When the woman had hustled away, closing her door behind her, and they began to ascend, Anne said, “I think you stand stiff on my account more than I do, Mary.”
“That’s my job, milady. I’ll no’ have you disrespected by aught.”
At the top of the stairs they found a door standing open and heard a pretty humming sound from within, and then a burst of song, a bit of the saucy ballad “My Thing Is My Own” sung in lilting sweet tones, followed by a brief refrain on a piano. Mary rapped on the door, the sound silenced, and Lolly sang out, “Come in!” When she saw it was Anne, her face was wreathed in a joyful smile. “Dearest Anne!” she exclaimed, coming forward with open arms for a hug. “How nice of you to come visit me.”
“My darling Lolly, how good to see you!” Anne exclaimed, her voice muffled. Released at last from an enthusiastic, suffocating embrace—something she suffered only from dear Lolly, who was plump and soft as a cushion—as Irusan grumbled and wriggled to be let down, Anne glanced around and saw, against one wall, a table with a clavichord upon it. “I’m so happy you received my gift! I hoped it was not amiss and that you could find space for it, but you should never stop singing. You always were a delight.”
“It was most welcome,” Lolly said, bustling over to it and stroking with fondness the small tabletop keyed instrument. “Such a clever gift, dearest Anne; you see I have found space for it after all. So thoughtful.”
Mary was then welcomed, but Lolly’s most effusive salutation was offered to Wee Robbie, for the two had become fast friends in Cornwall. Once she had coddled Wee Robbie, she sent him off outside with an admonition to buy at the bakery three doors down a sack of boiled sweets to share with the street urchins and sweepers. She chucked Irusan under his furry chin and held him on her lap for as long as his dignity would stand as they chatted about Anne’s arrival in Bath, the Marquess of Darkefell’s whereabouts, Lady Barbara’s infamy in not visiting Lolly, and Anne’s grandmother’s steadfast ignoring of Lolly. Both facts seemed to irritate Anne more than Lolly, the object of the slights. The fate of a poor relation was merely reality to her, while Anne knew how much Lolly’s life could be improved if Lady Everingham and Lady Harecross would do their duty by a kinswoman.
The housekeeper/landlady, with her dirty apron gone and her slatternly hair tidied, delivered a tray laden with tea up the steep staircase, and served the ladies. Anne offered the treats she had brought with her and insisted the landlady take some for her own tea. The woman’s manner greatly improved, and she curtseyed before descending.
After catching up on family news and local gossip, Anne asked, “Lolly, I’ve heard much, since I arrived, about this woman, the Mystic of Bath. She has rooms a few doors down from you, is that correct?”
Lolly’s eyes widened and her lined face had a girlish look of glee. She settled her ribbons and flounces about her and said, “Mother Macree as she is known? A fascinating character. Oh, the bustle there has been around her of late! All sorts of people, high- and lowborn come to see her. She is quite accurate. Amazingly so!”
“Have you been to see her yourself?”
“Indeed I have, before she became so popular. It is difficult to get an appointment now.”
Anne frowned. “Why so?”
“There is the matter of money.”
“I see. She demands payment now?”
“Oh, my dear, she must! Don’t you see? If she did not, she would be simply overrun, so popular is she!”
“What do you know of what she has predicted that came true?”
Her eyes widened with delight and her voice lowered to a mysterious whisper. “Why, she foretold this instrument coming to me!” Lolly said, indicating the clavichord.
Startled, Anne asked, “What did she say?”
“It was the most extraordinary thing,” Lolly said. “I took her a pot of the ointment I use for my joints—”
“Are they still bothering you, Miss Broomhall?” Mary interjected.
“I’ll never not suffer. So my mother did, and her mother before her. It is in the family, you know.”
“About the mystic?” Anne prompted.
“Oh, yes, where was I?”
“You took her a pot of ointment.”
“Of course and then . . . oh, yes! She told me she had a message from beyond. Quite startling! My heart began to palpitate . . . it thudded, you know. I felt faint for a moment, but it was my stays; they were too tight, you see. Too many Bath buns, I’m afraid. I rather indulge in Sally Lunn cakes. You must try them! I know you spend so little time in Bath, my dearest cousin, but you must—”
“Lolly, please, can we get back to the message from the mystic?”
