Lady Anne and the Menacing Mystic

by Victoria Hamilton

  She left her friend radiant, and accepted John’s suggestion that he walk her home.

  On the way, a linkboy carrying a lantern before them, they talked. Lord John was not as intelligent and dynamic as his older brother, the marquess. Nor was he as charismatic and attractive as his other brother, the marquess’s twin, Julius. But for Lydia, he was perfect, as he was patient and kind and content with her lack of intellect. He didn’t need a woman of learning, he simply wanted a wife, and a family.

  But he had come to enjoy talking to Anne, as surprising as she found that. His mother was critical and difficult, his older brothers impatient with Lydia’s lack of depth and constant emotional turmoil, so John perhaps found her his best choice to confide his uncertainties over his wife’s health and well-being. “I am worried about Lydia,” he said, holding Anne’s arm in his tightly against his side. He matched his stride with hers as they headed the short distance to the Paragon through the dark, the linkboy’s lantern casting a bobbing pool of light.

  The weather had changed, and a wind had hastened to a chill that buffeted them. Anne pulled her cloak around her tightly. “What do you fear?”

  “She’s fretting about something, but she won’t say what.”

  So John was not oblivious, as Lydia appeared to think. If she wouldn’t confide in him, nor in Anne, maybe seeing the mystic was a good idea to get her talking. “I think she is chafing at being home so much. She’s in Bath, and yet not allowed to be out in society.” She slid a glance over to him, his face mostly shadowed, his expression concealed. “Lydia is feeling constrained by her condition.”

  John pondered that. “I don’t wish to imprison her, my lady, I want her to be well. Should she not already be lying in?”

  “I sincerely sympathize with your concern, but perhaps we should be guided more by what Lydia wants, or even feels she needs, rather than traditional notions of what is correct.”

  “My lady, surely tradition is the best guide society has!” he exclaimed.

  Anne sighed, knowing how impossible it would be to explain to the poor fellow that for women, “tradition” was too often an excuse to keep them restricted and behaving as men wished them to behave, rather than following the dictates of their own hearts and knowledge of their capabilities. Maybe that was unfair. Certainly men were also constrained by society and tradition, but at least they had outlets that allowed them much more freedom of movement and choice. “We are going out tomorrow. I’ll try to find out what’s wrong,” she said without mentioning their destination.

  “I do appreciate it, my lady.” His mind relieved on that track, he moved on to other matters. “So Osei is in town and looking for a townhome for Tony. I do not understand why my brother will not stay with us.”

  Anne sighed inwardly. They had already canvassed this topic, but John was not one to let go of something that puzzled him. “You know your brother; he’s determined to have his own way.”

  John cast a sly glance her way. “Will he have his own way and convince you to announce your engagement?”

  She evaded that question with a shrug. “I introduced Mr. Boatin to an acquaintance who can help him find Darkefell a townhome to rent for a few months. Had you met Mr. Roger Basenstoke before this morning?”

  “Mrs. Clary Basenstoke’s son? I have met him before. A solid fellow, trained in law. I would have succeeded at the Inns myself, you know, if I had been allowed.” It was a familiar lament. The family had a troubled relationship among them and the youngest son had always felt he suffered by comparison to his brothers.

  “You could take training now, you know. Some gentlemen attend the Inns in their twenties.”

  “It’s far too late for me,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m a married man, going to be a father. Other things are more important to me now.”

  Or perhaps he didn’t want the rigors of intellectual study, and it was just something to grumble about.

  “I hope to manage one of our estates if Tony will but let me.” He paused and glanced over at her. “Could you speak with him for me? There is an estate in Cornwall that I have always been fond of. It would be perfect for Lydia, closer to her family than Ivy Lodge at Darkefell. Her mother has not been well lately, or she would be here.”

  Anne knew of Lydia’s mother’s bouts of sickness, which most often coincided with anything she didn’t particularly want to do, such as leave home. “I fear I have no sway with Tony on anything,” she said, though she knew that was not completely true.

