The Spinster's Secret (5 page)

The door from the yard swung open, and someone entered the taproom. Edward looked up. It was Miss Chapple. Her gown was muddy almost to the knee.

The innkeeper abandoned his tankard and his conversation with the blacksmith.

Edward read what he’d written. He crossed out
week
and wrote
a few days
instead. There were only nine names on his list. If he was lucky, Chérie would be the first person he approached. If he was unlucky, she’d be the ninth. Either way, it would scarcely take a week.

Miss Chapple’s voice was a low contralto murmur in the background.

Edward folded the letter, pushed back his chair, and walked to where she stood. “Miss Chapple.”

She started and spun around, her eyes wide. “Mr. Kane! What…what are you doing here?”

“I brought back the mail.”

“Oh.” She swallowed. “My uncle’s footman could have done that. He comes in each day.”

Edward shrugged. “I wanted to see Soddy Morton.”

He pushed the folded letter across the taproom counter. “You have a wafer?”

The innkeeper did.

Edward watched his letter sealed and then turned to Miss Chapple. “What brings you here?”

“Like you, a letter. I write to a friend in London every week.” She nodded to the innkeeper. “Thank you, Mr. Potts.”

After Miss Chapple had departed, Edward entered into negotiations for the hire of a mount from the innkeeper’s stable. Only one horse was up to his weight.

“His name’s Trojan,” the ostler informed him as he tightened the girths. “Because he’s so big. But he’s as gentle as a babe.”

“Trojan.” Edward smoothed his hand down the grey gelding’s neck. “What’s his pace like?”

“He don’t like to go fast.”

Edward glanced at the sky. The hills in the distance had disappeared behind a haze of rain.

“He’ll have to, unless he wants to get wet.” He swung up into the saddle and tossed a coin to the ostler.

Trojan was an amiable beast, but the ostler had been correct. He didn’t like to go fast. With effort, Edward urged the gelding into a trot. Miss Chapple was halfway back to the Hall before they caught up with her.

“Oh, no!” she said, as he reined in and dismounted. “Pray don’t walk, Mr. Kane. It’s so muddy!”

“I’m used to mud, Miss Chapple.” Edward matched his stride to hers. “I apologize for not informing you that I intended to visit the village. I could have spared you the exertion.”

“You would have deprived me of a pleasure,” she said. “I like to walk.”

“Er…you do?” Edward said, avoiding a mud puddle.

“The exercise is refreshing.” Miss Chapple cast him a sideways glance beneath her dowdy bonnet, in the manner of one imparting a secret. “And…I confess that I like to leave the Hall.”

The mud sucked at his boots, reminding him of Waterloo. The reek of the battlefield filled his nose between one step and the next: cannon smoke, blood, death. Edward shoved the memory aside.

“Do you never ride?” And then he remembered the emptiness of Strickland’s stables. “Your uncle keeps no riding horses?”

“He thinks it an unnecessary luxury.”

Of course. Such parsimony seemed entirely in keeping with what he’d seen of Arthur Strickland.

“If you’d like to ride, I can offer you Trojan as a mount. I have it on good authority that he’s as gentle as a baby, for all his size.”

Miss Chapple glanced past him at the big grey gelding.

Her expression became wistful. “I should love to.”

“Then please do,” Edward said. “I’ll be at Creed Hall for a few more days. I’ll tell the groom that you may ride Trojan as often as you wish.”

Miss Chapple shook her head. “Thank you, Mr. Kane. Your offer is most generous. But I have no riding habit, and even if I did, my uncle doesn’t keep a sidesaddle.”

“Ah,” Edward said.

He walked in silence for several seconds, then asked,
“How long have you lived at Creed Hall?”

“Ten years,” Miss Chapple said. “My uncle was kind enough to take me in when my parents died.”

They turned up a farm lane, passed a barn, and set off across an open field. The mud became deeper, sucking greedily at their boots.

Creed Hall was dimly visible on crest of the hill, a dark, angular shape, surrounded by winter-bare trees. A bleak place to call home.

“You must be lonely here,” Edward said involuntarily.

She glanced at him. “Not now that Mrs. Dunn lives with us.”

