Sword-Crossed Lovers, page 7
part #1 of Those Wild Whitbys Series
For the first time that morning, she obeyed him without protest.
Hugo removed his hands, holding them apart at the width of her waist. “Well,” he said. “We’ve identified the problem. You’re a woman. You’ve a narrower waist than a man. Spread your feet wider. Hip width, say.”
Cass arched an eyebrow. “I take it you don’t intend to measure my hips too, using that pair of highly precise implements?”
He folded his arms again. “Yes, yes. If I’d noticed you were a woman sooner, I suppose I’d have put on my gloves.”
She abandoned the stance, her arms hanging loose at her sides. “Oh, go to blazes, Kendrick. Now I see what you’re about.”
Her shoulders sagged, with hurt rather than fatigue, and she laid the sword on the grass before starting back towards the stables.
For a moment, Hugo was glad.
This was the best-case scenario, wasn’t it? It was not as if he wanted to be involved in her quest for ruin. If she couldn’t handle a solid critique, he had no more business training her, and so much the better. What he ought to do now was pick up his coat, take back his dusty fencing clothes, and go home. They’d be breakfasting at Thistle Hall. Francis wouldn’t even realise he’d been gone all night…
But. But.
Damn it. He’d seen her take a sting from a fencing foil without a flinch, but she’d flinched at his words just now.
If I’d noticed you were a woman… That was hardly a critique of her fencing, was it?
He ran after her and met her at the stable door.
“Get out of my way, Kendrick,” Cass growled, though he wasn’t blocking her. Her shoulders were hunched over defensively, the way they would be against driving rain, and her eyes were fixed on the floor. “If you think I need you, you’re mistaken. I can win this thing by myself.”
“You can’t, as it happens.”
“I know what you’re doing!” she snapped, and he wished she’d kept her eyes on the floor, because he was unprepared for the force of her fury. “Needling me till I can’t stand the sight of you. Hoping I’ll give up the whole thing in a fit of pique. You’re so – so – predictable, Kendrick! But I don’t need you, and I don’t have to stand here and listen while you mock me. I’m good; I know I am. This might be the one thing I am good at, but I’m good enough.”
“Cass –”
She shoved past him into the half-lit stable. “That’s Miss Cassandra Whitby, to you.”
“No, it’s not. Not while you’re wearing trousers. You want me to treat you like a lady? Act like one.”
She cut her eyes back to him, rolling scornfully, and pulled out a folded stack of clothing she’d stashed on a clean shelf. “As far as you’re concerned, I’ve never been a lady whether I’m in a ballgown, or carrying a parasol, or even in that ridiculous hooped skirt for my presentation at Court.” She shook out the folded green gown and pulled it over her head, letting it fall in awkward lumps over the half-tucked chemise and the borrowed trousers. “That’s the thing, Kendrick. I know who you are. You might have my father, our neighbours, the whole of Appleby convinced that you’re a jolly fine fellow, good old Lord Kendrick, gentleman’s gentleman and ladies’ perfect catch.” She managed to untuck the chemise underneath the gown, shifted it all into place, and then, to his surprise, strode up to him and poked a stiff finger right in the centre of his chest. “I. Know. You,” she repeated, punctuating each word with another poke, and Hugo bit down a gasp as the old scar tissue beneath his shirt sent lightning sparks of pain skittering across his skin. But he was accomplished at hiding the old wound, and Cass was too lost in bitterness to notice. “You’re proud, petty, careless, and cruel,” she said, still jabbing her finger, though he’d retreated out of reach. “You hide away in Appleby rather than giving Francis a family home. You court favour with your wealthy neighbours while your tenants suffer through poor harvests and damp houses. You drop your country acquaintances the moment you set foot in town. And I was a fool for thinking you could offer me any advice worth the foul bilge that pours out of your mouth when your grinning mask slips.”
Hugo laid the flat of his hand carefully over the stinging scar, coughing to disguise the gruffness in his voice. “It was a joke, Cass.” A joke to disguise the fact that the movement of her waist beneath his hand had an effect on him as seismic as an earthquake.
But trying to explain that would be positively suicidal.
