Lady Anne and the Menacing Mystic

by Victoria Hamilton

  Given the scandalous rumor she had overheard in the Pump Room, it was no wonder Bath residents were avoiding the Birkenheads. Gossip was spreading that Lonsdale had deliberately killed himself at the Birkenhead home as a way to harm his friends. People were superstitious, and suicide was a shockingly reckless deed, one that inspired a deep sense of dread.

  She would visit and do her best to allay her friend’s worries. She hastily scrawled replies to all, gave them to Truffle for immediate post, and retired to her bedchamber. As Mary dressed her hair for a day of visits, Anne pulled on her stockings, tied them above the knee, then gazed at her trusted confidante’s reflection in the mirror. “Mary, I have need of you and Robbie today. Do you mind him performing a few tasks for me?”

  The maid grimaced, her mouth full of hairpins. She concentrated on tidying the elaborate style, smoothing the curls and pinning some loose waves, then forming the ringlet that would drape artfully over Anne’s left shoulder. She met her mistress’s gaze in the mirror. “If t’were just boxes to carry, you’d no’ ask me, milady. May I know what Robbie is to do?”

  “Of course. I would never ask him to do anything without consulting you first.” Anne slid her feet into nankeen half boots—sturdy enough for a day of visits in uncertain weather—and Mary laced them. Anne stood, and there was silence for a few minutes as Mary tied her stays, helped her into her petticoat, tied her pockets and bum roll, then dropped, over her head, the skirt of her gown. The silent maid tied the waist. “You’ll be there too, Mary, with Robbie,” Anne said, picking up their conversation as she tied a pretty lace tucker over her shoulders, carefully draping her coiled ringlet over her shoulder again.

  She turned and faced her maid, putting her hands on Mary’s shoulders and gazing directly into her eyes. “Nothing amiss will go on. I merely wish him to pester the kitchen staff and gossip with the lowest of the servants. It’s about Lydia and John’s household. I want to know of any irregular mail, any notes she has been getting. Something is worrying her, and John is concerned. Lolly is beside herself. No one is confessing to delivering notes to her, but I wonder if one of the underlings is being employed to take them to her in secret. Lydia can be devious. She is both sly and determined to get her own way even if to do so she must act in a furtive manner.” And though those traits had irritated Anne in past, she was beginning to see that for some women, it was the only way to both keep peace and live with some measure of independence. She would not blame her friend in future.

  “You’re sayin’ she’s a mite crafty, milady?” Mary said, handing Anne what she habitually carried in her pockets: money, a handkerchief, smelling salts, her gold watch, and a magnifying glass.

  Anne sighed. “She is. Lolly doesn’t know her like I do, and thinks she is just a pretty, sweet, mild-mannered young lady. But I don’t blame Lydia. Has any woman alive gotten through life without employing some deception to get what she wants or needs? It is, unfortunately, how we are raised, for to men goes the lion’s share of power in the world.”

  She paused, frowning and staring off into the shadowed corner of the room. “I must confront her concerning her secretive meetings with the mystic, but she may put me off with some claim about doing it for entertainment. I no longer believe that. She is too upset, according to those closest to her. There is something more going on. I wish to be sure of my standing before confronting her, though, for I think that what is upsetting her is coming to her by way of messages delivered by hand. A potboy or scullery maid may say to Robbie what they would not dare divulge to anyone else.”

  “You wish him to be your spy.” Mary, as always, cut through her babble.

  Taking a deep breath, Anne nodded. “Yes.” She put her arms through the bodice of the gown then turned, so Mary could lace it and pin it in place. “He’s a clever boy, and more than once he has noticed something I haven’t seen, or brought me information that has helped. I’m worried about Lydia, and so is John. Even Lolly is concerned.”

  Mary nodded. “Aye, milady. But mind . . . if he gets in a problem wi’ the Bestwicks’ housekeeper, it’s your task to get him outta trouble.”

  “Yes, Mary, of course.” She took a deep breath and gazed at herself in the mirror, pulling on her gloves. “There are more stops today, but I don’t imagine I’ll have Robbie do the same tasks at the Basenstokes’ and certainly not at the Birkenheads’, so you will be home long before me. Mrs. McKellar may, at some point, send a note,” she said, and explained about Bridie, the mystic’s maid.

