Lady Anne and the Menacing Mystic

by Victoria Hamilton

  “We must leave,” Anne said, her whole body quivering. She had not thought her secrets would be divulged in such a rude way.

  “Wait! I ’ave a message for the young gentleman,” the woman said. She wiped her mouth and laid the handkerchief down, then eyed Quin. “I ’ave a message, but not for you; fer someone you care for, someone close to you. Or . . .” She squinted and moaned, rocking in her chair. “Mayhap someone close to someone ye love. There’s danger all about ’im. Trouble, there is, an’ secrets that’ll cause danger, aye, and turmoil too; guard against ’em, and give freely to those who can help.”

  “What does that mean?” Anne demanded of the mystic. She looked over at Quin and was alarmed to see that he was frightened. He’d gone white even to his lips. “Quin! Are you—”

  “We must go,” he said, stumbling to his feet. “I’m not feeling at all well.”

  On the street he unsteadily declined Anne’s company home. Mary trotted off to the end of the street to summon a sedan chair. Quin, pale and trembling, was transported away, refusing all help. Anne hoped that when she next saw her dear friend—she was engaged to the Birkenheads that evening of music—she would find him well again.

  Shaken, she and Mary returned with Lolly to her rooms and accompanied her upstairs. “What am I to think of all that?” Anne said, pacing to the clavichord. “I’m no believer. But the woman appeared to know things she could only know if she saw into one’s soul.” She took in a deep and trembling breath. “It has upset me, I will admit it.”

  “I told you, Anne; she is truly remarkable. She has the sight. ’Tis a God-given talent!” Lolly said, watching Anne pace.

  Mary was silent. She was a skeptic—almost as much so as Anne—but it appeared that what the women said of Mother Macree’s ability troubled her.

  “I should go. We’ll see you at church tomorrow morning, dear Lolly,” Anne said.

  “See that you mind Mother Macree’s warning, Anne dearest. Don’t toy with a man like Darkefell. He’ll not wait for you forever.”

  It was a brilliant autumn day, warmer than usual and with misty sunlight bathing the streets in a golden glow. Despite the beauty of the day, though, Anne was distracted and perturbed. As they walked the short distance to her grandmother’s home, she told Mary everything that occurred. It had left her with a variety of warring emotions: fear, trepidation, worry, and most of all anger. Anger for herself; she would not be told what to do, and the contrarian in her urged her to wait, now, to tell Tony she’d announce their engagement, as silly as that was. But she was worried more for Quin; something had frightened him badly when the mystic issued her dire warning, and Anne wished she knew what it was.

  Chapter Seven

  Dressed and with her hair perfectly coiffed, Anne descended from her room ready to attend the Birkenheads’ musical evening. She greeted Lord Westmacott, who awaited Anne’s mother and grandmother in the main-floor reception room. Bewigged and dressed, as always, in a perfectly tailored figured satin frock coat, knee breeches, and elegantly clocked stockings, he was the vision of an elderly beau idéal, his figure still good after many decades on the town (though his figure might owe its svelte lines to stays that creaked under his frock coat when he moved too rapidly), even though there were lines in his face and pouches under his protuberant eyes.

  He was attending the two ladies for an evening of cards. They were to be joined by Lolly, who had been recruited at the last minute when another guest disappointed them. Courtly and sweetly flattering, Lord Westmacott was an old favorite of Anne’s, a bachelor baron of her grandmother’s generation who could be relied on to accompany the ladies to the Assembly Rooms, the Pump Room, or to enjoy a simple evening of whist or backgammon.

  “My dear, you look simply stunning, as always,” he said, taking her hands and holding her away from him, eyeing her lush figure gowned in a purple robe à l’anglaise, a gold lace fichu, an amethyst-encrusted comb in her hair, with amethyst earrings dangling from her ears. “Every time I see you I marvel at your continued single state. If I were but ten years younger . . .”

  Given that he was at least seventy, that was an interesting compliment to pay, Anne thought, but hid her smile. “Thank you, Lord Westmacott. I fear I have overdone my plumage for a simple evening of music at a friend’s, but my maid insisted.”