She tossed her head, golden brown waves lashing back over her shoulder. “Who’s laughing?”
Hugo coughed again. “No one. Evidently.”
“No, Kendrick, do explain it to me. Why does it amuse you to call me names?”
“I didn’t call you –”
“A harpy.” She bent down and began tugging off the trousers, the gown not nearly voluminous enough to keep Hugo’s imagination from calling up the sight that lay beneath it. He turned around abruptly and leaned against the wall, letting the draft that came through the cracks in the old wooden boards cool his face.
“Go on, Kendrick,” Cass said from behind him, deceptively sweet. “I’d love to understand your little joke. What’s amusing about calling me a harpy?”
Hugo rubbed his chest. The pain had receded, but the damaged skin felt uncomfortably tight. “I didn’t know it was you I was speaking to.”
A pause. Was she still dressing? He didn’t dare turn round.
“You didn’t know?”
“Not till I saw the bandage on your arm at last night’s dinner. Cass, are you decent?” The sun was well up now, the breakfast table would be laid at the Hall, the farmers would be up and about their business, and it had just occurred to Hugo that being caught teaching the Whitby Wildcat to fence might actually be a lesser evil than hiding with her in a state of undress in an abandoned stable.
A rustle of fabric. She was moving towards him. “You mean to say that’s simply the way you’re accustomed to speaking of me? To strangers? And you expect me to listen when you –” She stopped the moment she came into his view. “What’s wrong with you?”
He held up his hands in a gesture of peace, wincing. “I’m an unmitigated arse, apparently. Cass, I’m sorry. If I’d known you’d hear it I –” No, no, that wasn’t right, and she’d know he was lying. The scar across his right collarbone gave another warning twinge. He lowered his hand. “I knew that if I said it to ‘Jack’, he’d report it back to you, so –”
She waved him quiet, frowning. “Forget that. What’s wrong with your arm? You’re in pain.”
He mustered a grin. “Oh, you know. The old hunting wound.” He shrugged his right shoulder, testing it out, and flexed his arm a couple of times. “Nothing to fret about.”
“It really still troubles you? After all these years?”
His grin turned sour. “Only when an angry woman gives me a jab in precisely the wrong spot.”
She looked for a moment as though she were going to apologise, but stopped short. “An angry harpy.”
He winced. Not from the pain, this time. “Thought you knew about the wound, anyway,” he said, rolling out his shoulder to bring some blood back to that tight stretch of scar tissue. “You’re always riling me up about it. How old and fat I’ve gotten since it slowed me down.”
She drew herself up stiffly. “If it helps, I never make those remarks behind your back. Only to your face.”
“No,” he admitted. “I never thought you did.”
Silence. He ought to fill it with an apology, of course. But he was still smarting, physically now as well as from the sting of her manipulation. And his pride wouldn’t quite let him throw her another piece of ammunition.
He picked up his greatcoat, trying to move as though he wasn’t wary of tugging at the old wound. “Call in on Mrs. Brennan tomorrow, and we’ll have her alter the jacket for you. I’ll put up a ball on a string for you to practice your swordplay.”
Her hand went to her hips – the hips whose subtle flare was now burned so deeply into his fingers he’d likely never forget it – and her chin jutted out. “Oh, you think I’ll come, do you? After the way you –”
“I know you’ll come,” he said flatly. Mrs. Whitby was wrong to bewail her daughter’s stubborn expression. When anger sharpened the lines of Cass’s face, it was mesmerising.
In the same way as a rapier point, or a wheeled cannon aimed at the chest.
“You waited here for me this morning, though I didn’t want to admit I’d come,” he said, shrugging on his greatcoat. “I’ll be at the cottage tomorrow. Waiting for you.”
Chapter 7
The milliner’s on Appleby High Street was decidedly not Cassie’s natural habitat. Especially when she had a bulky bag of pinned-up fencing gear to manoeuvre between all the dainty little displays of bright ribbons and silk flowers.
“Are you sure old Mrs. Brennan wants quite such a number of your old petticoats?” her mother asked, as Cassie backed into a corner, bag clutched to her chest to avoid sending any more delicate stands of feathers and lace tumbling to the floor.
