“But what could have done it?”
“Something he ingested, or some undiscovered ailment exacerbated by something else, perhaps,” Anne said, keeping her word to the doctor not to discuss the yew poisoning. “Did he eat with you that morning?”
She smiled weakly, tears glittering in her eyes as she folded her hands together on her lap. “We eat . . . we ate together nearly every morning, toast and tea. He was a good boy for a comfortable coze.”
“And you did so that morning?”
Clary gazed at Anne with a furrowed brow and nodded. “Roger joined us, though . . . so unusual. He is most mornings gone by the time Alfred and I take . . . took . . . our morning tea and toast. He says he cannot bear our gossip and tittle-tattle.”
“But that morning he ate with you?”
“He was most kind,” she said. “He even poured. Made a little joke out of it.”
A joke . . . Roger Basenstoke joking and pouring tea. Anne’s heart thumped as she recalled Lonsdale saying he had a moral dilemma that would, if he spoke out, hurt someone he loved. He loved Mrs. Basenstoke like a mother, and what would hurt her could be something concerning her son. “What was the joke?”
“Something about being the lady of the house.”
“Mr. Basenstoke said that?” Clary nodded. “What were Alfred’s plans for the day?” Anne asked.
“The usual, I suppose. Go to his club, the Pump Room, see friends.”
“But he didn’t say anything specific?” As Clary shook her head, Anne said, “Did you see him again that day?”
She again shook her head, one tear coursing down her cheek. “Breakfast was the last I saw him. Roger said he had something to speak to Alfred about and asked where he’d be.”
“Did he reply?”
“They walked out together. I don’t know if he replied; Alfred seemed . . . dismayed.”
“How has he been recently . . . Mr. Lonsdale, I mean? Was he his usual self? Was he upset over anything?”
Pensive, Clary stared out the window. “Something was troubling the dear boy. Something grave. I’ll never know what it was now. I let him fret, thinking he’d come to me when he wished to speak of it. Now it’s over, and I cannot go back and ask.” She sighed and shook her head. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. When we leave this world, our troubles leave with our spirit.” She turned and frowned, staring at Anne. “Mr. Birkenhead asked the same thing when he visited. Why are you both asking the same things, about Alfred’s humor lately? Is there something I don’t know about how he died?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say, Clary. Truly. I cannot speculate,” she added, which was the exact truth; she could not speculate or speak of it because of her promise to the doctor. She twitched her lips. What she would give to look into Lonsdale’s room, but to ask would be too peculiar. Maybe she could find a way, but it wouldn’t be today. “Bertie is distressed, I think, that Mr. Lonsdale died in his home. They were close.”
“Yes, closer than I was aware.”
“We’re all looking for meaning in his death . . . so young, and gone so tragically.”
“He has been . . . sad lately. Out of sorts. I know Roger was hard on him—”
“How so?”
“My son is . . . was jealous, I think, of my regard for my nephew. But that may be a fond mother’s interpretation. I have no real foundation upon which to lay such a charge. Roger was unfair to dear Alfred, terribly unfair. He called him weak. He said the boy was manipulating me, that he needed to stiffen his spine and behave in a manner to make his family proud, rather than one that would bring distress and humiliation on us all.”
Distress? Humiliation? That seemed excessive, Anne thought. It made her pause; as far as the little she had known of Lonsdale he had seemed mild, intelligent, friendly. Maybe she had too easily translated that to imply every noble attribute possible, but if so the Birkenheads had been similarly fooled, for her friends loved him. “What did he mean by that?”
Clary shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. He would never say when I asked. But that is why I was so pleased that morning when Roger took an interest in Alfred. It was what I had been hoping for.”
“I don’t like to pry, Clary, but were you offended that Dr. Fothergill took charge of Mr. Lonsdale’s body? Did it upset you?”
“Not at all. It was kind of him to take charge, and so I said to him in the note I sent.”
“You sent a note?”
“Roger said I should. He was upset that Dr. Fothergill had taken poor Alfred’s body with him. He thought I should object. That is what he wanted me to say, but how could I? The doctor was doing his duty.”
