Her Scandalous Pursuit

by Candace Camp

  “Perhaps you should marry him,” Thisbe responded.

  Olivia rolled her eyes. “Don’t be testy. I’m not the one in love with him. It’s just... He’s smart and funny and very nice. He was perfect for you. You were so happy.”

  “I’m not in love with him.” When both her sisters looked at her in disbelief, Thisbe amended, “At least, I don’t want to love him. I am determined not to love him.”

  “How do you plan to do that?” Kyria asked.

  “I will devote myself to work. I’ve been lax the last few days, but I shall simply make myself concentrate. I refuse to let Desmond Harrison mess about with my life.”

  “Do you think Grandmother’s prediction was true?” Olivia mused. “I mean, it seems more likely now that Desmond actually was dangerous.”

  “Only to my heart,” Thisbe retorted. “Do you honestly think the dowager duchess can tell the future?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Grandmother is making it up, as she always does,” Kyria said. “You know how much she loves a dramatic scene. She didn’t like Desmond, and it was a grand way to get rid of him and make herself look important and mystical.”

  Olivia snorted a laugh. “You just don’t like Grandmother.”

  “Because she doesn’t like me,” Kyria protested. “I don’t care that I’m not her favorite, but it does seem one’s grandmother ought to at least like her.”

  “It’s because you look like Mother,” Thisbe told her.

  “I know. Still...”

  “You should be glad she isn’t always telling you that you have ‘the sight’ and are like her,” Olivia added. “I mean, ghosts are interesting in novels, but I don’t think I’d really like to meet one.”

  “Do you think she made up all that about Annie Blue, too?” Kyria asked.

  “She couldn’t have made it all up,” Thisbe said. “That’s what Desmond called the quizzing glass, too—Annie Blue’s Eye. So there must be some sort of legend about the woman.”

  “The part about her being tried as a witch might be true, too,” Kyria offered. “They were doing a lot of that in the 1600s.”

  “It happened a good deal with the Tudors, as well,” Olivia agreed. “Bloody Mary and so on.”

  “That was heretics. But, then, witches would qualify, I suppose,” Kyria mused. “Whatever you call them, it was gruesome.”

  “Which would also appeal to Grandmother,” Olivia pointed out.

  “You know whom you should ask,” Kyria told Thisbe. “Uncle Bellard. If anyone would know anything about this woman, it would be him.”

  “I would ask him...if I wanted to waste my time on such nonsense,” Thisbe said. “But I intend to spend my time working.”

  Despite her words, the next morning found Thisbe walking toward the remote set of rooms where her great-uncle lived. Her work had not gone well the afternoon before, and she had slept poorly, bothered again by a dream of the same woman standing in the midst of a fire. This morning would probably prove just as useless, so she might as well spend her time trying to discover something about the Eye. And, yes, she admitted, she was too curious to leave it alone.

  “Thisbe?” Bellard opened the door to her with his usual vaguely bemused smile. “How are you? Your grandmother isn’t with you, is she?” He cast a look of trepidation down the corridor.

  “No. She has no idea I’m here. I’m not sure she even knows where your rooms are.”

  “Good.” He nodded happily and showed her into his sitting room. “Come in. Come in.”

  As usual, his re-creations of battles were scattered about on tables all over the sitting room. The walls of the room were lined with tall shelves of books, and books were stacked on the floor and chairs and every vacant space on a table.

  “Would you like some tea? Doris just brought up a fresh pot.”

  They had no maid named Doris, but Thisbe didn’t point that out. Names were of no interest to her uncle unless they belonged to some person from long ago.

  “She brought scones, too.” His eyes twinkled at Thisbe. “Dear Emmeline is always worried I may starve up here when Cornelia visits.”

  “I fear Grandmother will be here for some time.”

  “Yes, I heard Hermione was staying in Bath. Well, at least she won’t be joining us. That’s a bit of good news.” He cleared some books from a chair and poured her a cup. “Are you hiding from Cornelia, too?”

  “No, but my question concerns her. Have you ever heard of a woman named Anne Ballew?” As her great-uncle fell into his thinking posture, arms crossed, eyes tilted up toward the upper shelves, Thisbe went on, “I believe she was an alchemist. She was burned as a witch, from what I’ve been told. Although, really, I’m not completely sure she even existed.”

  “Anne Ballew. Anne Ballew. It has a certain familiarity. When did she live?”

  “I’m not sure. Long enough ago that she was executed for witchcraft.”