“Oh, yes, where were we?”
Anne held her breath for a moment, as Mary bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud. Letting the breath out slowly, Anne said, “You took her some ointment and she had a message for you from beyond.”
“Oh, yes! Of course.” She leaned toward them and whispered, “She said I would come into some good fortune soon. She would not say what form the fortune would come in, as she did not wish to spoil a surprise, but it would come, and soon.”
“And?”
“And three weeks later the clavichord was delivered! Is that not quite amazing?”
“I’m . . . speechless.”
“Aye, and she smiled when I told her of it. Said of course it was what she meant, but it was worth it to keep the secret, for it was such a delightful surprise to me.”
“What else have you heard?”
Lolly told them a long tale of the many times the woman had been correct. Children who had become ill, but then recovered, women who had discovered they were with child, money paid back that was thought to be lost, all manner of domestic mysteries. If her whole reputation had been based on such matters, Anne would have thought nothing of it. But she supposed Lolly would not hear of the other matters, the secrets told of the great and mighty of Bath and beyond. But her grandmother’s assertion that the woman had foretold Anne’s own as-yet secret engagement to the Marquess of Darkefell interested her. How could she know such a thing without she had an ear tuned to the universe?
“Could you make an appointment to attend Mother Macree? I’ll confess, I’m intrigued. I know you said she is difficult to see now—”
“It will be no trouble now for you. And she knows of you, of course.”
“Oh?”
“Of whom else would I speak? My fondness for you will find an ear with everyone.”
So, that was one possible source for the mystic’s information, but still, even Lolly did not know she and Darkefell were definitely engaged to be wed. “Will you make an appointment for two days hence? Saturday . . . perhaps two in the afternoon?”
Lolly clapped joyously. “I’ll be pleased to do so! I so hope for good news for you.” Her smile died. “But alas, good news is not all she imparts, of course.”
“What has she foreseen that was unfortunate?”
“She has foreseen tragedy. In the summer she was devastated and I asked what was wrong. She said she knew a gentleman was going to die, but she did not know what to do, whether to tell him or his loved ones so they could prepare, or to leave it alone and let God have his way.”
Anne paused and thought; there were so many possibilities, but one was simplest, and therefore most likely. “A dilemma to be sure, but Lolly . . . in a city such as Bath, which attracts more than its share of the sickly, the infirm and the elderly who come to take the water, surely—not to be too blunt—but surely death is a common occurrence.”
“You don’t understand, Anne, dearest; this gentleman was sickly, true, but his recent marriage had inspired a hope in him that he would recover fully. He was happy.”
Anne’s brow wrinkled and her mouth opened, but then closed again. What could she say? How Lolly made the leap from a sickly man to a man who was happy and therefore recovering, she didn’t know how to discuss. It was nonsensical, but it was not the worst failure of lo
gic she had ever seen.
Mary murmured a warning of the time, and Anne rose. “We must go; our carriage will be waiting. Tonight we are engaged to go to the Assembly Rooms, though I wish t’were otherwise. I am going to see my friend Lydia and her husband tomorrow, but if you will engage us to Mother Macree the next day, I will be content.”
“I will happily do so. Oh, what fun we will have, dearest Anne! And what mysteries we may discover! I’m so pleased you are here.”
Chapter Four
The Upper Assembly Rooms of Bath were lovely, rather new—constructed fifteen years ago, unlike the Lower Assembly Rooms, which were many decades older—and built in a U shape, two long rectangular rooms (one the ballroom and the other the tearoom) joined by an octagonal room at the far end, with a newer purpose-built card room (added nine years ago) beyond that. Mr. Tyson, the master of ceremonies, had been informed of Anne’s arrival in Bath—it was a courtesy he admired greatly, and Anne’s mother was assiduous in such duties—and so her name was added to the book and they had been formally invited to the fancy dress ball.