“So you didn’t object?”
“Of course not.”
“I’m surprised that if your son objected, he didn’t write to the doctor himself. Isn’t it his place to do so?”
Clary knew what she meant, of course; as her son and closest male relative, Roger Basenstoke had say over much in her life. She frowned. “He . . . he seemed unwilling, for some reason. I don’t know why. As my son, and Alfred’s cousin, it truly is his place.”
Anne considered that. It was unlike the man to shrink from giving his opinion. Was there a reason he didn’t want to be the one to protest the doctor’s presumption in taking charge of Lonsdale’s body? He ultimately did, so why the hesitation? “What did you say in your note?”
“That I was relieved a man of medicine had been there, though it had been too late, and I hoped he would visit me at some point.”
That explained Roger’s note castigating the doctor, then. It had been written because he could not bully his mother into doing so. It was interesting that Clary’s note did not arrive by the same messenger. Try as she might, Anne could not erase her suspicion of Mr. Basenstoke’s behavior the very morning of Lonsdale’s death. Why would a man who loathed another suddenly pour him tea and desire a private chat?
Chapter Fifteen
Anne took her leave and headed to Lydia and John’s home. Lydia and Lolly were home, answering her question about whether Lolly was staying on with the Bestwicks. She was shown to the comfortable sitting room and took a chair by the window overlooking Milsom. It was a busy street, with shoppers strolling, servants bustling, the occasional carriage trundling past, but many more in sedan chairs hefted by broad-shouldered chairmen. With a lively mix of townhomes and shops, it was an ideal home for Lydia, who loved nothing more than to meet and socialize with new people and old friends alike.
Anne thought back to John’s request that she intercede for him with Tony to allow them to take over management of their Cornwall property. She would try, she decided, knowing that Yorkshire was grim for a society-loving young lady like Lydia. She wasn’t sure yet how much persuasive power she had with her fiancé, but she could test it and see.
Lydia, followed by Lolly, entered after twenty minutes or so. Lydia wore a capacious robe volante, or “flying robe,” a style from France that was perfectly accommodating for her delicate state. It was of lovely figured green silk, and she looked so beautiful, with her chestnut curls in a tumble and her lovely eyes lowered under fluttering thick lashes.
“You are so lovely, my dear,” Anne exclaimed. “You look well.”
They exchanged embraces, and Lolly made Lydia comfortable in a sturdy chair near the fireplace, which had a cheery blaze. It suited her friend to have someone fuss over her, Anne decided, and Lolly was the perfect candidate for that position. Perhaps this would be a solution for Lolly’s lengthy descent into genteel poverty. If John would allow Lolly to become Lydia’s permanent companion, both would be happy.
After exchanging news since the day before—she did not mention Lonsdale’s tragic death, as Lydia disliked tragedy in any form, in or out of the theater—Anne sat back and regarded her friend. “I dropped in this morning and found you both out. I was surprised. You are not in general an early riser, Lydia.” The two ladies exchanged furtive looks, like naughty schoolgirls found pillaging the box of sugarplums. It wa
s most disconcerting.
“I had some shopping to do, and Lolly was kind enough to accompany me,” she said in her most innocent voice.
“Shopping. In your condition.”
A mulish expression muddied Lydia’s sweet countenance. She rested one hand on her protuberant belly and glared at Anne. “Yes, shopping. I have a baby coming. I wish to be sure the nursery is fitted. I . . . I wanted to buy some things for after the baby is born, for m-me, for . . . why must you question me, Anne?”
“I’m sorry, my dear, I did not mean to pry.”
Lydia’s expression became sunny. “Let us talk of other things. Osei has been by; he says that he found a townhome for the marquess.”
“Yes, that is true.”
“And Darkefell is to come to Bath?”
“I believe so.”
“And will you announce your engagement soon?”
Anne stared at her friend. “Now who is being the questioner?” she said with a teasing tone.
