EXCERPT FROM ENGAGING MISS ENDERBY
NEWFORD, CORNWALL
Cadan Kimbrell struck another name from his list and leaned back, stretching long muscles grown tight from the night’s work. Tomorrow was St. Valentine’s Day. Or today, he thought, as a watery dawn had already begun to seep through the shop’s leaded window.
But he was nearly finished; all would be ready. A stack of sanded letters lay at his elbow with Mrs. Angwin’s on top. Below hers were several more: Mrs. Clifton, Miss Stanton, the elderly Misses Polperro who lived behind the apothecary.
The task of sending secret valentines to the misses and matrons of Newford demanded three virtues: silence, a passable penmanship, and a discerning eye for which lady among them could use a bit of cheering.
As a man, Cadan was naturally inclined to the first.
As an individual who corresponded with the postal authorities with some regularity, he could manage his penmanship well enough.
And as for the third virtue, his position as proprietor of the village shop put him at the crossroads of all the village gossip, however dismaying that circumstance could be. So ’twas more a matter of applying a discerning ear rather than an eye to know when a lady was feeling whisht, but that he managed well enough.
After all, it was just that talent which had started the whole daft tradition years before. Some months after Mrs. Chenoweth’s husband had passed, Cadan had delivered into the new widow’s hand a missive from an acquaintance in the north, and the delight that had lit the lady’s face—oh, the power of the King’s post! Her liveliness had been so vastly different from her blue demeanour of the past weeks, that Cadan was moved to see it repeated.
Now, he leaned forward once more and considered the remaining names on his list. Tapping his pen once against the inkwell, he added his own mother, always conscious that it would appear odd if the Kimbrell ladies were overlooked. And, if his mother’s secret valentine caused his father to dance with a little more enthusiasm at the next assembly, then he would take the victory.
Outside, a raw wind blew, sending the high street’s shop signs to creak and sway. It was the sort of morning that encouraged fires and kept the lamps burning, while inside the shop, all was still save for the steady tick of the clock above the counter and the scratch of Cadan’s pen. He loved this hour, when Newford was only beginning to stir, before he unlocked the door and the mail coach arrived. Before anything could go awry.
As was his custom, he wrote his annual letters on a nice laid paper. It was thick, with a pleasant tooth, but nothing too dear. He’d no wish to bankrupt himself with his little project because what had begun as a handful of valentines years before had grown considerably.
Last year, he’d even sent one to Mrs. Tretheway, a member of Newford’s exacting and virtuous matron set. The lady had grumbled and complained in her over-starched way about the silliness of such a sentimental holiday, but he’d overheard her later, crowing about her unexpected missive to Mrs. Clifton as they’d browsed his button bins.
Drawing the candle closer, he turned to a clean page and inked out a short message to Miss Carew—nothing too loverly of course, as he’d no wish to create false hopes anywhere.
The frost may linger, the skies be grey,
But you bring with you a brighter day.
He huffed a sound replete with self-derision. To be sure, he was no valentine writer, spinning rhymes and verse with effortless ease. But to his never-ending surprise, a glib tongue was not a virtue required for sending secret valentines.