Lady Barbara was elegant in blue silk, with ostrich plumes nodding from her turban and a hand-painted fan languidly utilized as she sat among other similar ladies in the ballroom. Mothers and chaperones of eligible misses were sharp-eyed and on the hunt, competing with the widows and ladies with a few more years for the trophy of an eligible bachelor or widower. The Bath Season had begun and there were matches to be made.
Anne would, as always, be viewed as highly eligible—she united both a titled family and an independent fortune in one tolerable female—and her presence in Bath could be a considerable enticement. But as tedious as it would be to evade wife-seeking gentlemen, she was not ready to announce her betrothal, and that was that.
To her first Assembly Rooms ball of the Season she wore a gown of green figured silk, with gold embroidery and gold lace ruffles at the bodice and elbows, green kid gloves to the elbow and gold satin dancing pumps. She looked well enough, her mother said, though it was last year’s gown. The new dresses could not be made fast enough to soothe Lady Harecross’s anxiety for her daughter to appear au courant.
Standing along the edge of the row of chairs, looking about for her friends as the noise of conversation increased with each new arrival as the orchestra tuned up, Anne felt a familiar tingle of anticipation. She might not enjoy husband hunting, but she did like to dance. Perhaps she would be blessed with a partner who would not shame her.
“Lady Anne, what a pleasure to see you here!”
She turned to see Miss Susanna Hadley, an acquaintance of some years, and both curtseyed. “Miss Hadley, lovely to see you. What brings you to Bath this Season? In your last letter you gave no hint at such a move.” Her friend, a slim, nearsighted and plain-visaged young woman, was usually content to remain in Canterbury, but the death two years ago of her mother may have affected her decisions. Perhaps she had decided it was time for her own establishment. She was of an age with Anne, so in her mid-twenties.
“I came to stay with my aunt, Lady Rebecca Sharples,” she said. “My father has decided to remarry, and . . . and . . .” She bit her lip and shook her head.
Anne watched her with sympathy. While she could understand Susanna’s father’s desire for remarriage, his daughter had been exceptionally close to her mother. This could not be easy. Susanna was of a retiring personality; she much preferred the garden to the salon, and the library to the ballroom. “You will be a welcome addition to my Bath acquaintanceship.” A woman approached, and Anne felt the tug of recognition.
“Lady Anne Addison, may I introduce you to my aunt, Lady Rebecca Sharples,” Susanna said about the woman, an elegant lady of middle years. Her hair was thoroughly powdered, dressed high and elaborate, with a jaunty peacock feather nodding with every move.
As both women curtseyed, Lady Sharples examined Anne through her lorgnette and said, her voice loud, sharp and carrying, “I believe I know your mother and grandmother. Your mother is the Countess of Harecross, who will not return to her home village and prefers to board with her mother.”
Anne glanced back to her mother, who was gossiping behind her fan with a close friend. Put out of countenance by the other woman’s bluntness, she remained silent, simply smiling and nodding. Susanna colored faintly and looked down at the toe of her slipper, peeping out from under her dark gray gown. Fortunately at that moment the Birkenheads claimed Anne’s attention. Quin was in the Octagon Room, Alethea said, and craved a visit from her.
“Excuse me,” she said to the other two women with a brief curtsey. “Susanna, I look forward to reanimating our acquaintance. I’ll leave you my card in the next few days, though I am engaged for at least the next three. My friend Lydia Bestwick is in Bath and I simply must visit her.”
“Bestwick . . . Lord John is the Marquess of Darkefell’s younger brother, is he not?” Lady Sharples said, her head tilted to one side as she eyed Anne.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Anne said without replying. She escaped, following Alethea, who had nodded to Lady Sharples, with whom she was acquainted. As they walked, they chatted about friends, absent and present. “Is Mrs. Venables not in attendance?”
“She has her iron in another fire; she’s in attendance at a musical soiree hosted by friends of Baron Kattenby.”
“Ah, her prospective husband!”
“Indeed. She is expecting a proposal any day now.”