  “Ah, I understand. I am a slave to my valet. The dear fellow will never allow me to leave the house without proper attire.” He preened, touching his snowy lace cravat, with a gold crested pin nestled in the fabric. “The Birkenheads will appreciate the trouble you have taken, though, for they value the little social niceties.” He then smiled and raised his eyebrows with a significant expression on his lined face. “I hear you are to be wed at last?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He held one finger to his lips and winked. “I know all about the marquess, my dear. You needn’t fear I’ll say a word to anyone,” he murmured, leaning toward her. “But I know he is coming to Bath, and I do hope to meet him and look forward to seeing an announcement of an imminent event in the near future. Single no more, hey?”

  Anne was summoned to the carriage and departed discomfited. As an American wit wrote in an almanac, three may keep a secret if two are dead. It did make her consider, though, the source of the mystic’s seeming knowledge of her and Darkefell’s secret engagement. Mayhap it was not so miraculous after all.

  The Birkenheads’ leased home was on Pierrepont Place, conveniently near the Old Orchard Street Theatre, perfect for the art-, music- and theater-loving couple. Her carriage passed through a stone arch and stopped in front of a nondescript door on a narrow cobbled street. Her grandmother’s driver handed her down, and Anne entered the plain house. She understood why Bertie was looking for another home for his family. Though this was a good address, it was cramped and could not compare with the spacious and elegant newer buildings on the Circus and the Crescent. They enjoyed entertaining often, and their wealth had increased greatly in the last ten years, so something more suitable to their status must be found.

  There was an adequate morning room and dining room on the ground floor. The more expansive drawing room lounge, with a withdrawing room beyond, was on the first floor. Therefore the bedchambers must be on the second . . . two flights of steps up for Quin, and she had seen how exhausted the one flight up to Mother Macree’s had made him. But the couple had made the home comfortable, with Turkey carpets on the wood floors and tapestries warming the plain plastered walls. Elegant furnishings loaned the rooms an aura of refinement.

  Others had already arrived. She greeted those she knew: Miss Susanna Hadley, who was already seated on a low stool at Quin’s side; Mrs. Venables; Mr. Alfred Lonsdale; Mr. Thomas Graeme; and Lady Sharples, of course, who accompanied Susanna. Anne was introduced to those she did not yet know, including a friend of Alethea’s, Mrs. Meredith Hughes, who appeared shy, clinging to her with a timid expression on her pretty freckled face.

  Among the others was a Mrs. Honoria Noakes and Mr. Josiah Doyne. Ah . . . Mr. Doyne! She recognized the name. He was the gentleman of whom her mother spoke as looking for a wife; perhaps matchmaking efforts were too late, given how firm a hold Mrs. Noakes had of his arm, upon which she leaned. Also, there was Lord Kattenby by Mrs. Venables’s side; he bowed elegantly over her hand. He was indeed older, as Anne had learned from Alethea in their walk from the Crescent to the Circus, and his face was drawn by suffering, but there was something about him that Anne liked immediately. Well done, she thought of Mrs. Venables. He seemed a good match, though at least twenty years the lady’s senior.

  Mr. Doyne and Mrs. Noakes appeared lost, almost frightened by the crowd of elegantly dressed gentlemen and ladies. They didn’t appear to have any friends present. They drifted close by Mrs. Venables and Lord Kattenby, but that lady turned hastily away—either a deliberate slight or the lady overlooked them—and led her beau to the fireside to chat with Quin Birkenhead.

  There was much chatter, the place ful
l of good cheer, warmth provided by cheery log blazes and light by several candelabra and sconces. The doors between the drawing room and withdrawing room had been thrown open and both chambers were full, more so than was comfortable. There was a small sitting room beyond set aside for the ladies who needed respite. The performer that evening was Signore Fiore Valentini, a young Milanese gentleman. Accompanied by Bertie, who was accomplished on the piano, he stood at the pianoforte and sang, acquitting himself well with his rendition of a song from an Italian opera, then a couple of sentimental pieces, then English fare, including “O Cruel Cruel Case” from The Beggar’s Opera—an odd choice, Anne thought, though it showed off his voice. Polite applause greeted him as he finished, and he bowed with an elegant flourish.

