Lady Anne and the Menacing Mystic

by Victoria Hamilton

  She took a deep breath and started back toward the ballroom. Susanna, tears filling her large gray eyes, stumbled into the Octagon Room as Anne was approaching the door. “My dear friend, what’s wrong?” Anne asked, steadying the other woman with one hand.

  She shook her head, the tears spraying like raindrops, catching the light as they scattered, dotting the dull silk of her gown. “It is nothing, really . . . nothing important, anyway. I just arrived a week ago and I’m so dreadfully weary of it all already; the tittle-tattle, the fakery, the lies, the flirtation, the gossip. Dear Lady Sharples means to be kind, I know, by introducing me everywhere as her spinster niece with a considerable dowry, but it’s simply too much. She puts me so out of countenance I don’t know where to look. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

  Regarding her closely, Anne saw her friend was close to the edge of her ability to withstand the crowd. Susanna would not allow Anne to accompany her to the ladies’ withdrawing room, insisting she must go back to the ballroom soon, or Lady Sharples would seek her out.

  “Nonsense. I will return to the ballroom, make sure she is entertained and give you time to collect yourself,” Anne said. A sudden inspiration came to her, and she led Susanna to a vacated seat by Quin and introduced the two, knowing the gentle fellow’s conversation was the best tonic for a woman weary of the usual gallantry. “I shall tell Lady Sharples your whereabouts, and that you are chatting and flirting with a very eligible young man,” she whispered to her friend with a smile. She walked away, but stopped in the doorway and looked back. Already the two had their heads together as they spoke softly in the hubbub of the increasing crowd.

  She did as she said she would, informing Lady Sharples that Susanna was accompanied by an eligible gentleman of wealth and good family, perfectly chaperoned by the crowd in the Octagon Room. The ballroom was filling quickly. The music for the first dance started and she was claimed by her partner, a gentleman she knew from her last Season in Bath, two years before. He was still unwed, as he said with some heavy emphasis, and so was she. Perhaps fate—

  Not fate, she firmly told him. She wanted to follow it with the undeniable fact that he set his sights too high. He was a baronet, but every woman he had courted—and she was among them—had been an earl’s daughter or higher. A brewer’s daughter of modest attractions was more his limit. If he had brilliance and good looks he may have aimed higher, but he was vacuous, dull, pedantic and pompous. Was she vain for thinking herself out of his reach? It wasn’t just her birth and wealth, it was her mind and heart and spirit. She was beyond him, though perhaps that fact was not as obvious to society as she would have liked to think.

  Inevitably, she compared him to Darkefell; the contrasts were laughable. As she avoided his tedious and heavy-handed flirtation, waiting impatiently for the moment when their dance would be done and she could move on to her next partner, she acknowledged the truth. What kept her from announcing her engagement was one inevitable fact: she feared the hubbub it would create. There would be astonishment, but she knew society very well, perhaps too well. Why would a man of such wealth and property and title stoop to choose the plain Lady Anne Addison? The answer, gossips would say, was her sizable dowry, of course. Even though he had money of his own, even though he was a marquess, with land and an abundance of houses scattered over England like dewdrops on a rose, still . . . it had to be money. What else would make her tolerable?

  Perhaps she was not so vain as she feared.

  Finally their dance was done, and she was claimed by her next partner, a gentle man who simply enjoyed the dance. His concentration and the intricate but well-known figures of the dance left her free to enjoy, and enjoy it she did, the lilting music, constant rhythmic movement and the smiles and laughter of friends . . . she was finally enjoying herself.

  However, by her fourth partner her recurring asthma left her breathless and feeling faint. She was weary of chatter and gossip anyway, and was happy she had promised no one beyond that. She retreated, with her mother and their companion, Lord Westmacott, an elderly beau who was attached to Lady Harecross at most public events, to the tearoom. Her discomfort passed as she watched the crowd, how people flicked glances at each other, then bent their heads to gossip, how many petty cuts were made, the flirtations that were taking place unnoticed. There was a buzzing undercurrent in Bath that she had forgotten in the time she had been away from it.

