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

“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.