Tessa Dare - [Spindle Cove 03.5] (2 page)

The tavern keeper tilted his head in the direction of the serving girl, who’d emerged from the kitchen with a rag to wipe the tables clean. She cast a friendly smile in Aaron’s direction, and he returned the greeting with a nod.

When she was out of earshot, Aaron muttered, “You want me to court Pauline Simms?”

“She’d make you a good wife. Hardworking, clever with sums. She’s grown up well, too.” Fosbury rapped the countertop with his knuckles, then drifted away. “Think about it.”

Under the guise of stretching his neck, Aaron had another look at the girl.

He thought about it.

Fosbury was right. Pauline Simms was the sort of woman he
ought
to set his sights on. She was one of his kind. Working class, the daughter of a farmer. As Fosbury said, she was quick with her hands and her wits. She’d be a help to any man with a trade. Admittedly, she had a few rough edges, but nothing some care and time wouldn’t smooth.

As he watched, she tipped over a decorative plate, muttering, “Bollocks.”

He smiled. But even though they were only four years apart in age, and even though she’d long grown into a woman—a pretty one, at that—Aaron couldn’t look at Pauline Simms without seeing the gap-toothed, freckled girl who’d grown up a year behind his own sister.

That was the problem with a village this small. Every available woman felt like a sister to him. Or maybe it was his own circumstances that had permanently cast him in the big-brother role.

When his father had died ten years ago, slumped over the anvil from a heart attack, it didn’t matter that Aaron was barely seventeen. He’d needed to become the man of the family, and quick. He’d taken over the forge, working hard to support his mother and sisters.

When Spindle Cove became a retreat for well-bred young ladies, some of the other men had groused about the village being overrun . . . but it suited Aaron fine. By then, both his sisters had married, and they and his mother had moved away. So he liked having the visiting young ladies around. He mended their locks and buckles; they purchased the silver and copper trinkets he made in his spare time. It was like having a flock of little sisters to replace the ones he so sorely missed.

Except for Diana Highwood.

He’d never felt brotherly toward her.

He drained his ale. It wasn’t strong enough. “Pauline?”

She looked up from mopping a table clean. “Yes, Mr. Dawes? Anythin’ else you need?”

“Bring me a whiskey, will you?”

C
HAPTER
2

A
s was their habit, all the ladies residing in the Queen’s Ruby rooming house gathered in the parlor after dinner. A roaring fire kept the chill at bay.

Even now, hours after leaving the forge, Diana was still out-of-sorts. The bit of needlework she’d been working on wouldn’t come out right, and she’d lost patience with it.

She’d lost patience with herself.

She’d spent the better part of two years girlishly infatuated with Aaron Dawes, all the while trusting nothing could come of it. He’d mended every scrap of metal she possessed—sometimes two or three times—showing her nothing but neighborly patience.

Until today. Today, he’d shown her something much more.

And she’d panicked and fled. Not even politely, but as if he were an ogre. She was certain he’d been wounded by her hasty retreat.

Now she’d have to avoid him for as long as she remained in the village. How unbearably awkward.

She gave up on stitching and cast a glance out the window. Through the dark and wet, she saw a familiar black mare grazing on the village green.

He must be at the tavern tonight.

“This dratted rain,” her sister Charlotte moaned. “It’s setting us all on edge. Two weeks now with no country walks, no gardening, no romps through the castle ruins. No amusement at all.”

“I don’t mind rain.” This came from Miss Bertram, a young lady new in Spindle Cove this spring. “I always loved spending rainy days with Mr. Evermoore.”

Charlotte stifled a giggle.

Diana gave her sister a pleading look.
Don’t. Don’t make fun.

Spindle Cove was a haven for odd, unconventional, and misunderstood young ladies. But even among misfits, Miss Bertram didn’t quite mix. She was hard to know—mostly because she had nothing to say that didn’t involve her relationship with this mysterious rogue, Mr. Evermoore.

“My parents didn’t approve of Mr. Evermoore,” Miss Bertram went on. Her dark eyebrows stood out like bold punctuation on an otherwise unremarkable face. “They don’t understand our attachment. That’s why I’m here, you know.”

Charlotte giggled again.

Miss Bertram’s dark eyebrows gathered in a wounded line. “No one understands. No one.” She lifted her book before her face and turned a page with a snap.

Charlotte buried her face in her hands and convulsed with silent laughter.

“Stop,” Diana whispered. “You shouldn’t poke fun.”

“Who needs to poke it? She offers it up so readily.” Charlotte mimicked in a high whisper, “Oh, Mr. Evermoore. No one understands our love.”

“She’s hardly the first young woman to lose her head over an unsuitable man.”

“What about an imaginary one? I’d wager anything that Mr. Evermoore is Mr. Never-Was. She just wants to impress us.”

“All the more reason to show her kindness.”

Charlotte said lightly, “That’s the lovely thing about being your sister, Diana. You’re kind enough for us both.”

Diana felt a twinge of guilt. She hadn’t treated Mr. Dawes very kindly today. In her agitation, she jabbed at the fabric and pricked her finger. “Drat.”

