Spinster and Spice (The Spinster Chronicles, Book 3) Read online

  The Spinster Chronicles

  Book Three

  REBECCA CONNOLLY

  Also by

  Rebecca Connolly

  The Arrangements:

  An Arrangement of Sorts

  Married to the Marquess

  Secrets of a Spinster

  The Dangers of Doing Good

  The Burdens of a Bachelor

  A Bride Worth Taking

  A Wager Worth Making

  A Gerrard Family Christmas

  The London League:

  The Lady and the Gent

  A Rogue About Town

  A Tip of the Cap

  The Spinster Chronicles:

  The Merry Lives of Spinsters

  The Spinster and I

  Coming Soon

  My Fair Spinster

  Text copyright © 2019 by Rebecca Connolly

  Cover art copyright © 2019 by Rebecca Connolly

  Cover art by Tugboat Design

  http://www.tugboatdesign.net

  All rights reserved. Published by Phase Publishing, LLC. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

  Phase Publishing, LLC first ebook edition

  May 2019

  ISBN 978-1-943048-80-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019938973

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.

  Acknowledgements

  For Ashley, arguably the nicest person I have ever met in my entire life, and the only person I can honestly suspect of being made out of sunshine. I consider myself so very blessed to be counted among your friends, and there are not enough blossoms in the entire world for those feelings. I’ll go to Cheesecake Factory with you any time to plot randomly again. Worked out super well last time, didn’t it? Sláinte!

  And to Dark Chocolate Oreos. Life was a blank before I found you. Don’t ever leave me. Ever.

  Want to hear about future releases and upcoming events for Rebecca Connolly?

  Sign up for the monthly Wit and Whimsy at:

  www.rebeccaconnolly.com

  Index

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Mayfair, 1815

  “I don’t know about this, Georgie…”

  “It will be fine, Izzy, trust me.”

  Isabella Lambert sighed as her older and more beautiful cousin grinned and practically bounced away from her, completely unconcerned about the path she was leading them all down.

  It was a thoughtless idea, aside from the fact that Georgie had, in fact, put some thought into it. But the complications were real and legitimate, even if only Izzy could see them.

  And see them she could.

  They sprang into her mind with an alarming frequency, and each grew more terrifying or imposing or shocking by the moment. Imagine, a group of women gathering themselves together and embracing the title they had been given by the less than complimentary members of Society, all in the name of trying to save other girls from suffering the same fate with the same apprehension, or, even worse, behaving drastically merely to avoid it!

  Being a spinster wasn’t that dreadful, and Georgie intended to prove it.

  Izzy was less convinced. Much, much less.

  But she had been the one to prompt Georgie’s swift actions, drastic though they were, and so she could not very well refuse her cousin in this. Or anything. Between the two of them, Georgie had always been the leader, while Izzy happily followed.

  Not blindly, just happily.

  That was who Izzy was, and how she was. The happy follower. The soft-spoken cousin. The one who never said no.

  The nice one.

  She couldn’t stop Georgie, and she couldn’t let her go alone.

  There was only one thing to do; the same thing she had always done.

  “Be nice and act excited, Isabella,” she told herself as she followed her intrepid cousin. “Be nice and act excited.”

  Chapter One

  A soft-spoken woman can be a powerful force for good. Provided anyone cares to listen.

  -The Spinster Chronicles, 9 April 1817

  “Izzy, where did I put the ribbons I bought last week?”

  “At your toilette, Mama, by your hairbrush.”

  “I was just at my toilette, and they were not there.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure, Isabella, I know what I saw.”

  Izzy laid her book in her lap, keeping her finger on the page, not bothering to avoid rolling her eyes. “Try under the hairbrush, Mama.”

  There was a moment’s pause from upstairs, and then a faint humming that spoke of her mother’s success in the ribbon hunt.

  Izzy nodded to herself and returned to her book, not actually reading a single word.

  She had been faux reading for twenty minutes now, waiting for her mother to finish preparing herself for her outing. It had taken almost twice as long as usual for her to actually leave the house, which was utterly maddening, but fairly typical for recent days.

  It wasn’t like her mother to be so fussy, but in the last few months, she had grown increasingly so, and her fussiness tended to be directed at Izzy whenever possible. There was only one explanation for that: Izzy was not married. It wasn’t fair, and it was not kind, but there it was.

  How was it possible, her mother had wondered, for the less likable of two cousins to marry rather than the other?