  “What is all o’ this in aid of, milady?”

  “There are assorted mysteries in Bath, odd goings-on with the mystic, and now this death at the Birkenheads’. Too many puzzles. My friends are suffering. I will sort out Lydia and find out what is troubling her, and try to help Alethea. My poor dear friend is in terrible distress over the rumors, so I am determined to find out who killed Alfred Lonsdale.”

  “Who killed him? You think it murder?”

  Anne stared in the mirror, her mouth pinched in a frown. “Unfortunately, I do. I want to know who, and why.”

  “On the trail again of a murderer,” Mary said, tsk-tsking between her teeth. “What would the marquess say?”

  “If he’s wise, nothing. Could you fetch my shawl? This weather is unpredictable, the sun shining one moment and gloom gathering the next.”

  “Sounds like life, milady,” Mary said, draping the shawl around her mistress’s shoulders.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  John was not in at the Bestwick house on Milsom, and Lydia was resting, or so the maid who answered the door said. She did not wish to see Anne, for she was unwell. Or was she avoiding Anne, afraid her friend would see through her? Mary and Robbie went around to the back door, of course, to descend to the kitchen to visit with the cook and Lydia’s lady’s maid, who Mary knew from their time at the Darkefell estate.

  Lolly, white-faced and worried, met Anne in the main-floor reception room.

  “Why won’t Lydia see me?” Anne asked, turning from the window overlooking Milsom. “I’ll not believe that she is unwell. That is when she wants company the most.”

  Twisting her hands over and over, Lolly paced, and then perched on an embroidered corner chair, staring at Anne, her pouched eyes clouded with worry. “We got back from our visit to the mystic and Lydia retired to bed, exhausted. It was the same as before; I went in with her, but then was sent out to sit in the antechamber while the two had a private session. Last time at least she was happy after, but this time she was not. She seems afraid. The girl is not getting enough sleep. I’m so concerned. She is keeping something from me, and I can’t share my worries with Lord John. It would be . . .” She shook her head.

  “Presumptuous. You haven’t known her long enough to tell her husband she’s troubled by something.”

  Lolly nodded.

  “He already suspects, Lolly; he said as much to me. But you’re right not to betray her trust. Let me handle this for now.” Anne confessed that she had Mary and Robbie downstairs, hoping that the boy, with his quick intelligence and likability, would be able to discover if there were any secrets belowstairs that would explain the mistress’s low mood. “I’m worried about this mystic, Mother Macree, and what she’s up to.” She explained that she was hoping the mystic’s maid might be tempted by a new job to give her employer up, but it was a risky task. “Lolly, you’ve lived in Bath many years; do you think I can find the girl another job? A better one than as maid of all works for that woman? She treats the child shabbily, I’ve been told.”

  “Bath is insular, my dear. It may not be as easy as it would be in London. But I will prick up my ears, I vow it. I have many friends. One of them may know of a situation. Even my landlady—”

  “Not her! I’ll not have that child leave the mystic to work for a slattern like that.”

  Lolly nodded. “I’ll see what I can do for the child.”

  “If Lydia wishes to confide in you—”

  “I will listen.”
<
br />   “But will you tell me what she says, even if she swears you to secrecy?”

  Lolly clutched her hands together. “God forgive me, yes, I will. I wish what is best, and must be guided by your better knowledge and love of her, and your wisdom.”

  “Thank you, dear Lolly,” Anne said. Judging she had given Robbie enough time, she rose and departed to the carriage outside. When Robbie and Mary joined her, she could see the signs of success in the clever lad’s broad grin. “Did you find something out?”

  “Aye, milady,” he said. “The potboy, Willie Wag, he tolt me in secret, he sed as how there is a fellow as gives ’im a note many a day to hand Lady John in secret. Pays ’im tuppence each time. Tuppence!” he said, his bright eyes wide at the bounty. “Willie nicks up the back stairs—he don’t dare get caught; if he was caught upstairs he’d be beat black n’ blue by the housekeeper—an’ leaves it for her ladyship under her pillow.”