Lydia fidgeted, her cheeks blushing. “Anne, do you ever think of Reginald?” she asked. Lydia’s brother, Anne’s former fiancé, was lost around the time of the Battle of Yorktown. He was not lost in any heroic action, as his family would have it, but for her friend’s sake Anne kept up the fiction of a dashing army officer tragically dying for his country. A child at the time of the engagement, Lydia had been looking forward to having Anne as a big sister, but their deeper friendship began a few years after Reginald’s death, when Lydia came out in society. The young woman’s dainty prettiness won her much interest, but of them all Lord John Bestwick was not only the best in every practical sense, it was a true love match.
Wishing to not wound her friend’s sensitive soul, Anne said, “Certainly, I think of Reggie often. He was dear to me. Why do you ask?”
Lydia’s eyes widened and her breathing became more rapid. How odd, Anne thought, watching her young friend. What was wrong with the girl?
“No reason. How he would laugh to see me thus,” she said, indicating her distended belly.
If he did, it would be the height of rudeness, Anne thought, but bit her tongue. She watched her friend, and then her cousin. Something was up between these two, and it had to do with their spurious shopping trip that morning. She would discover the answer one way or another.
They had tea, and Lolly fussed happily over Lydia. Her cousin’s place in the Bestwick household seemed to be secure at least until the child was born, when a special nurse would be engaged. Whenever Anne tried to return to the topic of their mysterious shopping trip that morning, the subject was changed or ignored. Lolly was more skilled at obfuscation and circumlocution than Lydia and could talk about nothing for half an hour, exhausting even the most determined questioner. At length, Anne gave up on discovering the truth from either of them and rose to leave. John arrived home from his club and greeted her warmly. She made her farewells to the ladies, as her future brother-in-law invited her to come into his library for a moment. He had something to ask of her.
His library was a dark chilly chamber of wood and leather, smelling of tobacco, but with few books. John was as different from Darkefell as ever a brother could be. Tending toward portliness, pale of visage and mild of manner, he adored Lydia, and expected nothing more than that she should comport herself as a lady ought, meaning with delicacy and submission.
In Anne he knew that he had met a woman who surpassed him in intelligence, but to his credit he had never countered her strong will with ire, and often consulted her on the best way to take care of his wife when she was dejected, as happened relatively often. There was something on his mind, and as there was something on Anne’s mind, too, they were well matched. She sat across the broad wood table behind which he sat, and stared at him.
“Tony will be in Bath soon, Osei says,” John started with.
“Yes, in a few days. He has a house now, at least. Will your mother accompany him, do you think?”
He shook his head. “Autumn is a difficult time for her always. She begins to withdraw.”
Anne simply nodded. She and the dowager marchioness had spoken of the woman’s troubled mind, and Anne now understood her better than she once had. She was surprised that Lady Sophia would not be in Bath to welcome her first grandchild, but she had ever been hard on Lydia, and her presence would agitate the younger woman, so maybe her restraint was best. John looked troubled. “Is everything all right, John? You’re not worrying about Lydia, are you? If it helps any, I think Lolly is good for her . . . an excellent companion.”
He nodded. “I’m happy that she has Miss Broomhall. And yes, I’m worried. She won’t tell me where she was this morning. At first I thought maybe there were things I didn’t know . . . things of a delicate nature. But she has never been shy of telling me anything before.”
“Did you ask your coachman?”
“Of course. He said he dropped her and your cousin off in front of Miss Broomhall’s home. Why would she not tell me that herself? Perhaps it was to pick up some things from Miss Broomhall’s home to make her stay here more comfortable?”
Another explanation occurred to Anne, but she didn’t want to divulge it to John until she was sure. “If I find out, I’ll let you know, as long as it is not compromising Lydia’s privacy.” He bridled and she hastened to add, “Please don’t take that amiss! I merely mean . . . perhaps she is, oh . . . ordering a gift for you for your birthday, or, as you said, doing something of a private nature before she is confined to her bed.”
Mollified, he nodded.