  Izzy hadn’t wondered that at all, for her cousin Georgie was very likable, under the right circumstances and with the right individuals. And in the months since her marriage, she had even grown quite cheery and sentimental when compared with her original state. Besides, Georgie was far and away more beautiful than Izzy.

  Her mother would never be so coarse as to admit such a notion, but neither was she making any effort to refute it. Or convince anyone otherwise. It would never have been believed anyway. Everyone in London had eyes, and those eyes had seen Izzy often enough to know the truth.

  Isabella Lambert was plain. And she was nice. And therein lay the problem.

  She had other charms, and she had a decent enough fortune, to be sure, but it wasn’t enough to necessarily tempt anyone to take her as she was, should they have wanted any such thing in the first place. No one had ever wanted her before, and she saw no sign of that changing, much to her mother’s dismay.

  “All right, dear, I am off to visit Lady Chesterton,” her mother announced as she entered the parlor, adjusting her gloves.

  Izzy closed her book on a finger and smiled as warmly as she could. “Yes, Mama. Do give her ladyship my warmest regards. She has invited the Spinsters to her dinner party next week, and I believe we are all to attend.”

  Her mother barely avoided giving a harrumph of her own disbelief. “I don’t know why she encourages you. I’ve never found the status of s
pinster to be anything praiseworthy, and it will only make you all the more notorious.”

  “Mama,” Izzy groaned, rolling her eyes dramatically. “You know how important the Spinsters are to me, and to Georgie as well. You did give your permission for me to write with them when we started four years ago.”

  “I know, I know,” her mother admitted hastily, huffing a little. “And it really is very diverting, dear. But must it emphasize being spinsters so often?” She shook her head and pretended to fix her gloves again. “They’re all coming over soon, are they not?”

  Izzy nodded, trying not to smile. “They are, yes. Prue and Camden are back in London, so we thought…”

  Her mother harrumphed an uncomfortable exhale. “In the future, dear, refer to him as Mr. Vale, at least to me. Would you mind?”

  Izzy smiled and shook her head. “Not at all, Mama. I would be happy to. Now, don’t be late for Lady Chesterton, it wouldn’t be proper.”

  Her mother smiled and nodded. “And despite what you may think, dear, you are perfectly, exactly, as I would wish you to be.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Izzy told her, the phrase so familiar it had lost its meaning, but was quite nice, nonetheless. “I know.”

  Her smile deepened, and then her mother rushed out of the room.

  The butler intoned something Izzy couldn’t make out but could well imagine. The door opened, closed, and then there was silence except for the butler’s footsteps.

  She waited until those footsteps retreated, just to be safe, and only when silence prevailed did she move to the writing desk in the corner. She moved aside the stack of books and notes from her friends that she had laid out to cover any and all evidence, not that anyone but the servants came into this parlor. If her mother had any idea, she would scour the entire room, and Izzy’s bedchamber, and possibly some of the spare rooms.

  But she didn’t, and the rooms were left alone, and this particular parlor was unofficially designated as Izzy’s. It was the one in which the Spinsters always met when they were together, and it contained more secrets than anyone knew.

  Including the Spinsters.

  She couldn’t tell them this, or let it be up for discussion. Charlotte, for one, would have something to say about it, and it was entirely possible she would refer to it in some way in the next edition of the Chronicles. With the growing fascination over the Spinsters, and the scrutiny of them, it could actually be drawn back to Izzy, depending on how it was phrased. That was a risk she could not and would not take.

  Glancing back at the door to the parlor, though no one was home to care what she did, Izzy slid the still-sealed letter out from the back of the desk.

  She swallowed as her heart suddenly pounded in her chest, and a shaking hand moved a glinting strand of coppery hair behind her ear. It slid back into her eye line at once, but she would ignore it. For now.

  She exhaled shortly and broke the seal, fingers trembling. She had been on edge for three days waiting for this letter, and now…

  Dear Miss Lambert,

  Having received your manuscript portion last week, I have taken the liberty of reading it thoroughly. While the prose is quite good and does lend itself to a story for children, I remain hesitant for reasons I cannot entirely express. But I do not wish to discourage you, nor should this in any way demean your writing. I had my doubts, as I said before you sent the selection to me, but it was more impressive than I anticipated. I had, of course, known you had some skill, given our success with the Spinster Chronicles, but it is clear that your imagination also runs in other courses.

  Please submit further stories for my review, and perhaps we may meet to discuss what options and opportunities are before us. I am not convinced that I know the avenue for such works, nor where the production of it could lead, but I am willing to be persuaded otherwise should your writing prove different.

