“It does”—Bram made a fist—“not matter.”
This was absurd. Since when did his cousin dispense witty aphorisms and advice? Damn it, Bram was supposed to be the voice of wisdom in this relationship. “No matter how many inches are in a man’s trousers, no matter how many pounds are in his bank account . . . those numbers don’t add up to love.”
“I suppose you’re right. And more’s the pity for me.” Colin nodded thoughtfully. “Well, Lord Elevated-to-the-Peerage-for-Valor, here’s a wild notion. If you want to know if Miss Finch loves you, have you considered taking a firm grip on your bollocks, and . . . I don’t know . . . asking her?”
Bram just stared at him.
“Good. You stand there and think about that.” Backing away in the direction of his tent, Colin waved a dismissal. “If you’ll excuse me, a warm bed awaits.”
“There’s a faster way, Charlotte,” Susanna said, tugging off her gloves and gently nudging the girl aside. “At this pace, you’ll be here all day.”
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.”