Once Upon a Kiss (Book Club Belles Society) (3 page)

“Madam, you may assure your daughter that since I have no time to be bored, I have no need of amusements. She may thus be relieved of putting herself to any future trouble on my behalf.”

“You are the most obstructive, contrary man I ever knew.” She enlarged upon her disappointment in Darius for another ten minutes, unabated, until he finally rose from the chair and made his exit. He left her with no one to shout at except the footman, who could smile benignly at the disgruntled lady, due to the foresight, Darius suspected, of having pressed two small lumps of cheese into his ears.

It was a method he and his brother had often employed for the same purpose.

Hawcombe Prior, two days later

“I think we should go back, Jussy. This was another of your very bad ideas, I fear.” Seated in the bow, the young lady who uttered this caution kept one gloved hand gripping the side of the rowboat and one comforting a snorting pink snout laid in her lap.

At the stern end, heaving on the oars with all her might, Justina Penny, lifelong adventurer—but, alas, novice mariner—exhaled her words in a stream of gusty puffs, like an overworked chimney. “Do be silent, Lucy, before you wake the entire village!”

Moonlit ripples licked up over the rattling oar hooks as the small vessel pitched and yawed from the unsteady weight of its cargo and the violent struggles of its operator, who, despite the fact that plans very rarely succeeded for her, still refused to be anything other than indignant and surprised the moment they went awry.

“I believe the boat leaks,” Lucy protested now, in a more hushed voice. “I am becoming very damp at the hem.”

Although Justina also felt the slow gathering of water around her toes, seeping in through a worn hole in her nankeen boots, she was not about to let that little problem stop them. “You do want to save your pig, don’t you?” she demanded.

“Of course. But sometimes I feel your methods are more theatrical than they are effective.”

“Do you not think a little discomfort must be suffered for the cause? After all,” she reminded her friend, “this was your idea.”

“Not exactly,” whimpered Lucy, gathering the hem of her fine new cloak out of the puddles slowly forming in the rowboat. “I said I wished Sir Mortimer Grubbins could be saved, since he was my favorite and I hand-reared him from a runt. I didn’t suggest we appropriate papa’s boat and row down the stream, in near darkness, to steal him back from Farmer Rooke before he goes to the…”—she lowered her voice even further and covered the pig’s ears with her hands—“axe. This scheme was all yours. As usual.”

Already annoyed with her friend for attending their secret, late-night mission in that bright red cloak—of all things—Justina’s temperature rose another notch. The weed-laden oar splashed down again and she hauled it through the water, moving the boat onward with a shuddering lurch that was nothing like the smooth, speedy escape she’d envisioned. “I don’t care for your tone, Lucy. You begin to sound like a wretched ingrate who cannot bear a trifle inconvenience even to save her beloved pet from slaughter.”

“I am merely saying there must be other ways—” An owl hoot startled them both and they jumped several inches on their wooden seats.

Justina replied in a hasty whisper, “We must work at night to avoid being seen, and over water we cannot be tracked by hounds.”

“But this does seem a rather extreme measure. Surely, when I get the pig home again, it’s not likely I can hide him anywhere. This level of secrecy is perhaps excessive.”

“Miss Lucy Bridges, your adventurous spirit is considerably lacking lately, ever since you turned eighteen, got that fancy new scarlet cloak for your birthday, and began showing more bosom at every opportunity.”

Lucy’s lips fell into a sulk, but it was a familiar expression these days. She was despondent ever since news came that there would be no soldiers encamped nearby this winter. No doubt the indignity of Sir Mortimer Grubbins’ drool on her new cloak and wet boots on her feet were simply the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Suddenly, a large winged shadow flew over the boat and skimmed the passengers’ heads. Lucy let out a squeal that must have woken every light sleeper in the village. Justina finally lost her embattled grip upon the oars and, as they floated away from her, the stricken vessel drifted aimlessly into another band of weeds. Here they were apprehended, firmly stalled in the midst of the stream.

“Well, that’s done it,” Lucy somberly observed.

There was a warning creak, followed by a splintering crackle. More cold water pooled quickly into the bottom of the boat. Nestled in the tight space between his companions, Sir Mortimer Grubbins, the unsuspecting pig, let out a contented grunt.