“Oh, yes. She is so devoted to supporting the almshouse.”
“But the mending of them will surely trouble her.”
“Not at all – it is her chief employment.” All this was, broadly speaking, true. Cassie certainly had donated any number of torn or grass-stained petticoats to Mrs. Brennan in the past.
This year, though… This year Cassie would either learn to keep her clothes fine or mend them herself. One maid between the three Whitby daughters was not nearly enough. Despite all her mother’s obfuscation about looking for the right sort of girl, Cassie knew they would not be employing any more. Her father could not afford it.
Evie stepped in, beckoning her mother’s attention towards the straw bonnets the milliner had brought out for their perusal. “Mrs. Brennan is a wonder. I’m sure I could never manage needlework if I lost my sight, but it seems to bring her as much pleasure as ever. Here, Mama, is not this scalloped edging just the thing for Georgiana?”
Cassie’s throat tightened as she watched her youngest sister coo and sigh over the latest styles of straw bonnet. Georgiana already possessed a vast quantity of bonnets – so many that she would never be able to wear them all before the fashions changed and the buying began anew. To Cassie, who could not have said why one bonnet should be scalloped and the other edged with lace if she were held at gunpoint, the waste was unconscionable.
She wished her brother Lucius had stayed in Appleby for a little longer. She wished she’d been brave enough to discuss her fears with him while he was there. But he was gone, busy with his new married life and his new trade, and his relations with their father were still frosty.
She couldn’t even write to let him know how bad things were – after the unfortunate outcome of Evie’s letters to Lord Henry, their mother read through all the girls’ correspondence thrice over before it was allowed to leave the house.
No, Cassie was alone now, with her secrets and fears and her fencing foil. And she’d simply have to manage herself.
“But why may I not have it today, Mama?” Georgiana was asking, admiring the way the blue ribbons set off her eyes in the mirror. “It is such a darling thing!”
“Well, well.” Mrs. Whitby’s voice wavered between indulgence and something that sounded a little too much like fear. “You do look splendid. Perhaps when we come back next week…”
She was going to give in. She had never been able to deny Georgiana anything. Cassie felt sick.
“Mother, my arms are tired,” she interrupted. “May I go to Mrs. Brennan’s now?”
Mrs. Whitby sighed. Cassie’s lack of interest in fashion would always disappoint her a thousand times more than Georgiana’s thoughtless extravagance. “Yes, you may. Marie? Accompany Miss Cassandra, please, but do not wait for her. We will stop for her on our way home, and…” A quiver of anxiety ruffled her placid features, but a glance at Georgiana and the blue ribbons soon sent it away. “We will have several boxes to carry, I expect.”
Cassie clenched her teeth to stop herself responding until she and Marie were safely outdoors.
“What is the purpose of buying another useless bonnet?” she asked, striding down the street so fast that the maid struggled to keep pace. “It is not the blue ribbon that makes Georgie beautiful. It is Georgie’s beautiful face. And good luck finding one of those in a shop!”
Marie gave a conciliatory smile. “If I may, Miss, your mother finds Miss Georgiana very easy to please. I’m sure if a bonnet would make you happy, she would buy you a thousand.”
“Ha!” Cassie dared not say any more of what was on her mind. But for consideration of Marie’s shorter legs, and her long afternoon of carrying hat boxes, she slowed her pace.
“May I take your bag?” asked Marie, when she had caught her breath.
Cassie clutched it tighter. If Marie took it from her, she would realise at once that the bulky fencing jacket was not a stack of petticoats. “No, thank you. Save your arms for my mother’s shopping.”
Marie inclined her head and smiled. Cassie had the impression that she knew full well there were no petticoats inside the bag. After all, she had the care of Cassandra’s wardrobe.
Mrs. Brennan’s house was not far from the high street. Nothing in Appleby was exactly far away from anything else – at least not for Cassie’s long legs. The old lady lived in what was supposed to be comfortable retirement at the end of the row of terraced houses next door to Hugo Kendrick’s hideaway cottage.
