A Lady's Scandalous Kiss

Rochester, England

9 December 1817

Early afternoon

“Miss Winterborne?”

Mrs. Sabella Thackpenny’s sleep-thickened, warbly
voice yanked Joy from her pleasant daydream about where she’d spend her
half-day off this Saturday.

Walking in The Vines Gardens?

Browsing the shelves at Barclay’s Book Shoppe and
Emporium?

Or—the thought nearly made her sigh aloud in
anticipation—perhaps enjoying a cup of strong,
sweet tea with milk at that quaint tea shop on High Street where she and her
friend Mercy Feathers had enjoyed maid of honor tarts two years ago?

Mercy was the governess for two young charges here
in Rochester.

Had it truly been two years since Joy had seen her
friend?

Lips pressed tight, she shook her head the
slightest bit.

It didn’t seem possible that much time had passed.

She clearly remembered the Christmas decorations
and gingerbread cookies that day. She could still almost smell the evergreens
and the cinnamon, cloves, and ginger. Aromas she’d not enjoyed the pleasure of
since.

Joy missed the other young women from Haven House
and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women who had become her sisters in
every way except for by blood. She especially missed Mercy, Chasity Nobel, and
Purity Mayfield. The four of them had shared a room at the academy for as long
as Joy could remember.

All of the cast-off girls who’d ever called Haven
House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women their home had shared a
middle name too. Shepard. The name was a slightly altered version of the kindly
but strict and extremely pious Hester Shepherd’s own surname.

That sweet, Godly woman had bestowed a Biblical
given name upon each discarded child in her loving care. Mrs. Shepherd, now a
spinster in her sixth decade, vowed she adored the girls she’d raised since
infancy like her own daughters.

The honorary missus
before her last name was a matter of formality. No proper instructor was ever
addressed as a miss.

As Mrs. Shepherd had been taking in unwanted
charges—all by-blows in one form or another of the wealthy or aristocracy—for
two-and-one-half decades, she’d been a mother to nearly seventy girls. All of
which she’d raised to be prayerful, moral young women despite their unfortunate
beginnings.

“Each of you are a gift from our Lord. He has a
purpose in everything. ‘All things work together for good to those who love
God,’” Mrs. Shepherd quoted to her girls from the scriptures. “Even your
presence at Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women is no
accident. Never forget it, my dears,” she admonished fondly.

What was more, Mrs. Shepherd and her discreet
staff had provided every girl with an education and skills for respectable
employment. Not, however, entirely out of benevolence. Haven House and Academy
for the Enrichment of Young Women and Mrs. Shepherd had been well-compensated
for her discretion and the girls’ decorous upbringing.

Joy was eternally grateful. She missed the
headmistress’s light-hearted scolds and contagious laughter. Naturally, they
corresponded—quite regularly as a matter of fact. But a piece of paper slashed
with tiny, neat script was no substitute for one of Mrs. Shepherd’s soft,
comforting rose and violet scented hugs.

How very different was the plump, genial
headmistress compared to the pinch-faced woman across the room blinking
sleepily behind her spectacles, her mouth pursed in a perpetual grimace of
disapproval.

Or perhaps Mrs. Thackpenny’s turned down mouth was
a result of her recent propensity to pass gas with the offensive regularity and
unfortunate exuberance of a barnyard animal. A large barnyard animal.

Joy held her breath, hoping her employer would
settle back into her nap, which was her habit in the afternoon. She longed to
return to her daydream about delicious tea and sweet cakes in a cozy teashop.
If she couldn’t actually consume the treats, at least Joy could fantasize about
doing so.

A slight nasally snore resonated from the afghan
covered lump, and tension eased from Joy’s spine and shoulders. A few more
minutes of peace was a treasured blessing.

Mrs. Thackpenny—pinchpenny is more apt—only permitted Joy used tea leaves. Leaves
which the difficult widow had already used twice herself. The resulting brew
was slightly bronze-tinted water, which scarcely tasted of tea at all.

And no sugar or milk. Ever.

“A body can never economize too much, Miss
Winterborne,” the rail-thin woman had intoned when she’d first retained Joy as
her lady’s companion. “You’ll learn soon enough that though I’m extremely
frugal, I’m not miserly.”

Only
tightfisted and parsimonious.

“Save a penny, save a pound.” As was her wont,
Mrs. Thackpenny emphasized the latter colloquialism with a resounding thump of
her worse-for-wear cane.

Wasn’t the
phrase, A penny saved is a penny earned, anyway? Or was it, Look after pennies,
and the pounds will look after themselves?

It didn’t matter. What did, however, was Mrs.
Thackpenny’s tightfistedness.

Persuading the woman to part with funds was as
difficult as convincing a nun to toss up her habit for a dockside tumble with a
salty sea dog—in broad daylight.

Every single month since her arrival, Joy had been
obliged to ask for her allowance and carefully count each coin. For her
penny-pinching employer had tried to cheat her out of a shilling or two several
times.