  “You underestimate yourself,” John said as they approached her grandmother’s townhome. Truffle tottered out and bowed, holding the door for Anne. John bowed over her hand. “Good evening, my lady. I look forward to seeing you again soon. Please, speak with Tony for me.”

  Chapter Ten

  Morning dawned, revealing that the inclement weather presaged by the rising wind the night before had settled in. A steady chill rain pelted down, tapping against the windows like a nosy neighbor asking to be let in. Anne sent Lolly a note about her excursion to the mystic with Lydia, and then breakfasted alone in the dining room. She would usually walk with Mary the relatively short distance from the Paragon to Margaret’s Buildings, but for Lydia’s sake and privacy, she decided to make them comfortable and take the Everingham closed carriage.

  And so they arrived at the mystic’s residence midmorning, with Lydia complaining of nerves and being unwell, an expression of her fear of what was to come. When Lydia was frightened, she said she was unwell.

  “We can stop now, my dear,” Anne said, hand on the carriage door handle. “We don’t have to do this.”

  “No!” Lydia exclaimed, rather too vehemently.

  Anne watched her for a moment in the dim interior of the carriage. “Lydia, if there is anything you wish to tell me—”

  “Please, let us go!”

  “All right.”

  The driver, an elderly gentleman who had worked for the Everingham family his whole life, gently aided Lydia’s descent from the carriage to the street. It had stopped raining but appeared ready to start again any moment. Lolly had received Anne’s message and met them at the door of the mystic’s residence. Her anxious solicitousness was perfectly designed to calm Lydia, making her feel there was one person, at least, who was wholly engaged in her well-being. Anne was relieved. As much as she loved the young woman, it wore on her to constantly reassure Lydia, while Lolly never seemed to weary of the task.

  They were ushered in by the little maid, climbed the stairs, and sat in the small anteroom once more, and Lydia chattered about her baby, her discomfort, John’s lack of sympathy, and her fears of the process of childbirth. Finally, they were summoned and entered the seer’s den, Lydia wide-eyed and quivering, with Lolly jollying her along. Mother Macree was sitting at her table as before, but the light was dimmer because of the nasty weather outside. She was huddled in her chair and said not a word as the three women were guided to seats by her little maid.

  The mystic muttered and laid out some cards, then looked up sharply into Lydia’s eyes. “Yer frightened, child. Worried about yer baby, yes?”

  Lydia nodded, her breath catching on a sob in her throat.

  With the cards laid out in front of her, the mystic then began to read them, passing one wrinkled, spotted hand over the backs, turning some up, nodding and sighing. Finally, she said, “All will be well, child, all will be well. Even now ye feel the babe stirring in yer womb and are afeared, but fear not; ye’ll be delivered of a healthy child.”

  “Do you . . . do you know if it will be a boy or girl?”

  The woman muttered and turned more cards, then shook her head. “The future is unclear. Yer husband wishes a boy, I know this, but it is unclear.”

  Lydia watched her carefully, appearing uncertain, and sighed, moving in her chair. She opened her mouth, then shut it again.

  “What is it, Lydia? What do you wish to say?” Anne asked.

  The young woman glanced at her and ducked her head, tears shim
mering on her lashes. “I wonder . . . is . . .” She stopped and shook her head. “I can’t,” she said, her voice clogged.

  The mystic turned to Anne. “Ye’ve returned. The young man you were with . . . he’s all right, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you are worried and tormented by fear. Ye wait for yer man to join ye here, and yet don’t know what to say when he does. You risk everything in yer doubt.”

  Lydia, wide-eyed, stared, her tears drying on her cheeks, leaving tight paths of stained skin. She then looked at Anne. “Why, she’s right! You’ve been hedging and fussing about announcing your engagement. Oh, Anne, you must not toy with Darkefell. He is the very devil when crossed. When you told him no before I thought he’d go out of his mind, he was so angry!”

  “Hush, Lydia,” Anne said crossly. “Why must everyone poke their nose in my business?”

  “You did come to a mystic,” Lolly pointed out with perfect logic.

  Ruffled, Anne exclaimed, “Since I don’t believe she is in contact with some divine personage, and believe this is all nonsense, I would say even given my attendance here, she should keep her nose out of my business.”