“We shall be drowned,” said Lucy, as if she’d always known such a thing would happen. In all likelihood the girl had already picked out a gown in which to be buried and an imaginary, weak-chinned suitor to lay flowers on her grave. But they both knew the water in that spot was merely two feet deep, and what worried Justina far more than drowning was the realization that they would have to carry Sir Mortimer between them to dry land. As the fate of the boat proved, he was no little weight.

The pig lifted his snout and grunted again, probably wondering when it might be dinner time. She patted his back.

“Worry not, Sir Mortimer, we’ll find somewhere to keep you safe.” She already had the very place in mind: Midwitch Manor, recently left empty upon the death of its cantankerous owner. There was a very pleasant orchard there with several small outbuildings, all currently abandoned to Mother Nature. What better place to hide a pig until other arrangements were found?

One thing was for sure, she thought crossly as cold water slowly wicked up her petticoats, no morsel of bacon or despicable sausage would ever pass her lips again after this.

A quarter of an hour later, using Lucy’s cloak as a makeshift hammock to carry the noble Grubbins between them, the two young ladies finally struggled up the bank of the stream, through the bulrushes to dry land. They were both wet and exhausted, yet so busy arguing with one another—Lucy still protesting the use of her precious cloak in this manner—that neither heard the approach of hooves and wheels.

As they emerged from the tall reeds and into the narrow lane, the four horses charging along it at the same moment were startled and reared up. Although the coachman took swift evasive action, he was too late to prevent damage. The coach lurched and jolted. The lanterns swung in wide arcs across the lane, and with a tremendous creaking and groaning the vehicle finally came to rest in the opposite ditch.

She heard the coachman inquire whether his passenger was hurt and a man’s voice confirmed that he was not. The door of the disabled coach opened and the apparent owner of the voice looked out. Immediately he must have seen the strange rescue party struggling with their burden. “What the devil..? You there!”

“Fine evening, is it not, my good fellow?” Justina shouted jauntily, shuffling along and straining under the weight of the lounging pig, attempting to ignore the first fat spots of rain dropping with quickening speed to the earth around them. If they let the bundle down now, she feared they would never pick it up again. Lucy had a trying habit of breaking into giggles when she had to lift anything, which invariably made Justina laugh too. They already fought to maintain their anger with one another while at the same time holding back their helpless laughter.

“Are you quite mad?” the stranger bellowed. “What do you think you’re doing, woman?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” she sputtered over her shoulder. “We’re carrying a pig.”

Lucy snorted and then made a small whimper of despair.

A determined, angry stride followed them a short way down the lane and she hissed at Lucy to pick up speed. If they put Sir Mortimer down to let him walk, he would meander along, snuffling at the ground, delaying the journey. They’d have to carry him at least until they were within sight of the manor house. Fortunately, the beast did not appear too distressed by his current leisurely repose.

“Someone could have been hurt,” the man bellowed. “The horses might have trampled you both into the ground.”

“Oh, dear, how dreadful. Sorry,” shouted Justina. “Can’t stop. I bid you a pleasant evening.” There was no time for explanations. Rain spat down on her head now with more velocity and although they couldn’t get much wetter, it would doubtless make their path much softer and more difficult. And really, what could be said about something dire that might have happened, but didn’t? Couldn’t he see she had enough immediate and actual troubles of her own?

***

Fortunately, by the time his carriage was forced into a ditch by the curious appearance of two drunken gypsy girls carrying a pig, Darius was close to the end of his laborious journey, and the lantern light of a public house led him through the rain to shelter. On foot.

“It’s a rotten night out there, to be sure,” the landlord exclaimed jovially, leading the way to a seat by the inglenook hearth and setting a tray of supper before him. “Whatever can have brought you out in it? On a night such as this, a man should stay by his fire with a pipe and a drop of port.”

“I can assure you, I would happily comply with your vision had it not been for the inconvenience of a deceased relative.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” The landlord hovered over him, clearly in no haste to go about his business. “A local man?”

“Phineas Hawke,” he admitted reluctantly.

The landlord’s lips parted in a gasp of surprise. “I never knew the man had any family still living.”

“He preferred to think that way too.” Darius removed his greatcoat, carefully hanging it before the fire to dry. “I am the surviving grandson of his sister, Arabella.”

“Well, I’ll be! Aye, there is a family resemblance now I think of it.”