She scouted her immediate surroundings for her thimble. It wasn’t in her sewing basket, nor caught in the folds of her skirt. “Have you seen my thimble, Charlotte?”

“No. When did you have it last?”

“This afternoon, I think. When we went to the Bull and Blossom for tea. I’m sure it was in my kit, but I can’t find it now.”

Before they could expand their search, the door creaked open, admitting a sharp blast of icy wind. Their visitor appeared in the entry, throwing back her hood to reveal a shock of white-blond hair.

Sally Bright shook off her damp cloak and hung it on a hook. Her cheeks were pink. “I brought over the post. It was dreadful late today on account of the muddy roads, and I couldn’t wait for you ladies to come collect it tomorrow.”

Diana smiled to herself. Together with her brothers, Sally kept the All Things shop, and she was the biggest gossip in the village. If she’d taken the trouble to bring over the post, that must mean there was something of interest in it.

Something she couldn’t steam open, read, and reseal with no one the wiser.

Sure enough, Sally held out a packet tied with string. “Look. It’s a lovely great package from our dear Mrs. Thorne. And it’s addressed to all of you.”

“Something from Kate?” Charlotte leaped to take the packet and wrestle with the strings. “Oh, how wonderful.”

Kate Taylor had been the village music tutor until last summer, when she’d married Corporal Thorne—now Captain Thorne—and moved away to follow his rising career. Though everyone in Spindle Cove was happy for them, Kate’s lively spirit and melodies were sorely missed.

“There’s a packet of handwritten booklets,” Charlotte said, sorting the contents. “And a letter. I suppose I should read it first.”

“Aloud, if you will,” said Sally.

All the ladies gathered close.

Charlotte’s eyes widened as she scanned the page. “She sends us all greetings from Ambervale.”

This news was met with a general murmur of excitement.

Ambervale was the estate of the eccentric Gramercy family, headed by the Marquess of Drewe. Kate was the Gramercys’ cousin by some tenuous, and rather scandalous, connection. Nevertheless, they’d welcomed her to the fold . . . and now into their house, which was situated just a few hours away.

“I hope this means she’s coming to visit,” Diana said.

“Even better,” said Charlotte. “Lord Drewe is inviting
us
to visit
them
. All of us.”

“A ball!” Mama cried. “Oh, I knew it. I knew Lord Drewe would want another chance at you, Diana.”

“Mama, I’m sure this means nothing of the sort.”

“Of course it does! Such a handsome, elegant man. The two of you made a striking couple. Everyone could see it.”

Not again.
When the Gramercys had been in Spindle Cove last summer, Mama had made the most embarrassing remarks to poor Lord Drewe, always angling for a match between him and Diana.

Charlotte gave them all a superior look. “Shall I read the letter, or would you prefer to spend the evening guessing at its contents?”

Mama closed her mouth and sat quietly.

“She writes, ‘Captain Thorne and I are guests at Ambervale for the month. Thus far, it has rained every day. I can only imagine that you are enduring the same tiresome weather in Spindle Cove. My dear cousins, Lady Harriet and Lady Lark, have concocted the enclosed scheme.’ ”

“A
scheme
?” Mama echoed. “What sort of invitation is this?”

“ ‘Since Lord Drewe decided dancing and cards would be poor form during Lent, the ladies devised a theatrical.’ ”

Miss Bertram perked with interest. “Mr. Evermoore is very fond of the theater.”

Charlotte read on, summarizing for the group. “It’s a command performance, and we are the players. On Thursday next, Lord Drewe will send his carriages to convey the Spindle Cove ladies to Ambervale. We must arrive prepared to present the enclosed play, which Lady Harriet believes will have unique devotional meaning for the season.”

Diana reached for one of the booklets, reading the title aloud. “ ’
Doomed by Virtue: The life and death of St. Ursula
.’ ”

Mama clucked her tongue. “That Lady Harriet is very strange.”

“She’s brilliant,” Charlotte said. “What other play is going to have a dozen female parts? All those handmaidens. And no one can complain that such an amusement is improper. Our cathedral is named for St. Ursula, after all.”

“You’ll need to be busy with costumes and such,” Sally said, happy at the prospect of imminent sales. “I’ll open the shop early tomorrow.”

The mood in the room brightened as copies of the play were passed around and plans for rehearsals, costumes, and props volleyed back and forth.

Diana had to agree with her sister. Lady Harriet
was
brilliant. This was what they all needed—a source of excitement for the coming week, and an outing to look forward to. A diversion. Perhaps it would take her mind off Mr. Dawes.

“Of course, Diana must be Ursula.”

Diana startled. “Why must I be Ursula?” She had been hoping for the most minor of the handmaiden roles.

Sally lifted one shoulder in an
isn’t-it-obvious
shrug. “Pure. Beautiful. Saintly. That’s you, Miss Highwood, isn’t it?”