The cheek of that man, asking a blind old nurse to keep house for him, when he had a whole horde of able-bodied servants who could tend to his every need at Thistle Hall.
Mrs. Brennan answered the door with a smile and the scent of scones fresh from the oven.
“There you are, my girl. I’ve been expecting you. And is that young Marie? Wait one moment!” She felt across the little table in the hallway till her fingers lit upon a package wrapped in blue-checked cheesecloth. “Here you are, Mademoiselle. Just a little something. You need the energy, running around after the Whitby ladies from dawn till dusk. Believe me, I know!”
As Cassie stepped over the threshold, a wave of longing overwhelmed her for the days when Mrs. was her oasis of calm in a wild and unruly childhood. Perhaps the old lady remembered running from one calamity to the next, but she had never seemed so to Cassie. Mrs Brennan had been a smiling, warm presence in the rocking chair at the heart of the nursery, ready with a kiss for a grazed knee and a soothing word for a lost doll.
And a terrifying glare for a toe set out of line, as Cassie’s so often were. But that in itself was a blessing. Mischief was answered with a sharp word and a swift punishment, always fair, always deserved. So different from the misdeeds of adulthood, which were so much harder to avoid, and whose consequences were impossible to predict.
Mrs. Brennan showed her into the kitchen, where the other constant presence in Cassandra’s childhood was sitting at the table, munching his way through a scone slathered in cream. He glanced up and cocked an eyebrow by way of greeting.
Ah yes. Of course. Perhaps that lost childhood idyll had not been so idyllic after all. Always, skirting at the edges of every happy memory, darting in and out of her hopes and dreams, always there was Kendrick.
“Hugo!” said Mrs. Brennan sharply. He straightened up, swallowed his mouthful of scone in one gulp, and got to his feet, making Cassandra a low bow.
“Why, good day, Miss Cassandra! I declare I had no idea you’d be stopping by.” He raised his eyes to hers again with a wolfish smile, the effect of which was marred slightly by the jam at the edge of his mouth.
“You eat like a wild animal, Kendrick,” said Cassie, passing him her handkerchief. Hugo took it, pocketed it, and scrubbed his mouth with a sleeve.
“Thought you didn’t appreciate my gentlemanly pretensions. How did you describe my manners, again? Something about a grinning mask?”
“You’re not one to complain about being called names, Hugo,” said Mrs. Brennan. Cassie flinched.
So he’d confessed his sins to the old nursemaid, had he?
Was he planning to confess hers, too?
“Sit down, child.” Mrs. Brennan’s hand groped for her arm, feeling upwards until she’d found the shoulder, to which she applied some pressure until Cassie obeyed. “A little afternoon tea will do you good. You’ve a great deal of exertion ahead.”
Cassie glared at Kendrick, who at least had the grace to look guilty as he sat down again and helped himself to another scone. Cassie waited until his eyes slid back to hers and mouthed: What. Did. You. Tell. Her.
“What did I tell her?” Kendrick repeated aloud. Cassie grimaced and closed her eyes. “Why, only what she already knew.”
Mrs. Brennan clicked her tongue. “I won’t tolerate any attempts to carry on a private conversation without my knowledge, Cassandra. While you are here, I am your chaperone.”
“A chaperone? For me and Kendrick?”
“Please, Cass. Have a care for my neighbourly reputation,” grinned Hugo, slathering jam on his second scone. “Imagine how much worse off I’d be if your father thought I’d seduced you as well as…”
“Let you make a spectacle of yourself,” said Mrs. Brennan coldly. A terror she hadn’t felt since infancy ran chill fingers up Cassie’s spine. “And put you at risk of absolute disgrace. Yes, I knew. You’ve been scurrying about town, changing clothes in odd places in the middle of the day, and meanwhile there’s a mysterious young fellow with a romantic motive entering the fencing tourney in disguise. Did you think you were clever, Missy? Not nearly clever enough.”
Cassie said nothing. The tips of her ears felt hot.
“Have a scone, Cass,” said Kendrick. “It’ll make you feel better.”
He pushed the plate across the table. Cass had no appetite at all, but she took one and buttered it anyway simply to avoid having to look at Mrs. Brennan’s expression.
