A Spinster's Awakening (A New Adventure Begins - Star Elite Book 2) Read online

  The Spinster’s Awakening

  New Star Elite Series – Book Two

  by

  REBECCA KING

  © 2018 by Rebecca King

  The moral right of R L King to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any informational storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, events or locals is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Melody Simmons

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  TO HONOUR A ROGUE

  FALLEN HERO

  TUPPENCE

  GHOSTLY ENDEAVOURS

  DUPLICITY

  TO LOVE AND LOVE AGAIN

  OTHER BOOKS BY REBECCA KING

  CHAPTER ONE

  “There. Doesn’t that look wonderful?” Mrs Augusta Applebottom asked.

  She moved to Charity’s side and tipped her head to study the floral creation she had just positioned precisely upon the altar in St Magdaline’s church.

  “Yes, indeed it does,” Charity murmured politely, but her thoughts were too troubled to give the floral decoration anything more than the briefest of cursory glances before she turned away and went in search of her shawl.

  Her failure to offer the effusive praises Augusta expected were enough to make Augusta throw her a sharp look. As usual she picked up on Charity’s subdued tone. She made her way over to her and began to study Charity far too closely.

  Charity hurriedly gathered her belongings and turned away before Augusta could read the emotions on her face. Unfortunately, Augusta seemed to sense the reason for Charity’s upset and patted her sympathetically on the shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, dear. I am sure it will be your turn one day.” Augusta offered soothingly as she gathered up the flower stems, ribbon and lace that littered the front pew of the church. “You are never too old, you know.”

  “I am not going to marry,” Charity replied flatly. “Not only is there a severe shortage of eligible bachelors but I am perfectly content the way I am, thank you.”

  Charity forced herself to throw her good friend a rather false smile. It didn’t meet her eyes and died as swiftly as it began. Neither woman was in any doubt she was lying.

  “Oh, tush,” Augusta huffed. Her tone softened and became encouraging. “What about Ralph Chambers? He is a nice boy.”

  Charity’s brows rose in alarm. “Ralph is twice my age and prefers the busty bar maid over at the Dog and Duck,” she declared hastily, eager to quell that notion before it took root in the older woman’s mind.

  Augusta turned to lift a surprised brow at her. “Really?” She frowned thoughtfully at the back of the pew for a moment. Her voice was nothing more than a dull murmur when she muttered: “I thought that was all over.”

  Charity drew her shawl around her shoulders. She was eager to get out of the church before Augusta took it in mind to try to match her up with someone else, like the equally single vicar of the parish: Reverent Ernest, who was in his seventies and tended to drink too much.

  “Well, over or not, Ralph is certainly not somebody I shall be furthering an acquaintance with, I can assure you of that,” Charity declared flatly. She tugged sharply on her shawl to straighten the edges and then began to make her way down the aisle toward the door.

  “How about Hubert Coggins? Now he has a good job over at the bank, and he has connections with the Earl up on the estate. He is friendly enough, and if you don’t mind that strange little snorting habit he has, I am sure you would cope with someone like him,” Augusta offered, her small eyes alight with hope.

  “I am sure Hubert would have something to say about that. We grew up together. It would seem wrong for anything like that to happen between us. It would be like kissing my brother.” Charity shivered dramatically such was the force of her revulsion.

  Augusta frowned at her. “Have you not kissed anybody yet?”

  Charity’s cheeks turned pink with embarrassment. She looked around the church, desperate to find a way out of the situation, or find an appropriate response. She didn’t want to answer that, not least because it was something personal and private to her, and Augusta was a scurrilous gossip. Moreover, she daren’t admit the truth: no, she had never been kissed.

  “Augusta! You shouldn’t go around asking people questions like that,” Charity protested, flicking a somewhat panicked look around the cold and empty church. “Does privacy mean nothing to you?”

  Augusta wasn’t to be denied her juicy bit of gossip, though, and leaned toward Charity undeterred.

  “You haven’t, have you?” She squinted at Charity, as though trying to gauge her answer despite Charity’s reticence.

  “I am not going to answer that,” Charity replied primly.

  “Oh, but you can tell me,” Augusta suggested. “It will be between us.”

  “If you are ready, I think it is time to go,” Charity urged, throwing a desperate look at the church door.

  “Ah, dear,” Augusta sighed, but reluctantly followed her.

  “Pardon?” Charity asked as they walked toward the church door.

  “I would have at least thought that Terrence Baker might have given into temptation,” Augusta sighed.

  “Terrence Baker?” Charity frowned.

  “I thought you and he were – close – once,” Augusta murmured.

  “We only nodded to each other on a Friday when I went to market,” Charity protested. “What on earth gave you the idea we were – close – once?”