Which meant that she had been lonely before that. Edward felt a stirring of pity for her.

“Has your aunt lived with you long?”

“Three years,” Miss Chapple said, holding her skirts up above her ankles as she strode through the mud. “Since she was widowed.”

They came to a gate and a stile.

“My uncle plans to turn Creed Hall into a school for missionaries’ children,” Miss Chapple said, as she climbed the stile.

“He does?” Edward led Trojan through the gate and latched it again.

Miss Chapple nodded. “He wishes to provide missionaries’ children with a free and rigorous education.”

Edward followed her gaze, trying to imagine Creed Hall full of children. It looked like a prison atop the hill, grim and dark, jutting from the leafless trees that encircled it.
Poor creatures
.

Miss Chapple tipped her face up to the sky. “It’s starting to rain.”

“Would you like to take shelter?” He looked back at the barn. “I can ride ahead and fetch…”

What? No carriage could plough its way through these boggy fields.

“An umbrella?”

Laughter sprang into her face, bringing a glimpse of dimples. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Kane, but a little rain won’t hurt me. I shan’t melt away.”

They set off across the next field. It was novel to walk with so tall a female. He didn’t have to bend his head to speak to her or shorten his stride to match hers.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters, Miss Chapple?”

She shook her head. “I counted Toby as my brother.”

As did I.

Edward cleared his throat. “He always said you were his favorite cousin.”

Miss Chapple glanced at him from beneath the brim of her bonnet. “You think that high praise? I was Toby’s only cousin, Mr. Kane. That was his way of a joke.”

“Oh.” Edward blinked and then frowned.

He trudged through the mud, thinking back to the times he’d heard Toby mention Miss Chapple. “A joke, perhaps, but I believe the sentiment was truly meant. He always said…you made him laugh.”

Her lips twisted into a sad smile. “He made me laugh too. High Toby.”

Her expression altered, her eyes narrowing. “Was it you who held up that coach with him, or was it Sir Gareth?”

Edward missed a step. “Er…what?”

“A coach,” Miss Chapple said. “He held one up on a lark. Oh, years ago! When he was up at Oxford.”

“He, er…he told you about that?”

Miss Chapple nodded. “He said it was my fault, because it was I who first called him High Toby.”

She snorted, an expressive puff of sound that reminded him of Toby. “So was it you, Mr. Kane, who went with him, or Sir Gareth?”

Edward opened his mouth to lie, encountered surprisingly astute grey eyes, and spoke the truth. “It was me.”

Miss Chapple shook her head and tutted. “I am shocked, Mr. Kane. Truly shocked!”

Her cheeks dimpled.

Edward felt himself flush. “We were very young and er…very foolish.”

Miss Chapple’s dimples became more pronounced. “Toby said the occupant was a fat little clerk who threw a ledger at him.”

“Hit him on the head.” He had a flash of memory. Moonlight, the clerk’s shrill vituperation, the pages of the ledger fluttering whitely. “Knocked him off his horse.”

Miss Chapple laughed. “He didn’t tell me that!”

Edward grinned and shrugged. “I’m not surprised. It was an ignominious moment for him.”

They walked a few paces in silence, apart from the squelch of mud and patter of raindrops. Edward’s grin faded.

He glanced sideways at Miss Chapple. “I wouldn’t do such a thing now.”

She met his glance. “No. Of course not.”

They went through another gate. One more field remained, bare and fallow, and then the wooded rise to Creed Hall.

“You do a lot of walking?” he asked Miss Chapple as they strode across the paddock.

Her cheeks were pink with exertion, but she wasn’t out of breath.

“Every day,” she said cheerfully. “A circuit of the park.”

“Creed Hall has a park?”

“Woods and a lake.”

By the time they reached the far side of the field, the rain was coming down heavily. It didn’t fall straight down from the sky but came at them slanting, striking their faces beneath the brims of their hats. The drops were hard and stingingly cold, almost sleet.

They paused at the bottom of the rise, beneath the shelter of a large, gnarled oak. Water dripped from its branches.

Miss Chapple wiped her face with a corner of her cloak. “Toby always used to say that Creed Hall was the ugliest building in Britain.”