  After, there were refreshments. As Susanna departed the fireside to retrieve punch for herself and her new friend, Anne took the young woman’s seat and spoke to Quin. “How are you, my friend?” she murmured, examining his face anxiously. There was some color in his cheeks, but he still seemed subdued.

  “My lady, please do not worry for me. I have recovered from our earlier jaunt.” He said it was the unexpected words from Mother Macree about his sister that had upset him. He still could not imagine where she got her information from. He was not, in general, a believer in such things as mystics, but that day’s visit had him rethinking that position.

  “Quin, what do you think her warning to you meant at the end, when she said someone you knew was in danger, and mumbled something about secrets?”

  He shook his head, his lips firmed into a tight line; he would not reply, and he stared into the fire, his expression troubled.

  Miss Hadley brought a glass to him at that moment, and Anne rose gracefully, to leave space for her friend. “I’ll speak to you again, Quin. Miss Hadley, your servant.” She curtseyed a farewell for the moment. As she turned away she spied, through the crowd, Mr. Lonsdale by the other fire, moodily staring down into it. He had seemed out of sorts all evening. Young Thomas Graeme strolled to his side and muttered something to him, and the look on Lonsdale’s face was illuminating; he appeared annoyed and turned away from the other gentleman. She was about to amble over to eavesdrop—her curiosity at the exchange had been piqued—but was accosted by Lady Sharples, who greeted her.

  “The tenor had a fine voice, do you think, Lady Anne?” the woman asked. “He acquitted himself well, given Mr. Birkenhead’s unequal piano playing.”

  Anne defended Bertie’s piano skills, and in such inconsequential chatter they passed a few moments, when the woman asked, “What think you of this new closeness between Susanna and Mr. Quin Birkenhead?”

  “He is my ideal of a gentleman: intelligent, genteel, kind. With her warmth, kindness and sensibility I think it a good friendship.”

  “Hmm, as long as that’s all it is, friendship. I did not wish to come here this evening. We had another much better invitation, one that would have exposed her to more eligible suitors, but Susanna proved surprisingly mulish and would not be convinced to my wishes.” Lady Sharples looked most perturbed at such an event as her charge proving to have a mind of her own. “I want what is best for her. I worry that she is spending too much valuable time with someone who cannot give her all she deserves.”

  Anne examined her face, the hard, set lines, the dour turned-down mouth. “You see injury in such a harmless acquaintance?”

  “Not active injury, but she is getting no younger and will not be happy at home with her father’s choice of a wife. Therefore she must marry. She has an adequate dowry, but not one such as will tempt a man of substance. She should be actively pursuing gentlemen in a different sphere, but she refuses to play the part.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Now, see Mrs. Venables,” she said, indicating with her glass of sherry that woman, who stood with Lord Kattenby, her arm tucked in his, her head bent to listen to his conversation. “He is as tedious a gentleman as any with whom I could ever wish to chat, and yet she makes it appear that he is the most fascinating man in the room. That takes some decided effort on her part, and I like her the more for it. She knows what she wants and is unafraid to pursue a husband and a good situation.”

  “With a man you condemn as tedious.”

  “Yes, and so what?” she bellowed. A nearby couple turned to glare at her, but she did not notice. “One must marry. Tedious is better than exciting; I know whereof I speak. Exciting men will invariably break your heart and bankrupt you. And yet I cannot make Susanna attend the Pump Room, where she will find the eligible widowers. I must force her to go with me by saying I need the waters, dreadful as is that cup of warm pus.”

  Anne choked back a laugh, clamping her mouth shut. From a practical standpoint she knew Lady Sharples was right. It was the sad truth for many a lady; a female must find someone suitable, attract his attention, attach him and marry. For many young ladies it was a difficult and stressful occupation destined to bring only partial happiness. And for someone shy and retiring, like Miss Hadley, it was doubly difficult and distressing.

  All of that aside, though, why should Susanna not enjoy the company of a gentleman as kind as Mr. Quin Birkenhead? She was about to say as much, when the other lady again spoke.