  Her dance partner after tea was Bertie Birkenhead. As Mr. Tyson called the cotillion, Alethea was claimed, to her obvious misery, by Mr. Roger Basenstoke. The cotillion was a lengthy dance, to complete Alethea’s wretchedness. As Anne and Bertie joined in, held hands and circled, she mentioned his wife’s dislike of the man.

  “I think it is his disdain for poor Lonsdale that makes her dislike him so,” Bertie said as he crossed his hand behind her back to grasp hers, and led her in the circle. “She is a ferocious supporter of Lonsdale’s, and you know her tender heart,” he murmured below the music. “His manner is not appealing to her, but Roger is not a bad soul. We went to Oxford at the same time.”

  “How long have you known Mr. Lonsdale?”

  His handsome face turned away as they parted in the dance and he took his wife’s hand. She watched him smile encouragingly at Alethea and squeeze her hand. A trembling smile quivered on her lips. When Anne and Bertie came back together he answered her question.

  “We met Lonsdale some time ago, I cannot be precise. A few months; not more. We are acquainted, of course, with Mrs. Basenstoke and her son, and met him through them, I suppose. Bath society is small, out of Season. We Bathonians must stand together in summer, in the desultory heat, to have any entertainment at all.”

  They parted once again, and she smiled and nodded to Mr. Basenstoke, noting his grim countenance and proper gait. He danced well, if stiffly, but with little feeling or flair. As the ladies met together in the center of their dance, she sent Alethea a sympathetic look and her friend smiled.

  It was one dance. She’d survive.

  After, Anne accompanied the Birkenheads when they headed to the Octagon Room to collect Quin, who had, after all, stayed through the sixth dance. She was amazed to see Miss Susanna Hadley there still—it would cause endless chatter and gossip, that they had spent a couple of hours together—and more amazed to see the fond look she gave Quin as they parted. Her sadness and tears of earlier were gone, and when she returned to the ballroom it was with a pretty smile on her face.

  • • •

  At long last the evening was done. Anne was silent in their carriage as she and her mother departed. Lady Barbara was weary, but once she did start talking it was to complain endlessly about everything, from the tea (weak!) to the band (raucous!) to friends (absent!). She criticized a friend’s inappropriate gown and an enemy’s expensive jewelry. That continued as they entered the townhouse and mounted the stairs to part ways.

  At the top, Lady Harecross turned to her daughter in the muted candlelight, her expression cross and disgruntled, her pouchy face lined with weariness. “Anne, I was pleased to see so many gentlemen eager to court you, but it is beyond my comprehension, when I know your opinions of Bath society, why you would not stop them all by announcing your engagement.”

  “Goodnight, madam,” Anne said to her mother and parted on the landing as a footman followed to douse the candles.

  Irusan was awaiting her on the bed, and Anne leaned over and petted him, then sat at her dressing table. Mary, quiet and efficient, took pins from her hair, undid the coiled style, and began the complicated task of preparing her hair for nighttime, tying a scarf around it to keep it tidy. As Anne removed her gloves and jewelry, she told Mary all that had occurred and all she had witnessed.

  Once done she turned and regarded her maid. “Mary, when Darkefell joins us here in a week, we shall announce our engagement.”

  “Aboot time, milady, begging your pardon. What made the final decision for you?”

  “Believe it or not, my mother has somet
hing to do with it. As much as she annoys me, I love her and Grandmother, and I know I am tormenting her to no end by delaying it. I promised her I would do it soon, and there will be no reason to delay any longer once he is here. I love him. He loves me, though I can’t think why, the torment I’ve put him through.”

  “Milady, having come to know him, I think he would be bored witless by anyone with less spirit and intelligence. He’s a man who’d rather be challenged than wearied wi’ dullness. You’re never dull.”

  She smiled. “You’re too kind, Mary.”

  “By the by, a note came by hand this evening.” She handed it to her mistress.

  Anne unfolded it and read the tidy script. “How nice! Mr. Boatin has arrived in Bath after visiting Father to see how the new secretary is working out,” she said of Darkefell’s African secretary. “He’s to find a house for Tony to rent here in Bath.”

