in his solemn way, tying those ribbons in a careful bow. So fastidious, so tidy.
Funny how they’d both left hats behind and neither come back for them.
“Soldier, soldier, won’t you marry me…”
Justina moved to his bed. It was an old four-poster, so high off the floor that a set of wooden steps were required to climb in. Unless, of course, one was accustomed to flying leaps. She very much doubted Wainwright was a leaper. Probably just as well, as he seemed a trifle accident prone.
She slid her hands under his pillow and found her little lavender sachet. So he kept it. Still.
Running her palm over his pillow she imagined a kiss o
f warmth, as if he’d not long risen from it. Only hours ago his great length had laid in that bed, sprawled across it. She suffered the sudden fluttering of Maiden’s Palsy when she thought of his strong thighs and the hard, broad slabs of muscle across his chest. Had she never seen him without clothes, she would have no idea of the brute barbarian form beneath his cultivated, gentlemanly surface. Since their encounter in Bath, she’d caught herself looking at other men and wondering what they kept under their garments. Most, she was quite sure, looked nothing like Darius Wainwright.
Returning to his dresser, she slowly opened each drawer to investigate. In the back of her mind she heard her sister’s reprimands, but why should she not look? Her relationship with Wainwright was hardly one of the normal variety, not that she could explain it to pure, innocent Cathy.
A sudden gust of wind blew hard at the window, and she felt it reaching through the walls to move the fringe of her shawl. At least she hoped that was the wind finding a way inside, and not the ghost of Nellie Pickles trying to get her attention. The house groaned softly and the boards under her feet creaked. Somewhere in the distance she thought she heard rusted metal clang.
She paused, straining to hear.
If anyone came, Lucy would warn her with a hasty shout up the stairs. Had she stopped singing? Had she fallen asleep?
But no, surely that was her coughing downstairs, and then the singing resumed. “Soldier, soldier, won’t you marry me, with your musket, fife, and drum?”
Justina had reached the bottom drawer of the dresser and this necessitated kneeling in order to investigate fully, but if one meant to do a job, it should be done well.
It was stiff to open, the wood warped by age and damp air. After only traveling an inch, it stuck. No amount of tugging and jostling helped ease the drawer further open, but she could just squeeze her hand inside. Linens. Old and forgotten, stale odor wafting up to her nose. The new master of the house had not bothered to wrestle this drawer open when he met with resistance. Why would he? He did not mean to stay long, had no need to use all the drawers, and was, apparently, not cursed with an inquisitive nature.
Once Upon a Kiss (Book Club Belles Society) Page 22