  “Now examine those two over there,” Lady Sharples said, holding up a lorgnette and turning her quizzical gaze to a man and woman standing together. “Mrs. Honoria Noakes and Mr. Josiah Doyne.”

  “Why do I examine them?” Anne asked, not revealing what little she knew of Mr. Doyne’s wife-seeking.

  “I point to them as an example of a lady who knew what she wanted and found it at the Pump Room. He is a widower of uncertain health, seeking a genteel wife.”

  “And she is . . . ?”

  “That is the question,” Lady Sharples murmured, watching the couple, how the lady leaned on the gentleman and hung on his every word. “I can discover nothing of her except that she is said to be of unexceptional background and with some money. No one knows her family, no one vouches for her, and yet everywhere she is spoken of as genteel. That opinion seems to be based on her ability to hold a glass of wine without spilling it. I have tried to engage her in conversation. She knows nothing of music, or art, or polite society. She cannot even gossip.”

  “Heavens, how does she live?” Anne murmured, smothering a laugh. For Lady Sharples that was condemnation indeed; to be unable—or unwilling—to gossip was social failure. “Not everyone feels about gossip as you do, though, my lady.”

  “They should.” Lady Sharples looked unhappy and flicked her lorgnette closed within its tortoiseshell casing, which was also its handle. “You may think me small-minded, but to be unable—not unwilling, unable—to gossip indicates unfamiliarity with society. I suspect she does not know enough people to gossip effectively.”

  That was interesting. In society one knew people, their history, their relationships. It was about connections, who had them, and who did not. “How did they meet?”

  “The Pump Room, through a mutual friend.”

  “A mutual friend?”

  “Yes, young Mr. Thomas Graeme, that fellow who seems to know everyone. I blame myself for not pouncing more quickly. Susanna would have been perfectly comfortable with Mr. Doyne.”

  “Pouncing? How catlike you sound, Lady Sharples, rather like my Irusan when he sees a mouse.”

  “Aye, a widower mouse, squeaking and nibbling on cheese,” she said with a bark of laughter. “Mr. Doyne could have been Susanna’s saving grace.”

  “Saving grace?”

  “A husband, of course! Don’t be dull, Lady Anne. I know you to be sharper than that. He would be a husband with a comfortable income and not overburdened with healthy male urges.”

  “Heaven forbid he should be burdened with male urges. Is he ailing?”

  “No more than your mother,” Lady Sharples said with a sharp glance sideways to Anne. “One does not merely seek healthful waters at the Pump Room unless one has some reason to require aid, however it can
be as simple as dyspepsia, or trouble sleeping.”

  “True,” Anne murmured.

  “But he is older. That is the idea for Susanna, a bookish maiden like her . . . she should have a husband who will not demand more than company and someone to pour his tea.”

  “So what is your objection to Quin Birkenhead, then?”

  “He’s never going to marry! His brother and sister-in-law . . . those two are not going to let him.”

  Anne shook her head, unwilling to engage in a battle over something neither of them could know. “Why were Mrs. Noakes and Mr. Doyne invited tonight?” she asked. “They seem an odd couple for the Birkenheads to mingle with.”

  “That is one thing I cannot quiz. What do two such fashion leaders see in a dull gentleman of middle years and a not-quite-genteel lady?”

  “Not quite genteel?”

  “I have, as I said, spoken with them both. There is something wrong about her, and besides her inability to gossip, I can’t figure out what it is . . . a restrained brassiness, a theatrical expression subdued with effort. Perhaps you can discover it, if you would so choose.”

  “Are you enlisting me for some nefarious purpose?”

  Lady Sharples chuckled and shook her head, tucking her lorgnette in her deep bosom. “The woman is a mystery, and I don’t like mysteries.”

  Chapter Eight

  Anne drifted and spoke to others, as some gathered at the pianoforte for the talented amateurs among them to play and sing. Finally, she found herself next to Alethea, who looked splendid, gowned in gold lace and burgundy silk, her golden hair piled high and adorned with gold and ruby combs. After congratulating her on the choice of singer for their musical evening, Anne said, “Where is your friend Mrs. Hughes, who I met earlier?”