  “Why does Lord Darkefell not stay with Lord and Lady Bestwick, then?”Anne gave Mary a look, and the maid bit her lip. “Of course; what was I thinking? Lady Lydia, the puir dear, would drive him daft, even more so now in her condition. And how does he find your father’s new secretary? Does Mr. Boatin say?”

  Anne smiled as she read the muted words and saw through to the profound happiness underneath. How very “Osei” the letter was. “He sees what I witnessed with my own eyes. You saw it too, when we were staying with Father. The young woman has surpassed all expectations. Her knowledge of Greek and Italian has pleased my father greatly. Honestly, that young lady is a joy to behold, how she manages Father’s business affairs as well as his correspondence and research. And how she manages him!” Recent changes had been made at the estate, including employing Mr. Destry’s son as an assistant to the elderly Harecross land steward. The estate was on its way to becoming much better run with so much able support. She could rest easy when she married that her father would have all the help he needed.

  She sighed. “I hope the young lady finds the neighborhood amenable. She has caused a sensation. We went into the village together on occasion, as you know, and there she is followed by all the children who have never seen an African before. Thank goodness she is as good-tempered as she is intelligent.”

  “That’ll wear off, milady.”

  “I hope you’re right.” She folded Osei’s letter and handed it to Mary. “Could you put it on my desk for me? I’ll send a note to him tomorrow. I wish to have him write Tony for me, so I know exactly when to expect him.”

  And so to bed. She curled up with Irusan, who purred and lulled himself to sleep. But her eyes were open for hours as she thought of what life with Tony would be like.

  Chapter Five

  Lord and Lady John Bestwick had taken a modest house on Milsom Street, midway along the row of Bath stone townhomes and—increasingly—shops. Anne had engaged to visit Lydia in the evening, when she thought her friend might be most at her ease. The maid led Anne up to a first-floor sitting room decorated in waist-high white paneling, above which the walls were hung in blue wallpaper. The furnishings were blue silk, with rounded lines. Lydia, well wrapped against any imaginary puff of air, sat on a sofa by a fire, a pretty ornamented screen keeping the heat from her face. Anne crossed the room and leaned down to embrace her friend awkwardly over her growing stomach.

  “Dearest Anne,” the younger woman said, her eyes gleaming with emotion. “I’ve been longing to see you, but you have been here in Bath for days and have not visited.”

  “You know my mother would not allow me to have any rest the first few days without I must have in a seamstress and order a whole new wardrobe.”

  “But you’ve been visiting others. I hear you were walking with the Birkenheads, and attended the Upper Assembly Rooms for the ball last evening. John was in the card room and saw you, but you were again engaged with the Birkenheads and dancing every dance.” Lydia was pouting, one tear trailing own her pale cheek.

  If her friend and the sister of her late fiancé was in good health Anne would not have put up with being reprimanded for abandonment, but the young woman was heavy with child and clearly uncomfortable. Anne sat beside her. “I’m here now, my dear,” she said, putting one hand over her friend’s. “Please, let us not quarrel.”

  “I don’t wish to quarrel, Anne. But I’m so lonely.”

  “Oh, my dearest friend, I’m sorry, I should have visited earlier. I promise you I will make amends. Where is John?”

  After they exchanged news, drank tea, and discussed John, who was out playing whist with his cronies, Lydia seemed calmer. But something was troubling her.

  “Are you certain everything is all right, my dear?” she asked Lydia.

  “As well as can be expected, I suppose. Dr. Haggarty says I am in the bloom of health.” She sniffed. But when Anne pressed her, Lydia merely shook her head, brooded and touched her distended belly.

  “Have you seen friends in Bath since you have been here?” Anne finally asked.

  “A few. When we first arrived I was not so enormous and it was not so bad, but no one truly wishes to see a woman heavy with child. It is a most unsavory sight, I swear. Vulgar. As bad as a goiter or other protuberance. ’Tis like I have something catching, for all the young ladies avoid me.”