Darius cautiously surveyed the tray of cold supper he’d been brought. “His house is not far from here, as I remember, although it has been more than a decade since I last paid a visit.”

“That’s right, sir. Midwitch Manor lies up on the hill. Other side of the village.”

He arranged and rearranged the knife and fork by his plate, checking the two prongs and the blade for any sign of poor cleanliness. “Good. If I can find a horse and saddle to hire, I can ride up there after supper.”

The landlord had been about to turn away, but now he stopped and came back, his big, weathered face creased with concern. “But it’s been shut up since ol’ Hawke died and the servants all left. You’ll find it a bleak place, damp, dark, and cold. I should wait until morn, sir. I’ve a room vacant above stairs. Nothing so grand as you’re used to, I’m sure, but it does well enough. My daughter can slide a pan of coals under the linens to warm the bed for you.” He looked over his shoulder, irritable suddenly. “If I can find the girl tonight. Don’t know where she’s dashed off to.”

“Thank you, but I will make my way to the manor tonight.”

“Aye, well…if you think that’s best.”

He cut savagely into his slice of ham, and the landlord eventually moved away to pester other customers.

But the heat of the fire began to warm his bones and the food was surprisingly good, calming and settling his stomach. As his general sense of irritation eased, Darius realized how tired he was after his journey, and the prospect of going out again that night held less and less appeal. Really, how urgent was it that he get there tonight? He was already a day later than planned due to the terrible state of the country roads, and now that it was dark, he would not be able to assess the place very well. The rain wasn’t letting up; it still drummed hard at the windows. Thus the reasons for leaving that cozy fireside soon fell away completely. Tomorrow would be time enough.

A man seated nearby had glanced over at Darius several times. Suddenly, he scuffed his three-legged stool closer across the flagged floor. With a smile and a nod he announced his intention to speak, ignoring the social rules for proper introduction.

That was the trouble with country folk, thought Darius, they were always far too familiar and liked to intrude in a man’s private business. They had a disturbing tendency to make up their own rules rather than abide by those laid down in refined societies.

In a small village like Hawcombe Prior there were no secrets and any stranger passing through was quickly relieved of his, in the same way a cutpurse would empty his pockets in London.

Well, they could try.

“Did I hear you say, sir, that you are related—were related—to Phineas Hawke?”

“He was my great-uncle.”

“Fancy that! We always thought he were alone in the world.”

“Being alone,” he replied tersely, “has much in its favor.”

The other man paid no heed to the hint. “Will you be moving in up at the manor?”

“No.” His only purpose in visiting Hawcombe Prior and the house in which his great-uncle died was to see, first hand, the state of the property and for how much it might be sold or leased, but he felt no need to explain his motives.

“’Twas a beautiful old place once, that house,” the fellow muttered, kicking a log back into the fire with his worn boot. “Shame how old Hawke let it go to wrack and ruin these past few years, but he couldn’t get about much anymore. There used to be a gardener, but he moved to Manderson a few years back and the grounds are overgrown. There’s a fine orchard too—or was at one time. All left untended now though.”

Darius wondered why this stranger took it upon himself to open a conversation without the least encouragement. He had no doubt that even if he feigned sleep the fellow would continue his chatter.

“The village youngsters like to scrump apples over his orchard wall. But ol’ Hawke were a mean old bugger—begging your pardon, since he were a relative of yourn.”

Darius knew of his great-uncle’s reputation. Phineas never replied to any letters from his family and seemed to prefer complete estrangement. Only when his sister died, thirteen years ago, did he send for Darius and his elder brother—her grandchildren—to see how they had “turned out.”

Darius remembered meeting a bent, shriveled old man with shining, coal-black eyes sunken beneath bushy gray brows and cheeks crisscrossed with red veins like broken cobwebs.

“
There’s treasure here on this property
,” Phineas had told them
.
“
Treasure
hidden. What do you think of that, eh
?”

Lucius had exclaimed that he didn’t believe a word of it. Darius, then a shy, lanky boy of seventeen, had not dared argue with his brother, but locked the idea away, keeping his thoughts to himself where they could not be mocked. His social awkwardness—a problem increased since he surpassed a height of six feet seemingly overnight and suffered ears of an equally excessive size—made him an easy enough target for his brother’s scorn and amusement as it was.