Page 58 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

“If necessary, I will take a room in the village while the banns are called.” Daniel brushed the remaining crumbs from his hands. “By the by, Mrs. Waltham’s words about the hot water bottle have reminded me. Perhaps you might give Miss Trent and her mother your room while they’re here? It’s less prone to dampness at this time of year.”

“The very reason I chose it,” Stella said tightly.

“Quite,” he agreed. “And you have the better view of the church. Miss Trent will appreciate it more than you do.”

With an effort, Stella resumed drinking her tea. “Where am I to sleep while she’s here? The airing cupboard?”

“You can have the box room,” he said.

The box room was no bedroom at all. More of a storage closet, its narrow bed with its sagging mattress was presently covered in old linens, dusty clothing, and other donated items waiting to be sorted for distribution to the poor. It was a room that baked hot as Hades in the summer and froze as cold as an arctic glacier in the winter. A place in which it was impossible to be comfortable for more than ten minutes at a time.

But Stella knew better than to argue. The house was Daniel’s. It was he who had the living. He who employed the servants and paid for the food, the coal, and the candles. She could never afford any of those things herself, not with Locket to provide for and Turvey’s wages to pay.

“Very well,” she said. “Far be it from me to be thought ungracious.”

It was only for six weeks. After that, Miss Trent would be Mrs. Hobhouse and could safely remove herself to Daniel’s bedchamber. Unless, of course, she was one of those married ladies who demanded a separate room from her husband. In which case, Stella presumed she would be relegated to the box room indefinitely.

Daniel tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket. “We must take care to present the vicarage in a favorable light,” he said. “We shall have a formal dinner to welcome her and her mother. You must arrange it. And you must invite Squire Smalljoy.”

The devil she would.

“Is it wise to offer him so much encouragement?” Stella asked. “We both know I’ve no desire to wed the man.”

“He’s not proposed to you yet.”

“No, thank goodness. But you’ve planted the ridiculous notion in his head, and now he seems to think himself as good as my suitor. Never mind that he’s already a grandfather ten times over.”

Daniel’s face settled into its familiar lines of priggish superiority. “The age disparity between the two of you has much to recommend it. To be sure, an older gentleman will suit your impetuous nature better than a young one. You require someone to take you in hand. I’ve often said so.”

“I’ve often heard you.” Setting aside her cup with a clatter, Stella rose from her chair. She had no more stomach for tea, or for her brother’s conversation. “Forgive me, I’m tired.”

Daniel stood, following her to the door of the book room. “I’m aware you don’t find the squire a romantic enough figure for your tastes, but I ask you to give the man a fair hearing. You may yet discover that being his wife is preferable to remaining as you are.”

A burden, he meant. An unruly charge on her friends and relations.

Was marriage to an old, overbearing squire preferable to that? Despite her misgivings about her future, Stella didn’t think so.

“I shall be civil to him,” she said.

But nothing more than civil, she added privately.

Her brother may be disposed to encourage the squire’s attention, but when the man next came to dine, Stella had every intention of doing the opposite.

Fifteen

Derbyshire, England

January 1863

The day of Miss Trent’s visit arrived with unsettling swiftness. Stella spent the morning just as she’d spent every morning and afternoon since returning from Hampshire—on Locket, galloping through the woods that abutted the vicarage. Riding had been Stella’s only respite from the endless chores she’d been tasked with in preparation for their guests.

A fresh snowfall covered the ground. Locket’s hooves flew over it with ease as she and Stella charged along their favorite route—a meandering trail that ran through a stand of silver birch trees, alongside a frozen stream, and then up a hill to join with the main road to the village.

Locket loved the familiarity of the flats and the challenge of the ascents. She was a creature who gained confidence through the terrain. The firmer the footing, the greater the length of her stride.

Stella leaned forward over Locket’s silvery neck as the mare surged beneath her through the snow, the earthly incarnation of a star streaking across the sky. Icy wind tore at the net veil of Stella’s high-crowned riding hat and whipped at the heavy skirts of her habit, sending them flapping behind her in a stream of mazarine-dyed wool.

A coach rolling down the road in the direction of the vicarage slowed as she and Locket flew by. Stella paid it no mind. She wasn’t thinking of scandal or spectacle. She was only thinking of speed.