Honestly, there wasn’t any need for her excessive
thrift either.

Mrs. Thackpenny’s husband, a successful banker,
had left her a considerable fortune. Yet the decades-old worn and quite
threadbare carpets, draperies, and outdated furnishings remained as a tribute
to the long-dead Mr. Ephraim Thackpenny.

The widow owned precisely seven gowns—one for each
day of the week. Every one entirely black from collar to hem and as plain as
unused paper, without so much as a shiny button to break the bleak monotony.

Head canted, Joy listened for her employer’s
drowsy murmurings, and when no more sounds came from the woman, decided Mrs.
Thackpenny had, indeed, been mumbling in her sleep. A common enough occurrence,
in truth.

Joy happily turned her musings toward her half-day
off once more.

Mayhap, she’d indulge in all three activities this
Saturday.

The merest rebellious smile bent her mouth

Yes, that was precisely what she’d do.

Visit The Vines, the bookstore, and the tea shop.

Pure heaven.

A small frown pulled her eyebrows together as she
inserted the needle into the fine linen fabric, another handkerchief for her
mistress—Mrs. Thackpenny’s one indulgence besides her pampered pets.

That was her plan if Mrs. Thackpenny actually permitted Joy the half-day she’d been
assured of each week when hired by the difficult woman four years ago—no five
years next week. There’d also been promises of exciting trips to Bath, the
Continent, routs, musicals, soirees, the theater…museums.

None of which had ever manifested. If Joy managed
a single, short walk outdoors every week, she counted herself most fortunate.

An unintended sigh slipped past her lips.

All fabrications to entice a young girl with stars
in her eyes and dreams of a different, more exciting life clouding her common
sense.

Little had Joy known that she was the latest in a
long queue of lady’s maids retained and dismissed since Mrs. Sabella Thackpenny
had taken a fall a decade before. Hence the need for her cane, and upon the
advice of her then physician, Doctor Daggat, she’d conceded the need for a
live-in companion.

Companion
was a generous term for what Joy was to the woman. She was expected to be on
hand for whatever the difficult widow demanded every hour of every day and
night.

In truth, Mrs. Thackpenny seldom allowed Joy her
half-day and never compensated for the deliberate oversight.

How Joy craved a few hours of desperately needed
reprieve from the demanding, cantankerous, never satisfied woman’s presence.
There was never a word of thanks or appreciation. Just scolds, complaints,
reprimands, and the occasional threat of dismissal.

And dash it to ribbons, that was what Joy could
look forward to until Mrs. Thackpenny departed this earth, unless she was
somehow able to procure another position. With considerable effort, Joy quashed
the wave of frustration billowing up from her middle that her errant,
uncharitable thoughts brought on.

She closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer.

Lord, give
me the strength and patience I need. Keep me from complaining and help me be
grateful. My life could be so much worse.

Her eyes drifted open.

It could be
better too.

But, this was
her lot in life, and she ought to be appreciative. In truth and much to her
astonishment, despite her employer’s contentious nature, Joy had grown fond of
the impossible woman.

At least she held a position, albeit one that paid
poorly and consumed all of her waking hours. But a roof over one’s head and
food in one’s belly, even if the fare was bland and unappetizing, accounted for
much. That was more than most young women born on the wrong side of the blanket
could say or even hope for.

Of course, Mrs. Thackpenny didn’t know that
particular scandalous detail about Joy’s paternity.

Nor would she ever. The very notion made her ill.

A shiver skittered the length of her spine.

For God help her, Joy’s position and reputation
depended upon that scandal remaining a secret. As did Haven House and Academy
for the Enrichment of Young Women’s, and the many girls who had ever called the
place home.

Mrs. Shepherd made absolutely certain her girls’ unsavory origins were diligently
guarded and hidden. She created respectable faux backgrounds and prepared them
for various positions appropriate for gently-bred young ladies.

She was paid handsomely—very handsomely—for her exclusive, confidential services too.
Surely she’d amassed enough savings to retire in comfort, yet Mrs. Shepherd
cheerfully continued in her position.

It struck Joy as peculiar that a parent who was so
eager to hide their by-blow or bastard daughter would pay Mrs. Shepherd’s
exorbitant fee and ensure their illegitimate offspring had a decent future. But
then again, there was no understanding the peculiarities of the wealthy or the
peerage, in Joy’s limited experience.

Odder still were the surnames Mrs. Shepherd dubbed
each of her charges with. She vowed the name contained a hint about each girl’s
familial heritage. Nonetheless, to Joy’s knowledge, thus far, not a single
former ward had identified either parent.

What difference would it make anyway?

“Miss Winterborne?”

Mrs. Thackpenny’s voice pitched higher, and the
unfortunate wooden floor—already scarred and scraped—received a pair of
undeserved petulant thwacks from her ever-present cane.

Thump.
Thump.

“Where is
my darling Sir Galahad Whiskerton?”

