Page 30 of A Taste of Miss Honey

Chapter 11

Revelations.

Little Valentine, 25th January 1816

Izzy stared out to sea. Overhead, seagulls wheeled on the gusty air that tugged at her bonnet and stung her cheeks. Their raucous shrieks pierced her tired brain. Though it was early yet, the fishermen had long been at work, and she watched their boats bobbing far out at sea, at the mercy of the weather and the tides. She had been to the blacksmith, who had eyed the ring she’d showed him with mingled shock and relief. He thanked her kindly, assuring her Boreas would be escorted safely out of the area to somewhere he could recuperate without fear of discovery.

She had left his premises feeling oddly at a loss. Her days had been filled with Boreas since the moment he had told her of his plans for that fateful night. She had worried for him. But then he had been little more than a girl’s romantic ideal. Now he was a flesh and blood man, with all the weaknesses and strengths that went with reality.

Never mind. It was over, but she had a kiss to remember for all time. She would not allow him to steal that from her. It had been her first real kiss, and an initiation of fire that had branded her soul, changing her in some indefinable way she did not yet fully understand.

“Chin up, Honeywell,” she told herself sternly, turning away from the horizon and trudging back up the hill to the vicarage. Mrs Adie would have a splendid breakfast waiting for her, and that would make her feel far more the thing. So, Izzy turned her mind to brighter subjects and forced Boreas out of her mind.

It worked until she got home and climbed the stairs to tidy herself up before going in for breakfast. She stared at the attic door for a long moment before opening it and going up.

If she’d had hopes of pretending it had all been a dream, there was too much evidence for that. She’d already had the very devil of a job getting rid of the cloths that had been too bloodstained to launder, forced to dry them in a hidden corner of the garden before tossing them into the fire in her bedroom. The sheets and pillows she would slip into the laundry one at a time and hope poor Polly wouldn’t notice.

Yet she knew she would always feel his presence here, no matter how carefully she got rid of the evidence. Sighing, she was about to turn away when a slip of paper caught her eye. Her heart gave an erratic thud as she hurried to the bed and snatched it up from the pillow it lay on.

Dear Miss Honey,

I meant to leave you hating me, believing I was a vile brute who cared nothing for all you gave me, and whilst the description fits me to a nicety, I cannot bring myself to live in a world where you think so ill of me.

I’m not for the likes of you, and to say I am unworthy is only half the story. But I need you to know that I was cruel to you because I feared I would take too much if I did not force you to leave. I am sorry for hurting you, but it is better this way.

Perhaps you will think of me now and then and forget how we parted. You deserve to make a match as fine as any your sisters have achieved. I believe there is an unmarried duke in town. He’s the sort of fellow you should set your sights on. I can see you as a duchess.

Live well, sweetheart, and stay away from smugglers.

Yours, B.

Izzy devoured the words, reading it so fast she could hardly take it in, and then again and again, committing the entirety to memory. The weight that had pressed down upon her since last night lifted, the humiliation of having so badly misjudged him dissolving. She had not been a fool. He had been exactly as she had believed him to be, and he had hurt her out of some misguided sense of honour.

Despite the happiness that lifted her spirits, she was furious with him all over again, for they had parted so awkwardly, with her still smarting and angry. Perhaps if she went back to the blacksmith’s shop, Eddie would get a letter to him for her? Not now, she supposed, for he’d be occupied with getting Boreas to safety.

Later, then. This afternoon she would go back to the shop and ask Eddie to pass on her letter.

She turned her attention back to his words, snorting in disgust as she read his advice. A duke, indeed. Was he insane? She shivered as she brought to mind the cold, haughty face of the Duke of Hawkney. It would be like marrying a block of ice. No, thank you. She had a far better idea in mind.

Brook’s Books, Little Valentine, 25th January 1816

“Miss Everdene? It is Miss Everdene?”

Angel looked up as a cultured voice hailed her from the end of the bookshelves. The shop had been quiet when she’d entered, no doubt the wintry afternoon keeping more sensible people at home beside the fire. Turning her attention from the title she’d been perusing, she saw a young woman gazing at her. She was a lovely creature, with thick auburn hair and green eyes. A long-forgotten memory sparked. “Lady Della!”

“It is you!” Della exclaimed, hurrying forward. “I never forget a face. Heavens, it must be at least two years ago now, but we met once in town. Your mama had brought you for a dress fitting and we spent hours bored out of our minds at the same modiste.”

Angel laughed, remembering how excited she’d been on her first ever trip to London and a visit to a proper, fashionable modiste. But that had been when her mama had not cared how much money she spent on such things. “I remember it well, and my relief at finding a friend to while away the time with, and then we both discovered we had connections in Little Valentine.”

“I am so pleased to see you. When we last met, I believe you were about to go off to finishing school?”

“You have an excellent memory, my lady,” Angel replied, hoping she wouldn’t ask too many questions.

“Oh, call me Della. I’m not so stuffy as that. Listen, are you doing anything?”

Angel pushed the book she was holding back onto the shelf. “No, I’m bored to tears, that’s why I’m here.”

That and the need to escape her worry for her grandfather. He had banished her from his bedroom earlier, exclaiming she need not tiptoe about pretending to be a ministering angel. No matter her name, he wasn’t falling for it. She was as wicked as he was, and she had best go off and get herself into some fix or other and stop fretting about him. If he died, he died, and he expected her to do as he’d bade her and have a fine old time on the proceeds of his sins.