A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(2)
Author: Tessa Dare

Chin high. Keep smiling.

“As you might have noticed,” she said lightly, “I’m in the middle of a music lesson.”

No response.

“You see, Miss Elliott is anxious when it comes to performing for strangers.”

“You want me to leave.”

“No.” Kate’s own reply surprised her. “No, I don’t want you to leave.”

That would be letting him off too easily. He was always leaving. This was their standard interaction, time after time. Kate screwed up her courage and attempted to be friendly. He always found some excuse to promptly leave the room. It was a ridiculous game, and she was weary of it.

“I’m not asking you to leave,” she said. “Miss Elliott needs practice. She and I are going to play a duet. I’m inviting you to lend us your attention.”

He stared at her.

Kate was accustomed to awkward eye contact. Whenever she made new acquaintances, she became painfully aware that people saw only the bold, port-wine splash on her temple. For years she’d tried to obscure her birthmark with wide-brimmed bonnets or artfully arranged ringlets of hair—to no avail. People always stared straight past them. She’d learned to ignore the initial hurt. In time, she went from being just a birthmark in their eyes, to being a woman with a birthmark. And eventually they looked at her and just saw Kate.

Corporal Thorne’s gaze was altogether different. She didn’t quite know who she was, in his eyes. The uncertainty set her on a razor’s edge, but she kept struggling to find her balance.

“Stay,” she dared him. “Stay and listen while we play our best for you. Applaud when we finish. Tap your toes to the rhythm, if you like. Give Miss Elliott a bit of encouragement. And shock me to the fingernails by proving you’ve a smidgen of compassion.”

Eons passed before he finally gave his succinct, gravelly response.

“I’ll leave.”

He stood, tossed a coin on the counter. And then he walked out of the tavern without looking back.

When the red-painted door swung shut on its oiled hinges, mocking her with a loud slam—Kate shook her head. The man was impossible.

At the pianoforte, Miss Elliott resumed playing a light arpeggio.

“I suppose that solves one problem,” Kate said, trying, as always, to see the bright side. No situation was ever hopeless.

Mr. Fosbury, the middle-aged tavern keeper, arrived to clear Thorne’s tankard. He pushed a cup of tea in Kate’s direction. A wafer-thin slice of lemon floated in the center, and the aroma of brandy drifted toward her on a wave of steam. She warmed inside before she’d even taken a sip. The Fosburys were good to her.

But they still weren’t a substitute for a true family. For that, she would have to keep searching. And she would keep searching, no matter how many doors slammed in her face.

“I hope you don’t take Thorne’s crude manners to heart, Miss Taylor.”

“Who, me?” She forced a little laugh. “Oh, I’m more sensible than that. Why should I take to heart the words of a heartless man?” She ran a fingertip around the teacup’s rim, thoughtful. “But kindly do me a favor, Mr. Fosbury.”

“Whatever you ask, Miss Taylor.”

“The next time I’m tempted to extend an olive branch of friendship to Corporal Thorne . . . ?” She arched one brow and gave him a playful smile. “Remind me to whack him over the head with it instead.”

Chapter Two

“More tea, Miss Taylor?”

“No, thank you.” Kate sipped the weak brew in her cup, masking her grimace. The leaves were on their third use, at least. They seemed to have been washed of their last vague memory of being tea.

Fitting, she supposed. Vague memories were the order of the day.

Miss Paringham put aside the teapot. “Where did you say you’re residing?”

Kate smiled at the white-haired woman in the chair opposite. “Spindle Cove, Miss Paringham. It’s a popular holiday village for gently bred young ladies. I make my living offering music lessons.”

“I am glad to know your schooling has provided you with an honest income. That is more than an unfortunate like yourself should have hoped.”

“Oh, indeed. I’m very lucky.”

Setting aside her “tea,” Kate cast a surreptitious glance at the mantel clock. Time was growing short. She despised wasting precious minutes on niceties when there were questions singeing the tip of her tongue. But abruptness wouldn’t win her any answers.

A wrapped parcel lay in her lap, and she curled her fingers around the string. “I was so surprised to learn you’d settled here. Imagine, my old schoolmistress, pensioned just a few hours’ ride away. I couldn’t resist paying a call to reminisce. I have such fond recollections of my Margate years.”

Miss Paringham raised an eyebrow. “Really.”

“Oh, yes.” She stretched her mind for examples. “I particularly miss the . . . the nourishing soup. And our regular devotionals. It’s just so hard to find two solid hours for reading sermons nowadays.”

As orphans went, Kate knew she’d been a great deal happier than most. The atmosphere at Margate School for Girls might have been austere, but she hadn’t been beaten or starved or unclothed. She’d formed friendships and gained a useful education. Most important of all, she’d been instructed in music and encouraged in its practice.

Truly, she could not complain. Margate had provided for her every need, save one.

Love.

In all her years there, she’d never known real love. Just some pale, thrice-washed dilution of it. Another girl might have grown bitter. But Kate just wasn’t formed for misery. Even if her mind could not recall it, her heart remembered a time before Margate. Some distant memory of happiness echoed in its every beat.

She’d been loved once. She just knew it. She couldn’t put a name or face to the emotion, but that didn’t make it any less real. Once upon a time, she’d belonged—to someone, somewhere. This woman might be her last hope of finding the connection.

“Do you remember the day I arrived at Margate, Miss Paringham? I must have been such a little thing.”

The old woman’s mouth pursed. “Five years at the oldest. We had no way to be certain.”

“No. Of course you wouldn’t.”

No one knew Kate’s true birthday, least of all Kate herself. As schoolmistress, Miss Paringham had decided all wards of the school would share the Lord’s birthday, December 25. Supposedly they were to take comfort from this reminder of their heavenly family on the day when all the other girls had gone home to their own flesh-and-blood relations.