Thump.
Thump.

“Miss Win-ter-borne? Are you there?”

Her shrill voice pierced the air once more.

Joy winced as she accidentally pricked her finger.

As if she couldn’t hear her crotchety employer’s
strident tones from the chair less than ten feet away. Rather astonishing that
a woman so shrunken and petite could produce such remarkable volume with her
reedy voice.

“Yes, Mrs. Thackpenny. Permit me to finish this
French knot, please.”

Accustomed to her employer’s ill-temper, Joy
calmly finished her embroidery stitch despite her cold fingers' stiffness.

From beneath her lashes, she cast a yearning
glance toward the few insufficient glowing coals in the grate, in front of
which Mrs. Thackpenny’s small settee was positioned to absorb the stingy warmth
the pathetic fire provided.

Was it a sin to covet a smidgen of the sparse
warmth for herself?

Little heat radiated past the settee, leaving the
rest of the room so frigid, Joy could see her own puffs of breath. She
deliberately blew out several, watching the vapor disappear, just to prove her
point. Besides the kitchen, this was the warmest room in the house, which
wasn’t saying much.

The temperature indoors accounted for the two
pairs of stockings she wore as well as the housecoat and hand-knitted woolen
shawl wrapped around her shoulders and pinned neatly at her bosom with a
simple, but elegant silver cross brooch—a parting gift from Mrs. Shepherd. Joy
wore fingerless gloves, also hand-knitted, but that didn’t prevent the digits
from becoming distressingly cold.

As always, because Mrs. Thackpenny preferred a
tomb-like atmosphere, the faded burgundy brocade draperies remained closed
against the day’s chill. Truth be told, Joy would’ve welcomed meager sunlight
streaming through the floor to ceiling arched windows. She couldn’t help but
think Mrs. Thackpenny would also benefit from a spot of sun.

It couldn’t be good for a soul to be shut up
indoors with no light or fresh air for weeks on end. God only knew Joy felt the
effects of such confinement. Humans weren’t meant to huddle in the dark like
frightened insects or creep about in the gloom like earthworms or moles.

“You know I cannot bear for Whiskers to be away
from me,” the elderly woman complained in a child’s sulky voice—a strident
voice which grated along Joy’s spine like sharp talons scraping the bones.

She’s old
and lonely, Joy reminded herself. Be charitable.

Her husband
died when she was not much older than you.

She has no
children or remaining family and few friends.

In an attempt to harness her vexation, Joy recited
one of the many scriptures Mrs. Shepherd had drilled into her and the other
girls.

A kind word
turns away wrath.

Kindness had never worked with Mrs. Thackpenny
before.

Determined to harness her unkind thoughts, Joy
repeated the verse twice more.

A kind word
turns away wrath.

A kind word
turns away wrath.

Screwing her face into a grimace, she released a
noiseless snort.

Pshaw.

Such exercises were useless. Joy would never
completely master her thoughts when it came to Mrs. Thackpenny.

The widow could vex the most pious of priests, and
Joy had never claimed the benevolence or compassion of a man of the cloth.
Nevertheless, with a determined set of her chin and after a deep breath to
regain her equanimity, Joy said, “Indeed, I do understand how precious Sir
Whiskerton and Poppet are to you.”

And she truly did. For, the truth of it was, Joy
was also lonely.

Unbearably so at times.

She missed the other girls' companionship at Haven
House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women. There’d been no
opportunity to make new friends since she’d taken her current position.

Except for Mercy Feathers, she hadn’t seen any of
her former friends either. Joy did correspond with several. Only sporadically,
however, since foolscap, ink, and postage were luxuries she could ill afford,
and Mrs. Thackpenny only grudgingly shared the former.

Joy’s isolation was especially trying this time of
year when evidence of the upcoming Yuletide was everywhere. Why, just
yesterday, a gleaming claret-colored coach had trundled by with a festive
evergreen, holly, and gold beribboned wreath secured to the back.

Now that person possessed the holiday spirit.

Mrs. Thackpenny didn’t observe Christmas-tide with
so much as a sprig of mistletoe or a cinnamon bun. Holly and gingerbread were
taboo to the crusty widow. On the other hand, Mrs. Shepherd had literally
decked the halls, doorways, and mantels of Haven House and Academy for the
Enrichment of Young Women.

Such delicious, mouth-watering smells had filled
the corridors for days in advance of the holiday. Beaming, she’d present each
girl a gift Christmas morning. A festive time was had by all, playing parlor
games, singing around the pianoforte, skating on the lake–if the weather
cooperated–and of course, eating scrumptious holiday foods.

Joy particularly favored mulled cider and
Christmas pudding.

More than once, Joy wondered what her life would
have been like if she’d waited for another position to become available. If she
hadn’t naively believed the false promises Mrs. Thackpenny had made to a young,
impressionable girl.

Staring blankly at the heavily draped windows, she
lifted a shoulder.

Would I be
better off than this life of drudgery?