  “Under her pillow?” Anne was astounded. Beyond risky, it was unthinkable that the boy had been put up to such a thing. Tuppence was a staggering sum for the boy, she supposed, but if he was found out, he would be cast out onto the street. “Tell me, did you think to find out what this fellow looks like, the one who leaves messages for Willie to put under her ladyship’s pillow? And perhaps where he gives it to the boy?”

  “Aye, he sed as how the toff is goldy-haired, all shiny like a half guinea he seen once.”

  Golden hair; it was not an unheard-of color, but her first thought was of Mr. Graeme. “A toff . . . that means a well-dressed gentleman, correct?”

  The boy nodded. “An’ milady . . . Willie sez as ’ow her ladyship twice in th’ last few days give ’im a velvet sac with somethin’ heavy in it, to give to the same feller.”

  Mary, wide-eyed, said, “Oh, milady, I know what must be in the sac. Lydia’s maid is in a fair takin’. Seems there are things missing from her ladyship’s jewel case. Not first-rate jewels, but little trinkets. She’s in quite a tizzy for fear her ladyship’ll accuse her, but I said Lady John would no’ do that.”

  Anne nodded, thinking. There was one inescapable conclusion: the items in the velvet sac were some kind of gift or payment from Lydia to the fellow who brought the notes. But for what? “Mary, can you ask at the door if Lolly will come out to the carriage? I have something more to ask her.”

  Lolly, wrapped hastily in a woolly shawl of her own knitting, climbed up into the carriage and squeezed breathlessly in next to Mary. “What is it, Anne, dear? What have you forgot?”

  Anne told her what Robbie had discovered from the potboy, knowing that of all people Lolly could be counted on to not get the lad in trouble. “He is receiving those secret notes from the hand of a well-dressed gentleman with golden hair. The description puts me in mind of one Mr. Graeme; you remember. We met him at the Pump Room. In fact . . .” Anne paused a moment. Of course! She reached across and took her cousin’s hand to focus her attention. “Lolly, when we met, you said to him—though he denied it vehemently—that you saw him on the pavement outside of Margaret’s Buildings,” she said urgently, squeezing her hand. “You were about to say who with when he denied it, interrupting you. Who was it you saw him with?”

  “Oh, yes! T’was the mystic’s little maid. Very sly, he was . . . very sly indeed, with that side-to-side gaze, as when you are hoping no one you know sees you. He tugged her into a doorway and gave her something.”

  “How interesting,” Anne said. It was the connection she was looking for between the mystic and Mr. Graeme. And perhaps illuminated part of the mystery, those “introductions,” though it didn’t explain them. Was it some harmless matchmaking or something more underhanded? And this information didn’t help at all with learning why Lydia was so upset by the notes—if what Anne surmised was true and it was the notes that unsettled her—or what connection any of it had with Mr. Lonsdale’s tragic death. And there was the other matter . . . Anne told Lolly about the items from her jewel box that Lydia was probably giving to Graeme, or sending by way of him to someone else. “I need to find out what is in those notes. Would Lydia have kept them? I’m sure she would. Lolly, could you look through Lydia’s things to try to find them?”

  Lolly appeared horrified, pulling her hand free and rearing back as if she had seen something terrible. “I could never do such a thing to Lady Lydia. Telling you what she confides to me is bad enough, but . . . oh, that poor child! Paw through her possessions? How could you ask such a thing, Anne?”

  Anne glanced around and saw the same horrified look on Mary’s face. It was too far. If she applied it to her own life, she realized how angry she’d be if someone searched her private possessions. “All right, don’t pry. But if she is inclined to confide in you—to confess what is worrying her—you will tell me?”

  “I already promised I would. As . . . as long as she doesn’t swear me to secrecy,” Lolly said, mollified. She bid adieu, and climbed down out of the carriage and went in.

  Anne told the driver to take her to the Basenstokes’, and from there to return Mary and Robbie to the Paragon, before coming back to await her.

  Inside Gordon House Clary was anxious and pacing. “Anne, thank heavens you have come!” She strode forward and took Anne’s gloved hands, her own quivering with emotion.