The Octagon Room was large, with four deliciously blazing fireplaces, where the older and infirm could wait until the card room or the tearoom was open. It was the perfect place to view everyone who was entering, exiting, going to the card room, or headed in to tea. Quin sat by one of the fireplaces, warmly wrapped against the chill of an October evening, his profile sharp etched, lit by the fireglow. Anne paused in the doorway and examined him. Quin’s head was fine-boned, his skull perfectly delineated, clothed only in thin, pale skin. She had been acquainted with the Birkenhead brothers since Alethea and Bertram first became engaged seven years before, and Quin had always been frail, but it was clear that time had not been his friend. His shoulders were stooped, his frame was thin, his hands knotted and gnarled. He wore spectacles sometimes, when he could bear them. His hair, though an attempt had been made to style it, was thin, but he could not abide a wig because it irritated his scalp. No cause had ever been diagnosed, and some doctors had told Bertie that it was a nervous refusal to eat that caused the young man’s troubles. Whatever the source, his suffering was sincere. Anne pitied him with all her heart.
“Quin, my darling boy,” she said to him, though he was a few years older than her. “It is good to see you.” She bent over and embraced him before taking a low stool near his knees.
“Lady Anne,” he said, his eyes lighting up with joy. “I have been feverish waiting to see you. I so envied Alethea and Bertie today when they came home, rosy-cheeked, from their walk with you.”
Bertram, looking down fondly at his brother, touched his shoulder. “We’ll leave you two to catch up, shall we? Come, Alethea, let these two flirt in peace.”
With the hubbub about them, Anne found once more the joy of Quin’s conversation. Those who deigned to visit the invalid found in his company ample pleasure. Denied other outlets, he read and studied as much as he was able, and could talk on any subject with good sense and knowledge. Also, he was kind and good-natured, bearing his ailments with stoicism. After speaking a few moments, she looked into his gentle gray eyes. “Quin, I would value your opinion on a matter of interest to me. I’m sure you’ve heard of this Mother Macree, the supposed Mystic of Bath. What think you of her and her claims?”
“So you have heard of her already!” he cried. He grinned, mischief lighting his eyes until they sparkled in the firelight. “Have you seen her?”
“No, but I am going day after tomorrow with my cousin, who knows her.”
“How I long to go!”
“Go with me!” she said, then felt her stomach lurch. H
ad she committed a faux pas? “If . . . if you’d like, that is,” she said, giving him an opportunity to slip out of any commitment if it was too much for him. “Would you like it?”
“I should enjoy it above all things.” He didn’t seem to notice her hesitation. “I have been reading of Dr. John Dee, Queen Elizabeth’s astrologer. Fascinating! That a woman of immense ability would place so much faith in a man of such a nonsensical—I suppose I must call astrology a science, for so it was and still is viewed by some people—but Good Queen Bess’s reliance on his science is beyond belief. I shouldn’t scoff; he was also a scholar of some note and an accomplished mathematician who helped calculate voyages of exploration.”
She eyed him with a smile. “You are a never-ending source of wonder, how you accumulate all your knowledge.”
“It’s not magic,” he said drily, “but reading.” He turned reflective and said, “Back to John Dee . . . those were different times, I suppose. But now about this so-called mystic . . . it’s alarming that people still will place their lives in the hands of quacks, even in this enlightened time of true science.”
“If you are game we shall visit her together, then, day after tomorrow.”
“Leave it to me to arrange my transport, dear Anne,” he said, taking her hand in his, cold despite the roaring fire. “I go every other day to the Cross Baths with my doctor for a plunge and a soak, but other than that I rarely emerge. Tell me what time, and I shall be there.”
“Two in the afternoon, then. You have her direction?”
“Every child in Bath knows how to find Mother Macree,” he said with a smile.
She stood. “I must get back to my mother. She is inclined to complain of neglect if I leave for too long, and also, I am promised for the first dance. Shall I sit out the fourth dance with you and we can take tea in the tearoom?”
His smile faltered. “I doubt I will stay so long. I’ll listen to the first music, but probably go home after.”
She laid a gentle kiss on his forehead as several ladies looked on aghast at such an open display of preference. There would be rumors circulating about them swiftly, but as carefully as she guarded her reputation in general, in this case she did not care. “Good evening, then, my dear Quin. I shall see you Saturday.”
Lady Anne and the Menacing Mystic Page 4