No,
Diana wanted to object.
No, it isn’t. You’re looking at a woman who ogled a man’s brawny forearms this afternoon. And ran from his kiss out of cowardice, not virtue.

For the first time since the announcement of this theatrical scheme, her mother showed genuine enthusiasm. “Yes, Diana must be Ursula. With Lord Drewe playing the role of her bridegroom. It’s perfect.”

Diana pinched the bridge of her nose. “Mama, you do understand how this story ends? How Ursula achieved her sainthood? She is beheaded by Huns and dies a virgin.”

“True.” Charlotte leafed through the play. “But then, so do her handmaidens. They all die virgins.”

“There, see? At least you’ll be the
leading
virgin,” Mama said. “And you’ll have the best costume. A
bridal
costume. That will set Drewe’s mind turning.”

“I tell you, it won’t.” In an attempt to end the conversation, Diana renewed her search for her thimble. Where could it have gone?

With a smug harrumph, Mama propped her feet on a low stool and settled her petticoats. “You are meant to be a nobleman’s wife, Diana. I have always known it. My intuition—”

“Forgive me, but your intuition must be flawed,” Diana replied, peering under a chair. “You’ve been predicting my lofty match for years. During that time, no fewer than three unmarried noblemen have resided in this village. None of them expressed the slightest desire to wed me.”

“Because you did not encourage them! If you fancy a gentleman, you must let him know. Not in words, of course, but in the language of female subtleties.”

Female subtleties? Mama possessed all the subtleties of an elephant on parade. She brazenly thrust Diana into the path of every available gentleman.

Meanwhile, the one man Diana found attractive wasn’t a gentleman at all but the village blacksmith. And apparently subtleties weren’t her strong point, because he’d seen right through her.

Aaron Dawes could tell her thoughts weren’t saintly.

But he’d wanted to kiss her anyway.

She glanced out the window again. His mare was still outside the tavern.

“I’m not unfeeling, Mama. Merely careful. You know I’ve had to be.”

She touched a hand to the chain around her neck and the small bottle of tincture hanging there. It was her talisman. The medicine inside was meant to help her in a breathing crisis. She’d suffered from asthma ever since she was a small girl.

For most young people, tantrums and tears and wild whoops of joy were all normal parts of childhood. Not so in Diana’s case. Not only had she been kept inside, prevented from running and playing and stomping through the snow, but she’d also been schooled to temper her feelings. No outbursts of any kind.

Emotions were too dangerous.

Charlotte settled next to her, crushing into the same chair and fondly stroking Diana’s shoulder. She murmured, “You know how I hate to agree with Mama, but I don’t think she’s entirely wrong. You should be Ursula. And flirt with Lord Drewe if you feel like it. This is your time to take the lead.”

“My time to be a martyred medieval virgin?”

“Your time to do whatever you please. You know what Susanna said last year about your asthma. It isn’t coming back. And if you don’t need to worry about dying any longer . . . don’t you want to start living?”

She pushed a copy of the play into Diana’s hand. “Here. Take whatever role you choose. Except Cordula. I want to be Cordula. She gets the most gory execution.”

Diana stared at the play for a moment. Then she handed the folio back at her sister. “Not now. I . . . I think I’ve remembered where I left my thimble.” She rose from the chair.

“Really? Where?”

Diana went to fetch her cloak from a peg by the door. “At the Bull and Blossom. I’ll just run over to get it.”

“But the rain!” her mother called.

Diana closed the door on her mother’s objection and dashed outside.

Charlotte was right. Now that her health had mended, Diana needn’t fear her own emotions any longer.

She
did
want to start living. And she was going to start tonight.

A
aron told himself his second drink would be the last.

And then he ordered one more.

Fosbury had already sent Pauline home for the evening, and the tavern keeper yawned as he slid the refilled tumbler across the bar.

“I should go,” Aaron said. “It’s late.”

“No, take your time with it.” Fosbury knotted his apron at the waist. “I’ve some yeast dough to start for tomorrow’s bread. Give a shout if you need anything.”

He disappeared into the kitchen, whistling as he went.

Aaron had just grown accustomed to his comfortable pocket of quiet when the creak of the door ripped it open again. He turned his head, expecting to see one of the fishermen or farmers come in for a late pint.

What he saw nearly knocked him off his stool.

Diana Highwood.

She rushed through the door, slammed it closed, then stopped dead in her paces. Staring at him.

Aaron didn’t know what to say, but it seemed she was waiting to hear something. He finally settled on “Good evening.”

“Good evening.”

Another long, uncomfortable pause.

She looked at the empty stool beside his. “Might I join you?”

Bemused, he waved a hand in invitation.

She approached the bar and settled on the seat, daintily arranging her skirts.

Aaron lifted his drink, stealing glimpses at her out of the corner of his eye. He’d spent a great many stolen moments admiring her, but tonight something was different.

She
was different. He couldn’t look at her tonight and see a paragon up on a pedestal. She was a disheveled girl sitting on a barstool. Damp from the rain, cheeks flushed, wisps of flaxen hair matted to her brow. She looked impulsive. Sensual.