  I am, cousin, most pleased by our further professional interaction, and hope for a good deal more in the future.

  Your obedient servant,

  Frank T. Lambert

  The words reverberated in her mind, and while the letter held several words of praise and encouragement, there was only one thing that stood out to Izzy.

  He’d rejected her.

  He’d said no.

  He…

  Izzy sighed and dropped the letter into her lap. Cousin Frank was a good man, and very wise in the field of literature and publication. He had taken a very great risk with the Spinster Chronicles four years ago, and it was only right that he should have reservations about Izzy’s stories.

  But rejection was a bitter draught for her, and she had been so very proud of the story she had sent him. The Snail and the Salmon had been a favorite with her nieces, nephews, and cousins, and she’d thought it might have the same effect on her potential printer. However, it appeared that adults took more convincing than children to imagine these sorts of things.

  She glanced down at the letter again.

  Submit more stories, he’d said. Well, she could certainly do that. She had a dozen or so written out in various diaries and stuffed into bureaus in her room. Once she had written down the first two, at her sister’s request, she could not seem to stop doing so. Why, half of the stories she had written had never been told to the children, and she knew very well there were several stories she had told that had yet to be written down.

  Perhaps she ought to try for Robin Red-Breast and the Very Merry Tune. But she doubted it would be the same without the actual whistling, particularly when there were no children to encourage it. Still, it was worth trying for. Or perhaps Petunia the Turtle and the Muddy Puddle. That one was always entertaining. Tiberius T. Tiger’s Terrible Tuesday? There was quite a clever rhyming pattern in that one. The unnamed one about the fox twins? They sang a song. Or perhaps a new one she hadn’t thought up yet?

  Stories she had told and stories she had yet to tell all swirled about in her mind, overwhelming and exhilarating her all at the same time. Where should she begin? What if she chose the wrong story and Cousin Frank hated it? What if she sent too many and irritated him?

  What if…?

  Her still trembling hand moved to her throat as she swallowed painfully.

  What if it all worked and she got published, but no one wanted to read what she had written?

  Her eyes widened. She had never considered that before, but it was entirely possible that she would achieve her dream but not succeed in it. All of her hard work and creative efforts, and she could be a laughingstock in the literary world. She could spend a fortune in publication and never earn a farthing for it.

  What would she do then?

  What would be worse?

  Izzy inhaled slowly, then exhaled slowly. “Steady on, Isabella,” she whispered to herself. “Let’s not worry about things that have not occurred yet.”

  Nodding to herself, she refolded the letter and tucked it into one of her half-filled journals. She would need to consider the stories that might persuade Cousin Frank to publish her, despite his reservations, and despite the apparent misfortune of her sex.

  Women were not writers, he had said when they’d brought the Spinster Chronicles to him. Not because they could not, but because it simply was not done. Izzy had barely avoided reminding him of the works of Mrs. Radcliffe and Miss Austen for her argument, knowing it wouldn’t do any good to contend with him, whether in the right or not.

  Then he’d defied his own words by publishing them anyway.

  If anyone would see Izzy’s stories turned into a collection, it was him.

  But would he?

  She drummed her fingers on the dark wood of the worn desk, chewing the inside of her lip in thought. She would have to assemble all of her journals with stories in them and compile them all into one. She’d need to see what she had and what she did not, what might be convincing and what might not.

  And all of it with the utmost discretion.

  It would be the most terrifying, vulnerable thing she had ever done,
being less than bold and daring in her everyday life. She was the sort to sit still and let life pass her by, and that would not do at all for something like this.

  Writing a collection of stories for children wasn’t necessarily a great accomplishment or a bold adventure, but it certainly felt close.

  “Miss Lambert?”

  Izzy whirled in her seat, one arm flying to the desk to cover the papers there, though nothing incriminating would be visible anyway.

  “Yes?” she cried, not hiding her anxiety in any way.

  Collins, their warm and surprisingly affectionate butler, stood there, not bothering to hide his surprised and sardonic look.

  “You have a letter.”

  She blinked slowly in response. “Another one?”

  “Indeed, Miss Lambert.” His mouth curved to one side. “This one came by express from Mrs. Northfield.”

  “Catherine?” Izzy blurted out. “My sister?”

  Collins raised a dark brow. “Unless you expect to receive express messages from her mother-in-law, Miss Lambert, I would safely assume all references to Mrs. Northfield regard your sister.”

  That earned the butler a scowl as Izzy held out her hand for the note. “That’s enough out of you, I should think.”