Edward followed her gaze. The Hall was visible through the trees. The narrow windows, the frowning roof, hadn’t been designed with beauty in mind. More than half the windows were bricked over, giving the impression that its inhabitants were trying to shut out the world.

“Toby didn’t like coming here.” Miss Chapple said. “The last time he visited, he left after only two days.”

Edward heard sadness in her voice, saw it in the way she pressed her lips together for a brief second.

“He was meant to stay for a week.”

“Why did he leave?”

“They argued.” She pulled a face. “Uncle Arthur wanted Toby to resign his commission and become a curate. He said the curate’s position in Soddy Morton was coming open. Toby said he’d rather hang himself.”

Edward thought that it sounded exactly like something Toby would have said.

He looked up at Creed Hall again and grimaced. “I should hate to live here.”

Miss Chapple hesitated and then said, “I consider myself very fortunate to be at Creed Hall.”

“Er…of course you do.”

Water trickled down his cheek. He wiped it away with a wet sleeve.

“My father suffered a reversal of fortune on the ‘Change shortly before he died. If my uncle hadn’t taken me in, I might have ended up in the poorhouse.” Miss Chapple’s light voice and the upward twist of her lips turned the last sentence into a joke.

Edward glanced up at Creed Hall again. Better than a poorhouse, yes…but it was a grim, lonely place to call home.

Pity stirred in his chest again.

They began to climb, trudging through the leaf mold and mud. The wood felt like a cemetery—the bare skeletons of trees, the mounds of dead leaves. Even the muffled clop of Trojan’s hooves seemed funereal. Rain dripped off the brim of Edward’s hat. The ascent made his leg ache. He began to limp.

“Mr. Kane? Are you all right?”

Absurdly, he felt himself flush, as if the limp was something to be ashamed of. “I broke my leg at Waterloo.”

Miss Chapple halted. “Should you be walking?”

Edward halted too. “Waterloo was more than five months ago.”

“That’s not an answer,” she said tartly. “If the injury hurts, then you shouldn’t be walking.”

Edward shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt much.”

Miss Chapple snorted. “Get up on that horse you hired and
ride
.”

Edward grinned. He was beginning to like Miss Chapple.

“You remind me of my brigade major.”

Her face became expressionless. “Your brigade major?”

Edward kicked himself mentally.
Idiot
.

“I. . .er, it was a compliment, Miss Chapple. Lithgow was a grand chap.”
And he was a man, you lummock
.

Miss Chapple’s eyebrows lifted briefly in silent skepticism.

“You should ride, Mr. Kane,” she said, turning away from him and beginning to climb the hill again. “There’s no need for you to keep me company.”

Edward grimaced and followed her, tugging Trojan’s reins. After three steps his leg began to protest again. “I didn’t mean what you think, Miss Chapple.” What
did
she think? That he thought her bossy? Man-like?

She stopped and looked back at him. “Mr. Kane, you don’t need to explain yourself.”

“Yes,” Edward said, halting alongside her. “I do. It wasn’t my intention to insult you.”

“I’m not insulted.”

Yes, you are.

“What I meant was…It was a joke, Miss Chapple. I beg your pardon. I…I’ve been around men too much. I’ve lost the knack of speaking with ladies.”

Her eyebrows rose again. “You’ve lost the knack of speaking with ladies?”

“Yes.”

“And tell me, Mr. Kane, what does the knack of speaking with ladies entail?” Her voice was light, polite, but something in her inflection told him he’d strayed onto dangerous ground.

“Er…” Edward said, aware that he’d blundered again.

Pretty compliments? No, she might take that as an insult against her sex. Mincing one’s words? No, that could be taken as an insult too.

“Er…”

Miss Chapple’s mouth tucked in at the corners, as if she suppressed a smile. “It’s all right, Mr. Kane. You don’t need to answer. And for heaven’s sake, get up on that horse of yours!”

Chapter Three

Edward rode the last few hundred yards. It seemed the most prudent thing to do. He didn’t wish to annoy Miss Chapple any more than he already had.