  “Oh, I just heard somewhere that-” Augusta frowned and stepped out of the church. “Never mind.”

  “Just what rumours are going around about me?” Charity demanded as they wove their way in and out of the gravestones toward the tall iron gate. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted to know, but curiosity drove her to ask.

  “I don’t believe there are any rumours going around about you, Charity, dear,” Augusta soothed even though there was a shiftiness to the look in her eye that Charity found alarming. “Everything is just as always with you. Predictable, to say the very least. It’s reassuring, is it not?”

  Before Charity could defend her dullness, Augusta drew on her gloves and straightened her jacket.

  “The tapestry circle is meeting at your house later, don’t forget. I will see you then, my dear. I have a nice fruit cake with a delicate hint of cinnamon and rosehip I should like everyone to try.” Augusta patted Charity’s forearm in a matronly fashion before she settled her basket on her arm and scuttled off.

  Charity stared after her in quiet horror. She was beleaguered by a raging mix of scattered emotions the most of which she struggled to und
erstand. For a moment, Charity tried to make sense of them. There was disappointment, yes. She wished there was at least someone who might be deemed suitable to be her suitor. Maybe there was a hint of embarrassment. It was humiliating that she was six and twenty and still ‘on the shelf’. She wished there was someone she could share her life with, especially on the long, cold nights when she was forced to spend her evenings alone.

  Quickly shoving her troubles aside, Charity contemplated the forthcoming meeting of the tapestry circle. Each time the ladies met, someone brought cake. While they sewed, the ladies indulged. Often, someone had a new recipe they wished to try and used the ladies to gather thoughts on their success. It was an arrangement that worked well. Everybody enjoyed it – usually.

  Unfortunately, Augusta couldn’t cook. She tried, bless her – often. While sweet and relatively unassuming in character, each time she tried to bake perfection she risked offending someone. Her ‘creations’ could only be described as palatable at best, as long as one had a strong drink at one’s elbow to wash away the taste – or lumps. Occasionally her cakes were downright awful, especially when Augusta allowed her creative juices to flow.

  “Dear God, will it never end?” Charity whispered in dismay.

  Deciding she had better get home and find something to eat before she tortured her stomach with fruitcake, cinnamon and rosehip, Charity hurried out of the churchyard. As she walked through the village, her thoughts turned to Augusta’s declaration that Charity was ‘predictable’.

  “I don’t think I like being considered predictable,” Charity grumbled aloud.

  She studied the churchyard on the other side of the low stone wall alongside the path she walked. It looked a little like her life at present; devoid of life.

  “It all sounds rather boring,” she whispered morosely.

  In fact, her life was rather boring. Mundane. Predictable, as Augusta had said. Stupidly so, as a matter of fact, but there was little likelihood of her ever being able to change it. To do so would mean she would have to do something drastic, like move to a town or something, and she couldn’t even bear to think about that possibility let alone bring it to fruition.

  “It’s fine,” she assured herself aloud. “My life is perfectly acceptable, thank you.”

  But, of course, it wasn’t. It was far from all right by any means. At six and twenty, she was considerably older than most young people in the village yet still unwed. Not only that but she was still without a suitor and had no potential lothario in sight for miles around, not even a reluctant one. The male of the species who were eligible were certainly not men Charity could consider spending the rest of her life with. Everyone else was either too old, repulsive, or married already.

  “My knight, I am sure, has long since gotten lost in his armour,” she muttered with a heavy sigh. “Or has lost his horse. Either way, he won’t be coming my way anytime soon, I don’t doubt.”

  As though to commiserate with her predicament, a few drops of rain began to fall all about her. She sighed when she looked up and realised that while she had been considering what she hadn’t got in her life, she had forgotten to notice what she was going to get if she loitered outside any longer. As if to chastise her, the Heavens suddenly opened and deluged her in an icy cascade of rainwater that made her groan in misery.

  Tugging her shawl over her head, Charity hurried toward home. She was drenched before she even reached the end of the lane that would take her to her street. So much so, her boots squelched as she dodged the worst of the rapidly growing puddles. It wasn’t lost on her that as she made her way through the rain-soaked village, she was the only person out and about. Charity might have been the only person on earth right then. The only sound that could be heard were the heavy puffs of her own breathing, and the splosh, splosh, splosh of her boots on the water-logged path. It was an isolating experience and seemed to confirm the accuracy of Mrs Applebottom’s statement. Her life was boring, empty, cold, and isolated in a sense.

  “I do have friends,” she whispered, even when a small voice chided her: Yes, but they are not the same as having a family, or a man to share your life – and house – with.

  Quickly closing that thought out, Charity lengthened her stride and tried to keep her eyes on the path before her. Still, she was painfully aware that the houses she passed were all lit with the gentle, welcoming glow of candles. The woodsy scent of chimney smoke was carried on the stiff breeze that billowed around her, teasing of hearth and home, warmth and family.