  Looking over her shoulder and waiting until the door to the sitting room was closed, Anne then led her older friend to the settee and sat, pulling her down to sit beside her. “Tell me what it is that is upsetting you, Clary.”

  The woman took in a deep shuddering breath and let it out slowly. Anne’s presence seemed to be calming her, though the dark circles under her eyes spoke of a sleepless night or two. And yet she had not been so agitated when last Anne spoke to her. Sad about her nephew’s death, yes, but not agitated. Something had happened.

  But Clary would say nothing until tea was brought, with an array of sandwiches and cakes on a platter. Anne, looking at her mother’s friend intently, saw enough that she, too, was willing to wait until they had drunk and eaten. She encouraged Clary to do so, urging her to a sandwich and a cup of tea. They ate, and finally the tray was cleared away, another cup of restorative brew poured and waiting.

  “Now, what is upsetting you?”

  “I found letters, in Alfred’s room, and I don’t know what to think of them.” She pressed a black-edged handkerchief to her mouth and choked off a sob. “I thought them love letters. Maybe they are. Maybe not.”

  “I don’t think I understand you, Clary,” Anne said, baffled. “Love letters? Surely that’s obvious if they are or are not?”

  “No, no, you don’t understand. They’re from . . . they are from another man.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Another man?” Anne felt her heart thump. She had heard of such things as those who loved others of the same sex. She had no idea that Mr. Lonsdale was of that persuasion. There was no mark, or sign, no stigma that pointed him out, so, how could she know? She shook off her inward gaze and instead listened to her friend.

  “Another man! I feel such a fool,” Clary sobbed. “I kept throwing young ladies at him. I even asked, when I visited that woman, that mystic, Mother Macree, would my beloved nephew Alfred find a good wife to love him? Would he find happiness with a suitable young lady? I had your mother trying to find a good match for him, a nice girl who . . .” She stopped and shook her head.

  “What did the mystic say?” Anne asked.

  “That the future was unclear,” Clary said. “No wonder.”

  “Who is he, the writer of the letters?”

  “There is no name, just endearments. Alfred is Dearly Beloved and the other man is Tulip.”

  “How do you know it’s a man, then?”

  “He writes of . . . of things they have done.”

  “Oh.” For all that it was scandalous, it shed some light on Mr. Lonsdale’s concerns about “sins” the church would defrock him for. “I’m sorry it shocks you, Clary.”

  “Doesn’t it shock you?”<
br />
  Anne examined her heart. It did surprise her. And yet, it was deeply personal to him and didn’t affect her memory of the young man who had seemed lonely, sad at times, but sweet-natured and good. “I suppose, but Clary, he was your nephew. He loved you and you loved him. Nothing you have learned changes that.”

  Tears streamed down her face and she dabbed at her swollen eyes. “What breaks my heart is, how could I not have known? How could he have kept such a secret, an affair with another man!” she whispered. “I was his aunt, but he was like the son I never . . . I mean, Roger is a good son, but Alfred was exceptional.” She paused, mouth open, and her eyes grew wide. “You don’t think . . . could Roger have known about . . . about Alfred’s affair?”

  Anne frowned down at her gloved hands and pulled at a loose thread. “I suppose he may have.” It would explain Roger’s aversion for him. If so, Roger may have worried that others would discover Lonsdale’s secret and it would all come out, shaming their family. She couldn’t ask Clary this, but she did wonder . . . what would Roger do to prevent that? Given his position in Bath society, how his business relied on connections, what would he not do to keep the secret? She looked up and examined her friend’s teary face. “What do you think? Could your son have known?”

  “Men gossip as much as women, though they don’t call it gossip of course. And gentlemen have so many connections in society that we don’t, associations we ladies have no knowledge of.”

  Her way of saying in all probability. “What have you done with Mr. Lonsdale’s letters?”

  “I have them here,” Clary said, pulling a stack tied with a slim blue ribbon from her pocket. “I didn’t read them all. I only read the first couple, enough to know . . .” She shook her head and compressed her lips.

  “Do you want to know who the other gentleman is? Would you like to return the letters?”

  Clary nodded and sniffed back the last of her tears. “You’ve helped me think of this a different way. He was such a lovely boy, and this changes nothing. I wish he could have told me.”