He turned Trojan over to the elderly groom and hurried around to the main entrance as fast as his aching leg would allow, catching up with Miss Chapple on the doorstep. Her bonnet was bedraggled, her gown wet and filthy, her cheeks flushed with exertion.

“How do you feel?” she asked, taking off the bonnet and shaking water from it. “Perhaps you should rest?”

“I’m not an invalid,” Edward said, as the door opened.

They stepped into the gloomy entrance hall.

Miss Chapple turned to the butler. “Griggs, can you please send a pot of hot tea to Mr. Kane’s bedchamber?”

“To the library,” Edward said, firmly.

Miss Chapple frowned and opened her mouth.

“I hope you’ll join me?”

Miss Chapple closed her mouth.

She shrugged. “Very well.”

…

Fifteen minutes later, having changed her wet clothes for dry ones, Mattie went downstairs. The library was chilly. A small fire burned grudgingly in the grate.

Mr. Kane stood at one of the windows looking out at the rain. He blocked most of the weak daylight. Outlined against the window, he looked giant-like, too tall and broad to be a mere man. The moniker Toby had given him—Goliath—fit him perfectly.

Mattie pulled her shawl tightly about her shoulders and advanced into the room. A floorboard creaked. Mr. Kane turned his head.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Very well,” Mr. Kane said. “And you?”

“I’m not the one who recently broke a leg,” Mattie said, sitting in one of the leather armchairs beside the fireplace.

Griggs had already brought the tea. The tray sat on the little oak tripod table.

“No.” Mr. Kane smiled faintly and sat opposite her.

A short, awkward silence fell. Mattie busied herself pouring the tea. Mrs. Whatley, the cook, had placed a plate of plum cake on the tray. The slices were small. Mattie handed Mr. Kane his tea, no milk, no sugar, and a piece of cake. He thanked her politely.

Mattie cast around for a topic of conversation. “How long have you been back in England, Mr. Kane?”

“A month. I would have come into Northamptonshire sooner, but I visited my parents first.”

“Of course you should have visited them first! They must have been terribly worried about you.”

“Yes.” He touched what remained of his right ear, a gesture she thought that he was unaware of.

What had his parents’ emotions been when they’d first seen him? The missing fingers, the missing ear, the scars slicing across his face. Had they been distressed by his injuries or merely relieved he’d survived?

Mr. Kane lowered his hand.

“I have something for you.” He reached inside his coat and withdrew a sheaf of letters. “Your letters to Toby. I thought you might like them back.”

Mattie’s throat constricted. For a moment she couldn’t speak.

She put her teacup and saucer on the table. “He kept them?”

Mr. Kane nodded.

Mattie took the letters. She opened one.
Dearest Toby, it’s now spring and the woods are full of primroses and birdsong.
She folded it again.

She placed the bundle on the table alongside her teacup and cleared her throat. “Thank you, Mr. Kane.”

“You’re welcome.”

She looked across at him, seeing the scars, the marks of warfare scored into his skin. He’d clearly come close to death at Waterloo. A question hovered on her tongue.
Carpe diem
, Toby had always said. Seize the day.

Mattie took a deep breath. “Mr. Kane…would you mind telling me about Waterloo? About what happened to you and Toby?”

His face seemed to stiffen, as if the tiny muscles around his eyes, his mouth, flinched and tightened. “Waterloo?”

“Not if it’s too painful,” Mattie said hastily. “In fact, forget I asked. It’s not . . .”

“I don’t mind telling you, Miss Chapple, but it’s not pleasant listening.” His dark brown eyes held hers. “Are you certain you wish to know?”

Mattie hesitated and nodded. It was selfish of her, she knew, but she wanted to understand what had happened to Toby. She
needed
to understand.

“Very well.” Mr. Kane shifted his weight in the armchair, settling, becoming more comfortable, but she had the impression that it was for show, that beneath the appearance of relaxation, he was tense. “We both fell in the first charge. My horse was shot from under me.”

He spoke baldly, without emotion, his gaze on the fire. “I didn’t see Toby fall, but I assume his horse was hit too.”

Mattie nodded again.

“I was on the ground, my leg was trapped under my horse, caught in the stirrup, and Toby was trying to pull me free. He…a shell struck him. He died instantly.”