  Anne bit her lip to keep from smiling. But childbirth was no smiling matter, a sobering thought. Too many women brought to bed with a baby never again saw light of day. Was this the sole source of Lydia’s uneasy demeanor, her prenatal state? It was difficult to imagine how to speak about it with her, as Anne would offer no facile reassurances.

  Instead she tried to soothe her with stories and gossip. She relayed her new acquaintance with Mrs. Bella Venables, the Birkenheads’ cousin, and how Mr. Quin Birkenhead had looked, and how he and Miss Susanna Hadley made friends. Over tea they spoke of the Season so far. Already there were scandals and gossip. Anne also spoke of her father and his work—Lydia almost dozed off during that part of the conversation—then returned to livelier news. Thinking to entertain her, Anne said, “I visited Lolly yesterday. She is in rooms in Margaret’s Buildings, you know, close to the Upper Assembly Rooms a few doors down from the latest Bath fashion, Mother Macree. I’m sure you’ve heard of the woman?”

  “John has forbad me from speaking of her,” Lydia said with a sulky pout. “I so wish to see her, but he says it is foolishness and will make the baby come early.”

  “How would it make the baby come early?”

  “He thinks I will fuss myself about it. He fears I am fretful.”

  Lydia was fidgety and abstracted at times. “I don’t think merely visiting a mystic would make the baby come early. Perhaps he will change his mind.”

  Darkly she said, “He’s become so stiff lately. He won’t allow me to secure a hunchback!”

  “A hunchback? Lydia, whatever are you talking about?”

  The young woman shook her head. “Never mind. Don’t you go being harsh with me, Anne, for if you do, I won’t be able to stand it. John is a perfect bear lately. I can’t say anything without him jumping at me.”

  Anne frowned. “That doesn’t sound like him.” Lord John was indulgent to a fault with his wife. Perhaps Lydia was exaggerating, a bad habit with her. And yet she was troubled about something more than her pregnancy, Anne would swear it. “I should go,” she said, vowing to herself to talk to John as soon as she could, to get his opinion as to Lydia’s health. “I told my grandmother I’d look in on her tonight. She fancies herself ill when it is boredom that brings her to bed, I fear.”

  There was a sound in the hallway and John entered, bringing with him the odor of tobacco and port.

  “How are you, John?” Anne asked, rising. “I was about to leave.”

  “I pray you stay, my lady. We have much to discuss.”

  “Another half hour, perhaps.”

  He brought with him a more lively spirit. Lydia made an effort to be her usual self with him there. They talked of all they had done so far in Bath, and he spoke of his most recent lett
er from his eldest brother. “He is dealing with our mother right now,” John said with a sigh. “She’s being impossible, as usual.”

  Anne was silent on that topic, though she longed to retort that she was only being impossible if one defined that as doing what she wanted, rather than what the men around her wished. John would not understand her meaning if she said it, so it was useless to try. Anne had spent two long days traveling north in a carriage with the dowager marchioness a few months before and now had a deeper understanding of the woman. Lady Sophie was prey to melancholy but would not discuss her dark imaginings with her sons. It was an unspoken pain she withstood, preferring to suffer in silence than try to explain herself. “Osei sent me a note yesterday; he is in Bath and looking for a townhouse for Tony,” Anne said, to change the subject.

  “I don’t know why my brother can’t stay with us,” John groused. “We have room. Waste of money.”

  His own money, Anne thought. And as his money was also paying for the Bestwicks’ Milsom residence it was not John’s place to criticize. But he would be her brother-in-law; they must get along. She promised to come back for an evening of cards with Lydia and John, and said she would bring a fourth, if they liked. She had a couple of friends who would happily fill another chair at the card table. “You have met Miss Susanna Hadley, have you not, John?”

  “I know of her. She is another spinster, is she not?” he said, his tone careless.

  “She is unwed,” Anne admitted. “Her father is remarrying, and I’m not sure she is happy about it.”

  “So you think she’s finally serious about husband hunting?” Lydia said with a malicious gleam in her eyes. “Bath may not be the place for her. There are many more ladies than bachelors and widowers. One such as she—plain, you know, and shy—should go to Tunbridge Wells, or Lyme Regis.”