  “I need to get something to eat,” she whispered when she contemplated her home and realised her pantry was almost empty and the fire was unlit. “No warm welcome for me then.”

  When she passed the end of the main street moments later, and realised the bakery was still open, she headed toward the shop without even stopping to contemplate whether she needed sustenance or the company of the patrons more. Either way, within seconds she was welcomed into the heavenly warmth of the bakery by the happy tinkle of the bell above the doorway.

  “Mr Kendrick?” she called as she stepped inside.

  “Ah, there you are, Charity, I was just saying to Mrs Kendrick, I hadn’t seen you for a few days,” Mr Kendrick replied with a kindly smile.

  “I have been sorting out the church with Mrs Applebottom,” Charity replied.

  Deep inside a small voice warned her that she didn’t have to explain herself to the shop-keeper. She was a single, independent woman of albeit somewhat meagre means, but was independent nonetheless. She certainly didn’t need to tell the man why she didn’t come to the shop daily like she used to. Still, there was a hint of accusation in his eye that made her feel guilty for attempting to change her routine to save a few pennies.

  It is because you are far too predictable, Charity, my dear, a stern voice taunted her.

  She sighed because it was yet another reminder that she had become too dependable. With that dependability came a staid and boring predictability that other people had come to expect more than herself. It was odd, but there it was.

  Squaring her shoulders, Charity refused to explain herself again, or apologise for her change of routine, and turned her attention to the goods on offer.

  “That is a lot of buns for you, isn’t it?” Mr Kendrick replied as he began to pack her order.

  “Not really,” Charity replied. “I can pay if that is what you are intimating?”

  Mr Kendrick froze and looked at her. “It wasn’t,” he replied with a heavy frown.

  Charity put the appropriate coinage on the counter and waited for Mr Kendrick to hand her the neatly packaged parcel.

  “I say, is everything all right?” Mr Kendrick asked warily. It was clear from the concerned frown on his face that he was somewhat wary of her uncharacteristic brashness.

  “Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?” Charity replied briskly. She placed her buns into her basket but then hesitated. It seemed rude to just turn around and walk away but the alternative was to stand and converse with the man, which was something she didn’t want to do. Again, a pang of guilt swept through her. It wasn’t Mr Kendrick’s fault she wasn’t content with her life and wanted something – more - and was even bored with herself.

  “I am fine, Mr Kendrick, thank you,” she added graciously after a momentary silence.

  With that, she forced herself to leave the man standing in confounded silence and hurried out of the shop.

  Trying desperately to ignore the sense of solitude that settled over her again as soon as she was outside, Charity ducked her head against the driving rain and resumed her journey home. In doing so, she inadvertently caught sight of her ruined dress. For the first time in a long time, Charity felt like crying. Hot, salty tears stung her eyes such was the depth of her misery. It swiftly became a race to try to reach home before those tell-tale tears began to trickle slowly down her cheeks.

  I don’t even know why I am so upset. I have done this so often that there is no reason why going home to a cold and empty house
should make the slightest bit of difference to me, but it does. It truly does, she thought solemnly.

  “It isn’t as if I am going to be alone for long. I have just enough time to get home, have some tea and then tidy up before the tapestry group arrive. They will not be going home until late. Then I can go off to bed,” she muttered to herself.

  Yes, and then I will have another sleepless night, tossing and turning, trying to ignore the steady ticking of the clock that reminds me of how much of my life is passing. Then I can get up tomorrow and spend another day trying to find enough to do to fill my time.

  Quickly, she closed out her melancholy thoughts about the long and empty night and focused on what she was going to do about cheering herself up before her friends arrived. If she was this distracted when they appeared she was going to spend her evening being pummelled with questions, studied, cross examined, and questioned at every quarter and they wouldn’t leave until they knew everything.

  “This is personal. I cannot tell them that I want something more from life only I don’t know what,” she whispered.

  But I do know what, I just know that I cannot have it, she mused with a heavy sigh when she began to wonder what it would be like to share her house with a loved one again.

  Frustration began to trickle through her disquiet, until an acute sense of dissatisfaction brought forth a wave of uncharacteristic temper.

  “Why do I feel like something is lacking all of a sudden?” she whispered, her voice rife with impatience. “Why now? I have everything I need. The house is my own, I don’t owe anybody anything, I can feed myself, clothe myself, and have a good circle of friends. What else could I want?”

  Her allowance, together with the modest house she owned on the outskirts of the village of St Magdaline, were more than enough to sustain her. Yes, the funds she had available to live off were meagre at best, but she was getting by – just. She could survive so long as she was very careful.