Mattie bit her lip.

Mr. Kane was silent for a moment, a frown furrowing his brow beneath the scars, and then he turned his head and looked at her. “Toby died trying to save my life.”

“From what I’ve heard of the battle, he would likely have died anyway,” Mattie said quietly.

Mr. Kane lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

He resumed the tale. “After Toby was killed, I was attacked by a cuirassier, who cut me about the head with his sword.” He gestured to the scars on his face, to his missing ear. “And after that I was bayoneted by an infantryman.”

His smile was wry. “I was still half under my horse, you see. Couldn’t get my foot out of the stirrup.”

Mattie nodded. Her throat was tight. She reached for her teacup and sipped, her eyes on his face.

“After the infantryman, came a lancer . . .” Mr. Kane held out his right hand, showing her the missing fingers, “. . . and after him, another infantryman.”

He grimaced. “I didn’t have much fight left in me by then.”

Mattie swallowed another mouthful of tea, almost choking as it caught in her throat.

“I spent the rest of the battle flat on my back,” Mr. Kane said.

He smiled, as if making a joke of it. “I heard a great deal of the action but saw none of it.”

“Did no one stop to help you?”

His smile became even wryer. “They stopped to plunder me.”

“Plunder you!”

“My watch, my canteen, my money, my jacket.” He shrugged. “Someone even pulled me out from under my horse and took my boots and trousers.”

“Your trousers!”

He mistook her shock and flushed. “I beg your pardon, Miss Chapple. I shouldn’t have mentioned something so indelicate . . .”

She waved the apology aside. “How could anyone plunder a living man?”

Mr. Kane shrugged. “War isn’t pretty. It brings out the worst in some men.”

Mattie shook her head.

“Where was I? Oh, yes, someone pulled me out from under my horse.” He grimaced. “I don’t remember much after that. I drifted in and out of consciousness.”

Mattie sat clutching the teacup, unable to drink, her eyes fixed on his face.

“I do remember that our cavalry charged over us at one point.” He touched his chest. “That was painful. Broke a few ribs.”

He smiled again, lopsided and wry.

“But…” The word died on her tongue.

She swallowed and tried again. “But someone rescued you?”

He nodded. “Yes. Eventually they did.”

“How?”

“Once night fell and the battle was over, I called for help.” He looked away from her, at the fire. “There were a lot of men calling for help. I was one of the lucky ones. Some Scots Greys heard me.”

Mattie shook her head. She looked down at the teacup clenched in her hands. She tried to imagine a battlefield at night, the sound of wounded men begging for help.

“Did you think you were going to die?”

Mr. Kane was silent.

She lifted her head and looked at him. He was still staring at the fire.

After a moment he glanced at her and smiled faintly. “I knew I was going to die.”

She felt herself flinch.

“It didn’t distress me, Miss Chapple. I assure you!”

The sincerity in Mr. Kane’s voice was unmistakable. He was telling the truth.

“It…How can I explain it? I lay on that battlefield for hours. It gave me time to accept my death. To make my peace with it. Even when my rescuers loaded me into the hospital wagon, I knew I was going to die. I had so many injuries. The risk of infection . . .” He shrugged again. “It wasn’t until almost a week later that I realized I was going to survive. It was…surprising.”

The muscles in Mattie’s throat were so tightly locked that she couldn’t speak.

“I have the constitution of an ox.” He said it as a joke, smiling.

She smiled dutifully.

Mr. Kane’s smile faded. “I told you it wasn’t pleasant listening.”

Mattie put down her teacup.

She cleared her throat. “Thank you for telling me.”

Silence fell between them. She should say something, put him at his ease, but her mind was blank. Mattie glanced desperately at the tea tray.

“More plum cake?” she asked abruptly, holding out the plate to him.

“No, thank you.”

She couldn’t think of anything else to say. Images crowded in her mind. Mr. Kane trapped beneath his horse. Mr. Kane being bayoneted. Mr. Kane lying helpless as he was looted, as the British cavalry charged over the top of him. But the strongest image, the one that swamped everything else, was the last one he’d given her, a battlefield at night, the darkness broken by the cries of wounded men. She took a piece of plum cake and bit into it. It was dry. The crumbs gathered chokingly in her throat. Mattie gulped the last of her tea.

