Free The Spinster's Secret by Emily Larkin Page A

opinion, were an unnecessary extravagance. The big grey Mr. Kane had hired was gone.
    Mattie spent a few minutes rubbing the noses of the four horses that pulled Creed Hall’s carriage to church every Sunday, made the acquaintance of the matched bays that had drawn Mr. Kane’s curricle, and then climbed the ladder up to the loft. “Puss puss puss,” she whispered, blinking to see in the half-dark.
    She heard tiny rustlings and then the squeak of kittens.
    Mattie climbed the last few rungs and crawled on hands and knees into the hay. More peepings came and a low meow from the mother.
    “I have a sausage,” she said, reaching into her pocket. “See, Mama Cat? I saved it from breakfast.”
    The cat mewed again. The hay rustled more loudly, and then a warm, furry body rubbed against her.
    “Hello, sweetheart.” Mattie stroked the cat, then broke the sausage into pieces and laid it on the hay.
    The mother cat ate hungrily, wolfing down the sausage, while the three kittens clambered over Mattie’s skirts. Their furry little black and grey striped bodies were almost invisible in the gloom.
    Mattie lifted one kitten in her hand. She held it, soft and purring, against her cheek.
    “I shall take you with me, all of you, when I leave. I promise. No one will ever drown you.”
    The sounded of booted feet echoed in the stables. The mother cat looked up from grooming herself, but the kittens paid no attention. Mattie crawled to the edge of the loft and peered down. An elderly man with a crooked back and bow-legged stride walked down the aisle below, broom in hand.
    “Hello, Hoby,” she called down.
    He leaned the broom against the side of a stall and tugged his forelock. “Afternoon, miss. How’s the kittens?”
    “Very well,” Mattie said. “How’s your wife?”
    “Oh, aye.” Hoby put his gnarled hands on his hips. “She’s right tetchy at the moment.”
    Mattie bit her lip to hide a smile. Mrs. Hoby was always tetchy. Prettiest lass in the village , she’d heard Hoby say on more than one occasion. And with a tongue like a razor’s edge. Lor’, she were a catch all right.
    “What is it this time?”
    “Hens,” Hoby said darkly.
    …
    Water ran in rivulets from the brim of Edward’s hat and streamed off the shoulder capes of his coat. He dismounted in the yard and led Trojan into the stables, whistling under his breath. He’d managed to cross one person off the list of possible Chéries, the baker’s wife. And he’d eaten two extremely tasty meat pies, followed by an even tastier apple turnover. And he had two thick slices of gingerbread wrapped in a clean handkerchief in his breast pocket, where the rain couldn’t reach.
    The groom, Hoby, was talking to someone in the hayloft.
    Edward stopped whistling. He glanced up at the loft and saw the pale blur of a face.
    Hoby hastened towards him. He had a rocking gait, like a sailor.
    “Sir?”
    Edward’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light. He blinked and squinted up at the loft. The pale blur resolved itself into a face he recognized.
    “Miss Chapple?”
    “Kittens,” Hoby said cryptically, taking Trojan’s reins.
    “Er…kittens?”
    He saw Miss Chapple’s lips move, but the clatter of Trojan’s hooves on the flagstones drowned out her words.
    “I beg your pardon?” Edward asked.
    “Three kittens,” Miss Chapple said, more loudly.
    “Oh,” Edward said.
    Water dripped steadily from his coat. He wanted to take off his wet clothes, sit in front of a warm fire, and eat his gingerbread. But something about Miss Chapple’s face, peering down at him from the gloomy loft, caught his interest.
    “May I see them?”
    He saw her shrug. “If you wish.”
    Edward took off his coat, shook the water from it, and hung it from an empty harness hook. He removed his hat and stripped off his wet gloves and hung them up too. Then he climbed the ladder to the loft.
    Hay rustled as Miss Chapple moved back. He heard faint peeping sounds.
    Edward stopped at the top