“The most likely explanation is that she wished for an outing, a breath of fresh air before her confinement.” She rose and watched him for a moment. “Is anything else troubling you, John? Is it just Lydia?”
He sighed. “I feel I can be frank with you, Lady Anne; the thought of Tony living in Bath at the same time as my wife and I is . . . daunting. He is a strong character, as you know, and though I feel I have become known in Bath and appreciated on my own merits, when he comes I will be back to being an insignificant person in the eyes of society.”
“John, you have little to fear. I have been in Bath enough to know that Tony will not find many friends here. At first all will dance attendance on him in honor of his title and position, but after, the whispers will begin. He is not suited to Bath. In fact he is more likely to mortally offend all the old gossips of this town than to make conquests. And I promise you, your amiable charm is more winning and likely to please true Bathonians, who value good humor and good manners, neither of which Darkefell has in abundance.”
“How well you know my brother,” he said and smiled, seeming relieved. “And yet still, you will marry him. I suppose you know what you are doing?” He peered at her anxiously.
She smiled. “Yes, I’m perfectly aware of what I am doing. We shall suit.”
“Perhaps it is that I have so rarely been away from home for any length of time, but I have enjoyed staying here. The people of Bath have been uncommonly welcoming.”
“John, my advice to you is, you will win a host of friends by being your friendly, uncomplicated self. Don’t change, and you will continue to be admired and accepted.”
Anne said her goodbyes, but before leaving she had the maid send for Lolly. She was going to get to the bottom of this, now that she had a good idea of where the two had been, and what they had been doing.
Chapter Sixteen
She awaited her cousin in the carriage outside. Lolly climbed in and faced Anne. “What is it, cousin? I must get back to Lydia. I dislike leaving the poor girl alone.”
“Lolly, I know where you and Lydia went this morning.”
Flustered, the older woman stayed silent, her gaze darting from side to side and finally fixing on the knot fastening her fluffy shawl at her waist. She tugged and worried at it.
She was not going to volunteer the information. “You and Lydia went to the mystic again. Why?” Anne asked. “What did you ask? Or what did she tell you?”
“Oh, you
know, the usual thing,” Lolly said, fidgeting and not meeting Anne’s gaze. “To be sure that Lydia will be safely delivered of a healthy baby, which is all any young woman cares for, you know, not whether it is a boy or girl, or if it has dark eyes or light, or if it has hair or is bald, as so many babies are. You know it never ceases to amaze me that so many children who later grow great thatches of hair are born with none. Why you yourself, Anne, with that lovely thick—”
“Lolly!”
The woman stopped, flustered, but stayed silent.
“That is what the mystic told her last time. What would be the point to go again, just to be told the same thing?”
Still Lolly stayed silent.
“There is more, I know it.”
She sighed and fidgeted again, then finally met Anne’s gaze. She was going to tell the truth, . . . finally. Anne waited.
“I don’t know what the mystic said to her.”
“What?”
“I left the room. The mystic said she had a private message for Lady Lydia and that it was for her ears only. I was made to go out and wait in the anteroom, like last time.”
“You didn’t listen at the door?”
“I would never,” Lolly exclaimed, pressing one hand to her bosom, offense writ in her astonished expression.
“I wonder if it had to do with Reginald? She hasn’t spoken of him to me in ages and then suddenly today she did. Perhaps there is something there.”
“Perhaps. I’m sure you have other things on your mind, my dear, what with your young friend dying.”
“You know about that, do you?”
“Yes, we heard. Lord John said something.”
“And it didn’t upset Lydia?”
“Why would it? She did not know the young man.”
It was true that with tragedies, it was knowledge of those affected that made one experience it more vividly. “He was a recent friend to me, but my dear friends the Birkenheads are in great distress. I am deeply saddened and mystified.” She paused and looked out the carriage window. One of the horses whinnied and shifted; the carriage rocked. Anne looked back to Lolly. “Do you think Lydia can spare you for an hour? John is home now, and she has the household staff.”
Lady Anne and the Menacing Mystic Page 15