She groped for a topic of conversation. “What will you do now that you’ve finished soldiering?”

He was the youngest son of a viscount—that much she knew—but she had no idea what the state of his finances was.

“I plan to take up farming.”

“Farming?” Mattie said, surprised, her gaze jumping to his face.

Mr. Kane nodded. “My maternal grandmother left me an estate in Cornwall. I’m heading down to see the bailiff next week.”

He glanced at the door, stood and bowed. “Mrs. Dunn.”

Mattie looked around.

Cecy Dunn hovered in the doorway to the library. “Am I disturbing you?”

“Not at all,” Mattie said. “Do join us. I’ll ring for more tea.”

Mr. Kane pulled another armchair closer to the fire for Cecy, and Griggs brought a fresh pot of tea.

“Is my aunt sleeping?” Mattie asked as she poured.

Cecy nodded.

Mattie sat back in her chair. Tendrils of steam rose from her cup. The library was still gloomy, rain still streamed down outside, but the room seemed lighter somehow, as if Cecy’s presence had made the dark horrors of Waterloo recede.

“Tell me…do you read sermons every evening, or is it just Wednesdays?”

Mattie exchanged a glance with Cecy. “Every evening.”

“Hmm,” Mr. Kane said, evidently unenthused by this news.

He turned his teacup in its saucer. “Er…I noticed that you were . . . er . . . counting the
the
s last night, Mrs. Dunn.”

Cecy’s mouth fell open.

“You were asleep!” Mattie said, and then realized the accusation was grossly impolite.

She bit the tip of her tongue.

Mr. Kane had the grace to look ashamed.

“For a few moments, yes,” he said. “You have an extremely pleasant reading voice, Miss Chapple.”

Mattie’s cheeks grew warm. Since living at Creed Hall, she’d fallen out of the habit of receiving compliments. She looked down at her teacup.

“I thought I’d participate in your game tonight, Mrs. Dunn. If you don’t mind? So that I don’t fall asleep again.”

“Oh, do, Mr. Kane!” Cecy said eagerly. “I used to fall asleep, too, until Mattie thought of counting words. I’ve found it a most effective way of staying awake.”

“It was your idea, Miss Chapple?”

Mattie glanced up. Mr. Kane was looking at her. She nodded.

“Clever,” he said, raising his teacup to her.

Mattie felt herself flush again.
Fool, to be overcome by such a small compliment
.

“I usually decide on a word before Mattie starts reading,” Cecy said. “We can choose one now, if you like.”

“Please,” Mr. Kane said, his gaze shifting to Cecy.

“
And
and
the
are always good. And
I
, with Fordyce. He uses it a lot.” Cecy looked at Mattie for confirmation.

Mattie nodded.

“Which would you recommend?” Mr. Kane asked.

“
And
,” Mattie said. “The more often a word is used, the less chance you’ll fall asleep, Mr. Kane.”

“Very well,
and
it is.”

Mr. Kane grinned. The grin sat oddly on his scarred face. Those savage slashes carved across his brow and cheeks, that missing ear, seemed to call for a more brutal expression.

“I look forward to this evening’s sermon, Miss Chapple.”

…

Mattie spent the afternoon in her bedchamber, writing. Outside, the rain came down unceasingly, but she scarcely noticed. Her quill scratched briskly across the paper. This was the last chapter, and she knew exactly how it was going to end. Chérie would fall in love with the ugly, pock-marked Colonel F. and marry him.

Her two sources lay open on the escritoire,
Fanny Hill
and the diary of the young Countess who’d lived so unhappily at Creed Hall half a century ago.

Mattie flicked through
Fanny Hill
, searching for a passage she could use.
My heated and alarm’d senses were in a tumult that robbed me of all liberty of thought; tears of pleasure gush’d from my eyes
.

Mattie frowned. It seemed a little excessive. She flicked further ahead.
…made every vein of my body circulate liquid fires: the emotion grew so violent that it almost intercepted my respiration.