In the Spinster's Bed (10 page)

An open mind? Did Mama think she was suddenly going to find footrot and tapeworm and other sheep maladies fascinating?

Not bloody likely.

Cat smiled. It was that or scream. “Yes, Mama.”

Why
couldn’t she be free of her family like Miss Franklin was? The woman had the entire Spinster House to herself. She ran the village’s small lending library, but when she wasn’t there, she had the freedom to do what she wanted when she wanted. She could read or write or stand on her head, and no one would interrupt or criticize her. Just the other day, she’d told Cat she’d been learning to play the harpsichord.

If only
she
could have such wonderful solitude. Then she could write any number of books.

“I only want you to be happy, Cat,” Mama said.

She knew that. She just didn’t agree that marriage was her path to happiness.

Blast it all, she
would
find another way.

Mama’s eyes had dropped to Cat’s bodice. “Good heavens, whatever happened to your dress?”

“I had a bit of an accident.”

“I should say so. You’ll want to change before you go to see the Barkers.”

Normally she would, but Mrs. Barker hated any untidiness. Mr. Barker, too. This might be a golden opportunity to give them a disgust of her. “Oh, no. If dear Mrs. Barker is in pain, I shouldn’t delay an instant.”

Mama saw through her ruse, of course, but chose not to pursue the matter. “Very well. Just keep your cloak on.” She frowned. “Though you may be a trifle warm.”

She would be melting. Mrs. Barker always insisted on a roaring fire in her sitting room. “Yes, Mama.” She gave Mikey’s hand one more squeeze before she let go. “Where is the basket?”

“In the kitchen. And do give Mrs. Barker my best.”

Cat stopped in her room on her way downstairs and found Mary dancing around in her shift. She was tempted to roll her eyes like Pru.

Mary paused to stare at Cat’s bodice. “What happened to you?”

“Sybbie and the twins got into a bit of a brangle.” Cat grabbed her cloak.

“Aren’t you going to change?”

“No.”

Mary’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you off to?”

“To deliver a basket to Mrs. Barker.” At least once Mary wed, Cat should have a bed to herself . . . unless Mama decided to move Pru in with her. Pru often complained that Sybbie thrashed in her sleep.

“She won’t like it if she sees you’re not precise to a pin.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

Mary laughed. “And you know she’s sure to complain about it to Mr. Barker.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why you don’t accept the man’s offer. You could have been wed long ago.”

“And sharing a house with Mrs. Barker.”

Mary grinned. “There
is
that. I’m not sure even Mr. Barker’s broad shoulders trump his mother’s carping disposition.”

“They don’t. Nor do they trump his unattractive features, his barnyard scent, his braying laugh, or his deadly dull conversation.”

“Well, no one’s perfect.”

“I
know
that.” Did everyone think her a silly girl dreaming of a knight in white armor? “I’m certain Mr. Barker will make a wonderful husband—for someone else.” She snatched her bonnet off its hook. “I have no interest in marriage.”

“You will someday, Cat. You just need to meet the right man.” Mary stared dreamily at herself in the cheval glass and started dancing again. “Someone like my Theo.”

Theodore Dunly was a nice enough fellow. He worked at Loves Castle as an assistant steward. He was even moderately well-read. But he’d never made Cat’s heart beat faster.

A good thing, as he was head over heels in love with Mary—as Mary was with him.

“I think I’m just not the marrying kind.”

She must have sounded a little wistful because Mary’s face stilled into her annoyingly serious, slightly pitying expression.

Blast it, she
wasn’t
wistful. Or . . . well, maybe she was just a little, when she saw how happy her married sisters were.

“You
will
find a man to love, Cat. I’m sure of it.”

But once Cat reminded herself how much Mama and Tory and Ruth had to work—all the cooking and cleaning and sewing and nursing they did, how they never had a moment to themselves—then she was very happy she had no intention of marrying.

“I doubt it. But in any event, that man is
not
Mr. Barker.”

Mary came over and touched her arm. “Perhaps not, but don’t give up hope.”

Cat snorted. “Hope? What am I to hope for? That one of the village toads suddenly turns into a prince? I’ve seen all the available men, Mary, and not one of them tempts me for even an instant to give up my freedom.”