  Lydia, frightened by Anne’s forthright speech and acerbic tone, quivered and tears welled again. “You’re not helping, Anne! Please, Mother Macree, don’t pay any attention to her. I wish to know more.”

  Darkly the old woman glared at Anne. “Not with her in the room. Go, both of ye,” she said with an impatient gesture to Lolly. “I’ll speak to the girl alone.”

  “Out of the question,” Anne said, folding her hands on her lap. “I’ll not leave this room. Lydia, dearest, you can rely on—”

  “Please, Anne, go! Let me speak with her in private,” Lydia said crossly. “I wish to talk to her without your disapproving glares.”

  Anne narrowed her eyes and stared at the mystic. It went against the grain to give in, but she was doing her utmost to be supportive of Lydia in her struggle for some degree of independence. And what harm could the old woman do? “If you’re not out in five minutes I’m coming back in to get you,” she said, and rose, following Lolly out of the room to sit in the antechamber.

  Less than five minutes later Lydia emerged from the inner room, her face glowing and with a smile on her rosy lips. Any trace of tears was gone, any suspicion or hint of trouble dissipated. The transformation seemed too good to be true. It was like another young woman stood before her. “Is everything all right?”

  “Of course. Let us go and eat now.”

  At a cozy tearoom not far from the mystic’s house in Margaret’s Buildings, they partook of hot Bath buns, liberally doused in melted butter. Lydia smiled and chattered, watched other ladies, commenting on their clothes, and ate with great appetite, then expressed a desire to return home, as she was sleepy. She put her hand over Lolly’s on the table. “Miss Broomhall, could I possibly impose upon you to come and stay with me for a few days?” she said with her prettiest manners. She was a charming girl when in good spirits.

  “Lydia, you cannot ask Lolly to give up—”

  “Anne, please, hush up!” Lolly blinked once, a rapturous expression of delight crossing her face. “My dear girl, Lady Lydia, I would be absolutely delighted to stay with you for however long you need me.”

  “Not everyone is as hard-hearted and difficult as you,” Lydia said to Anne with a sniff.

  Anne sighed and restrained the urge to roll her eyes at her young friend’s pettish pout. It was quite clear that Lolly was eager to help Lydia, and who was she to stand in her way? Though living with and helping Lydia, as much as she loved her friend, would be her last choice in the world.

  Remembering Lolly’s financial constraints, and how much easier it would be to live with the Bestwicks, with the benefit of a cook, housekeeper, maids, laundress, good food, and warm fires, Anne softened and smiled at her cousin. “Shall we retrieve some of your things, then, Lolly? I’ll carry you both to Lydia and John’s townhouse on Milsom.”

  • • •

  The steady rain set in again, pouring down in sheets. Anne had an evening in and visited her grandmother in her rooms, reading to her the letters her son had sent from the Holy Land, where he was deeply involved in theological research. Lady Everingham’s deepest regret was that her son had never married, nor had he an heir. His country estate in Oxfordshire was perfectly maintained by the heir presumptive, a cousin from his late uncle. But Viscount Everingham was a dutiful son and faithful correspondent. Anne took pleasure in reading to her grandmother the letters he sent, full of description of the tombs of antiquity, and his most recent travels through Persia. She had few memories of her uncle, as he had traveled for most of his adult life, but his letters revealed an intelligent, thoughtful man of deep sensibility.

  Leaving her grandmother to read her Bible in peace—she felt most connected to her son when she was reading of the places he had been and the ancient sites he had seen for himself—Anne joined her mother and they sat in the sitting room, drinking tea and gossiping for a time. Finally, though, as Anne turned to a piece of embroidery she was attempting, Lady Harecross spoke what was on her mind. In her comfortable saque robe, her hair covered by a lace cap, she thumbed through a list of her friends and enemies. “Anne, I will not countenance any more nonsense. We must have a party when the marquess arrives in Bath, so he can become acquainted with our friends.” She consulted a notebook that held the list, then looked up at her daughter with a frown. “Can you not give me a more precise idea of whom I should invite? And when? How can we plan anything this way when I don’t even know when he is arriving?”

