A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(86)

Charlotte and a few of the other ladies had been spending every afternoon rolling black powder cartridges. However, the men had been using so many during their daily marksmanship drills, the women had scarcely been able to keep pace. With the review scheduled for tomorrow morning, Summerfield’s breakfast room had become a temporary powder magazine, amid all the preparations for the officers’ ball. There was simply no more time to waste.

“You’re spending too much time cutting large sheets of paper down to size. I found long ago that the pages of this”—she flung a blue leather-bound book onto the table—“are the perfect size.”

Charlotte stared at it. “But Miss Finch, that’s Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom.”

“Oh yes. It is.”

“But you said it was a very useful book.”

“It is a useful book. It’s the perfect size for propping open windows. Its pages make excellent cartridges, and its contents are good for the occasional laugh. Beyond that? Don’t ever pay it a moment’s heed, Charlotte.”

Opening the volume, Susanna mercilessly ripped out a page at random and smoothed it flat on the table. “First, make certain you have everything within reach and at the ready.” She skipped her fingers over each item. “Paper, dowel, balls, powder, thread. Roll the paper around the dowel, forming a tube,” she said, demonstrating, “and then use the ball to push the dowel through. When the ball’s come almost to the end, pinch it off and give it a good twist. Then pour the powder.”

Clasping the paper-wrapped ball between her fingers, she filled the rest of the slender tube with black powder, leaving a half inch of excess at the top. “No need to measure now, you see? Just stop pouring when the powder comes even with the margin of text. Another twist, and a bit of knotted thread . . . There.” With a satisfied smile, she handed the cartridge to Charlotte. “With practice, you’ll have the trick of it.”

Charlotte took the cartridge and blinked at it. “May I ask you a question, Miss Finch?”

“Of course.” Susanna ripped two more pages from the book and passed one to the girl. “So long as we work while we talk.”

Cocking her head like a macaw, Charlotte peered at Susanna’s ungloved wrists. “What’s happened to you there?”

Susanna froze. Slowly, she flipped her forearm and regarded the exposed scars. She’d spent so many years carefully hiding them under sleeves and cuffs and gloves, or dismissing them with a lame excuse when someone stared or questioned.

Why?

Here she was, more than a decade later. Not a girl anymore, but a grown woman of sense and education. At this moment, she was literally ripping apart the restrictive teachings society foisted upon women, and showing a well-bred young lady the fine art of fashioning not painted tea trays, but black powder cartridges. Perhaps the world had left a few slashes on her, but she’d made her own small mark on the world. Here in Spindle Cove, where women were safe to be their best and truest selves.

She ran her fingers over the old, familiar map of pain. These scars were a part of her true self. They weren’t all of who she was, but they were a part. And suddenly, there seemed no earthly reason to hide them.

“They’re healed injuries,” she told Charlotte. “From bloodletting. Years ago now.”

The girl winced. “Do they hurt?”

“No.” Her own smile caught her by surprise. “Not at all. I know they look impressive. But truthfully, sometimes I forget about them for whole days at a stretch.”

As she spoke the words, she marveled at how true they were, and how much lighter she felt for saying them. Her affair with Bram was over, it seemed. He hadn’t spoken to her in days. There’d been no further notes. Still, she would be forever changed by what they’d shared. Changed by him. He’d given her this precious, freeing gift—the courage to accept herself as she was. Scars, freckles, passions, and all.

In time, did a broken heart scar over? After a decade or so had passed, would she be able to forget about Bram for whole days at a stretch?

Somehow she doubted it.

“Miss Finch!” Violet Winterbottom appeared in the doorway. “Miss Bright needs you in the hall. She wants your opinion on the decorations.”

“I’ll be there presently.”

Susanna handed the cartridge-making supplies to Charlotte before rinsing her hands at the washbasin and leaving the breakfast room. She left her gloves behind.

She walked through the drawing room, where the militia volunteers stood like a field of scarecrows, arms outstretched, as pin-chewing ladies flitted and circled, marking final alterations to their uniforms.

When Susanna reached the hall, she found it similarly abuzz with activity. At one end of the long, narrow room, Kate Taylor was practicing on the pianoforte. Along the bay of plate-glass windows, Mr. Fosbury and two footmen were busy arranging tables for the buffet. Ladies and servants bearing flowers and furniture hurried this way and that, their footfalls clattering over the wood inlay floor. By tomorrow night, this scene would be a tableau of elegance—she hoped. But for the moment, it was the picture of chaos.

“Here,” Sally Bright said, thrusting a wriggling baby into Susanna’s arms. “Take Daisy while I climb the staircase. We have a few different choices for the swags.”

Susanna waited patiently in the center of the room, staring up at the balustrade and bouncing the youngest Bright sibling in time to Kate’s rapid scales on the pianoforte. Daisy had plumped in recent months. As the minutes passed, Susanna began to feel her arms would fall off.