Mary shook her arm, impatience creeping into her voice. “But you don’t want to live with Mama and Papa for the rest of your life, do you?”

“I’d rather live with them than Mr. Barker and his mother.”

Mary waved that away. “All right, I’ll agree Mr. Barker isn’t a suitable candidate for your hand, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a man out there somewhere for you.” Mary grinned. “Perhaps he’s riding into Loves Bridge right now.”

She would
not
roll her eyes. She was not ten years old. “Don’t be ridiculous. No one ever comes to Loves Bridge.”

“I don’t know why. We’re not that far from London.”

“Oh, come, Mary. You do know why. There’s nothing to see or do here. We’re a sleepy, little, boring village.”

Boring didn’t begin to describe Loves Bridge. Each day was exactly the same as the one before it. There were never any surprises. How could there be? Everyone knew every little detail about everyone else all the way back to their great-great-great-grandparents. Life was all gossip and weather and sheep. Perhaps if she lived in London, she’d have something to write about.

But she wasn’t going to Town. And, truthfully, the thought of London made her nervous. She’d never been there, but she’d read about its crowds and noise and filth.

Mary put her hands on her hips. “How can you say Loves Bridge is boring? What about . . . what about our fairs?”

“What about them?” The fairs were enjoyable enough, but only the villagers attended.

“I met Theo at the one last summer.”

“You didn’t meet him there—you just
noticed
him there. You’ve known him for years.” Or perhaps it was Theo who had noticed Mary. Whichever it was, the two had been inseparable ever since.

Mary stomped her foot. “Oh, you can be so maddening, Cat.”

“Yes, I can, so it’s a good thing I have no plans to wed.”

“But what about love?”

Cat felt herself flush. Love—the love between a man and a woman—was not something she knew much about. She’d seen Papa catch Mama around the waist from time to time, and try to steal a kiss while Mama laughed and pretended to push him away. And Mama and Papa
did
have ten children . . .

It was all exceedingly embarrassing.

Mary was blushing, too, but for other reasons. “Love is wonderful, Cat. When Theo kisses me . . .” Her eyes grew soft and dreamy.

Good God. She would gag if Mary kept this up.

Frankly, kissing had never sounded the least bit appealing, not that she’d tried it. But having a man’s lips mashed up against hers? Ugh. And how did one keep from bumping noses?

She did not intend to find out.

Mary was quite correct about one thing, though—she did not want to live with Mama and Papa for the rest of her life. She just needed to think of some way to avoid that fate that didn’t involve yoking herself to a male. The Spinster House would be the perfect solution, but there was no vacancy. Miss Franklin would likely live there for many more years.

Mary had waltzed back to the cheval glass and was looking at herself from various angles. “You never know what fate has in store for you, Cat. Perhaps the man you’ll fall in love with is standing on the vicarage steps right now.”

“I thought you said he was just riding into the village. He must move very quickly. Loves Bridge is small, but it’s not
that
small.” Fall in love? That sounded as pleasant as falling into a dunghill.

Mary glared at her. “Must you be so literal?”

Someone should keep focused on the real world. “Pardon me. Of course, he’s on the steps—right next to the king of the fairies.”

“Oh, you’re impossible. It would serve you right if you did go to your grave a spinster.”

“It would certainly serve me well.”

She left the room and started down the stairs. It should take her only half an hour—twenty minutes if she walked briskly—to get to the Barker farm. If she was lucky, Mrs. Barker would take one look at her stained dress, sniff, and send her on her way—after first grabbing the basket, of course. If she encountered Mr. Barker, a quick escape would be a bit more difficult, but she should still be able to—

There was a knock on the front door. It was probably Mrs. Greeley, come to put the finishing touches on Mary’s gown. She hurried down the last few steps to let the woman in.

“Mary’s waiting for you—oh!”

She blinked. It wasn’t stout, bespectacled Mrs. Greeley. It was a tall, athletically built man. He took his hat off to reveal thick brown hair, bowed slightly, and smiled.

He had the most attractive dimples.

She’d always thought dimples effeminate, but these were completely masculine and strangely seductive, inviting her to come closer, daring her to do something dangerous—

She took a deep breath. What was the matter with her?