  Anne held her tongue. She understood her mother’s frustration; she was unaccustomed to having her plans determined by someone else and Anne suspected she didn’t know what to think of her future son-in-law. “I’ll be sure to take it up with the marquess when he arrives. I know you must have a dinner or a party, but please don’t plan anything until I speak with him.”

  Discontented with such an answer, the countess shifted in her seat and threw down the book. “I do not know what to think, Anne. After Reginald’s death,” she said, naming Anne’s late fiancé, “I thought we could find you another husband quite easily, once you were out of mourning, but you have thwarted my plans for any potential suitor I have presented to you. Some quite rudely, I must say. Clary doesn’t show it, but she was quite hurt you wouldn’t marry Roger.”

  “He never showed the slightest interest in me, Mother. I cannot respond to a proposal that never came.”

  Forced to admit the justice of that, Lady Harecross grumbled, “At least you caught a much better beau. How you did it I will never know, though your grandmother insists that I value you too lightly. How is that possible, I ask her? I know your value to a farthing. And you are the daughter of the Earl of Harecross, an important distinction that would always hold significance on the marriage market.”

  Anne restrained herself from asking how much a pound she could fetch. Better to hold her tongue than unleash the derision her mother would not understand.

  “I must admit, I was deeply concerned you would reject him.”

  Anne was tempted to tell her mother that she did reject his first proposal, and his second, but she had no wish to be the cause of her mother’s death by apoplexy. In truth, it had taken her some time to understand Tony, that as prickly and commanding as he could be, he was unlikely to become the overbearing husband she had avoided her whole life. With Darkefell she was safe. He had finally concluded, he told her, that it would take too much energy to attempt to restrict her vigor, so he would lengthen the reins and give her freedom. She had briskly replied that he made it sound like she was a horse, and he laughed aloud.

  She smiled at the thought, remembering his dark eyes and sensuous lips; she longed to kiss him and indulge in the other shocking and forbidden caresses that had made their time together so revelatory. In intense lengthy conversations they had come to terms, and he confessed his beliefs had amended to the
realization that women were not the frailer sex, as some condemned them. He was more likely to see Anne as an equal than any man she had met, though she was fortunate to be able to count her father and Osei Boatin as being equally as enlightened.

  “Anne, did you hear me?”

  “What? No, Mother, I did not. I was woolgathering.”

  Sighing heavily, Lady Harecross said, “As usual. I asked, should we invite your father?”

  “Of course.”

  “He loathes Bath.”

  “But he loves me,” she said, and bundled in a fist the sewing she was trying to attend to. “And as much as he hates Bath, he is also one of the few people Tony can talk to on equal terms. There is certainly no one else among our immediate circle who Tony will have the slightest respect for.”

  “But . . . but the party—”

  “—will be awful. Darkefell will offend everyone with his manners—”

  “Ridiculous. He has absolutely perfect manners. You forget, Anne, your grandmother and I have met him.”

  “Yes, but he wanted something from you,” she said bluntly, unwilling to raise expectations about her husband-to-be that he would fail to fulfill. “He was attempting to find out where I had gone, and he knew that offending you would not gain him the information. He is devious where once he is committed. Otherwise, he can be careless about offending those who find honesty and forthright truth alarming or unpleasant, and that, Mother, includes most of our mutual friends.”

  “You make him sound most disagreeable.”

  “And so he is, for many. But not for me.” She flung the wrinkled sewing aside with a pettish exclamation of irritation. “Good night, Mother. Mrs. McKellar is coming on the morrow for the final fittings for two of the new gowns, and we will be shopping for accoutrements.”

  She retreated to her room feeling low, but not sure why. She kept coming back to the near future, and how exasperating it was going to be to withstand the public exclamation once it was known that she and Darkefell were to wed. It would be seen as a triumph for her family, certainly, and there would be much congratulation. Visitors would swarm the Paragon townhome. Invitations would come thick and fast. She sighed gloomily. Her pride would be wounded by the continual marveling over how miraculous it was that she snagged him. The tabbies in the Assembly Rooms would have a glorious gossip and her mother would revel in it.