The man was clearly wondering the same thing. His right eyebrow arched up. He’d been saying something, and she hadn’t heard a word of it.

She laughed nervously, feeling very much off-balance. “I’m so sorry, sir. I wasn’t attending. I thought you were Mrs. Greeley. Not that you look like Mrs. Greeley, of course, but, you see, I was expecting her.”

Blast it, now she was blathering like a complete ninny. She
had
to get a grip on herself.

His eyes—his very nice brown eyes, with long lashes that also should seem effeminate but didn’t—had widened and now gleamed with suppressed laughter.

The situation
was
rather ridiculous.

She pulled the door open wider. All she need do was remember her manners. He was just another man.

Ridiculous! He was just as likely—no, more likely—to be the king of the fairies. “Please come in. Are you here to see my father?”

“If your father is the vicar, then yes, I am.” He stepped over the threshold. “And who is Mrs. Greeley, if I may ask?”

His voice, now that she was finally listening to it, was warm, educated, and as seductive as his dimples.

And she was as shatter-brained as Mary, but with less reason. With
no
reason. Mary was on the verge of marriage; Cat was on the verge of making an utter fool of herself.

She did wish she’d taken time to change her dress, though. His eyes had flicked down to her disreputable bodice.

Idiot! The man wouldn’t care if she was dressed in sackcloth—which this dress much resembled even without the stains. She’d never been very interested in fashion.

“Mrs. Greeley is the village dressmaker. She’s coming to finish Mary—my sister’s—wedding dress.”

He was taller than any man she’d met before, with broader shoulders—

No, he couldn’t have broader shoulders than Mr. Barker. It must be the cut of his coat.

He certainly smelled better than Mr. Barker. Not a whiff of the barnyard about him.

“I see. And you are . . . ?”

“Miss Hutting, the vicar’s oldest daughter.” She forced her lips into a polite smile. The sooner she dumped this fellow with Papa, the sooner she’d get her errand done and her wits back. “If you would like to put your hat on the table there and come with me, I’ll take you to see my father.”

“I don’t mean to keep you.” He gestured to her cloak and bonnet.

“My errand can wait.” She hung her things up on a hook by the door. “Who should I tell him is calling?”

“Hart.” His eyes watched her carefully, as if expecting her to say something. Odd.

She turned toward Papa’s study. “Are you new to Loves Bridge, Mr. Hart?” Of course he was. A man who looked like he did couldn’t put his big toe in the village without everyone talking about it.

“Er, not exactly, though I haven’t been here in many years. And I’m not Mr. Hart.”

She turned, her hand raised to knock on the study door. “I’m sorry. Did I mishear?” Hart was not that complicated a name, but it did seem that her wits had gone wandering this afternoon.

The right corner of his mouth tilted up in a very attractive manner, his eyes still oddly watchful. “No. You merely misunderstood. Hart is my title, not my name.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t thought of that. Silly of her. He was clearly a London gentleman, though, in her defense, it was as she’d told Mary—no one, and certainly not a member of the nobility, ever came to Loves Bridge. “My apologies, Lord Hart.”

“Not Lord Hart.”

He was still watching her.

Damnation, what was he about? He clearly expected her to recognize him.

“Well, why don’t you just come out and tell me who you are, sir, rather than having me play this silly guessing game?” She should be horrified at speaking so sharply to a guest, but she was too annoyed—and something else—to hold her tongue. “Are you King Hart or Prince Hart or the Duke of—”

Oh.

His mouth curved into a sardonic smile. “That’s right. I’m the Duke of Hart.” He bowed again, but this time the movement was self-mocking. “Or, as you may know me, the Cursed Duke.”

A native of Washington, DC,
Sally MacKenzie
still lives in suburban Maryland with her transplanted upstate-New Yorker husband. She’s written federal regulations, school newsletters, auction programs, class plays, and swim league guidance, but it wasn’t until the first of her four sons headed off to college that she tried her hand at romance. She can be reached by email at [email protected] or by snail mail at PO Box 10466, Rockville, MD 20849. Please visit her home in cyberspace at
www.sallymackenzie.net
.