  “That could cover a great number of years. People have always been frightened of things they don’t understand. The Middle Ages. The Lancashire witch hunts in the seventeenth century—though the alchemist part seems earlier than that. You know, alchemists were something akin to scientists. Learned men pushing the boundaries of knowledge. John Dee, Elizabeth’s adviser, was quite well-known and respected. Odd for a woman to be an alchemist, though. Wait.” He held up a finger. “Anne Ballew. Annie Blue. That was what she was called, as I remember. It was John Dee that made me think of it—she was something of a protégée of his.”

  “So, Elizabethan times?”

  “Yes, or I suppose she could have been a bit earlier, during Mary’s reign. A lot of executions for heresy at both times.” He shrugged. “But I’m afraid that’s the extent of my knowledge.”

  “Do you think it’s possible she could have been one of Grandmother’s forebears?”

  “Anne Ballew?” His voice registered surprise. “I can’t see how, dear. Cornelia comes from a long line of proud people. It’s hard to imagine finding an alchemist among them. Or a witch. Who suggested that she was?”

  “Grandmother.”

  “Cornelia herself?” His eyebrows shot up.

  “Yes. She claims that’s where she got her powers.”

  “Her powers? Oh. That.” His face cleared. “Anne Ballew communed with the spirit world, as well?”

  “Apparently there is a legend that she could, and she used a certain instrument to do so, a sort of lens that enabled her to see them.”

  “Interesting. Does Cornelia have this supposed magical lens or is she searching for it?”

  “She has a large ornate quizzing glass that she says was called ‘the Eye of Annie Blue.’”

  “That has quite a ring to it.”

  Thisbe nodded. “Apparently other people have heard of the legend. Grandmother said that Anne Ballew was actually from a ‘good family.’ Not a commoner, as apparently others believe.”

  “Naturally she would say that.” Bellard tapped his upper lip. “Let me think... Cornelia’s maiden name was Bellingham, was it not?”

  “Yes, but the first mention of its existence was in a letter from her great-grandfather or something like that. His name was Arbuthnot Gray. So we only need to go back from there. That would cut off some research.”

  “Gray—Gray...” He tapped his finger against his upper lip. “I remember Cornelia talking about her grandmother being a Gray. Not one of those tragic Grays. Poor little Jane—it was never a wise thing to get involved with the Dudleys. She did have a legitimate claim to the throne, you know, though, of course, much further down the line than Mary or Elizabeth.”

  “Yes, no doubt you are right,” Thisbe agreed, drawing him back to the original subject. Once started on history, Bellard could go on for hours. “Do you suppose you might have a family tree of my grandmother’s line of Grays?”

&
nbsp; “Oh! Yes, yes, quite forgot what I was doing—it’s so easy to get distracted when it comes to the Tudors. Let me think. Her Grays were, I believe, from the Cotswolds. Ah! I have it.” He jumped up from his seat and went to the shelves.

  Thisbe watched as he scanned the bookcases, now and then muttering to himself, and once pushing the ladder along to a different spot. “Yes! Here it is, The Great Families of the Cotswolds. Bit pretentious, don’t you think?” He pulled out a massive tome. “More like a history of half the families of the Cotswolds.”

  He laid the book on a table, pushing aside a few tin horses and cannons, and began to leaf through it. “Gray, Gray, Goodwin, Gorton... Yes, Gray, here it is.” He glanced about the room and began to search the pockets of his jacket. “Now, where are my glasses?”

  “Atop your head,” Thisbe told him, joining him at the table.

  “Why, so they are.” He smiled in pleased surprise and settled the spectacles on his nose. Bending over, he began to read. “Good Lord, they go all the way back before the Norman Conquest.” He thumbed forward a page or two. “Yes, here we are. Arbuthnot.” He trailed his finger up the page, turning back to do the same on the next.

  “Grandmother says that it was handed down, mother to daughter. So it could have been Arbuthnot’s wife’s family or his mother’s and so on. Does that show their trees, as well?”

  “Not unless they were from the Cotswolds. It has only the wives’ maiden names and dates, and some of them they’re not sure of. Goodness, here’s one where the wife’s name is a blank. Arbuthnot’s wife was from Wells—Cecily Hargreaves.” He flipped through several more pages and began studying the lines. “Her mother, apparently, was a Penburton. Her father’s mother was a Carrington. This is mushrooming a bit, isn’t it?”

  Thisbe sighed. “It’s probably a hopeless chase. It would take hours to trace all the possibilities.”

  “No, no, dear, don’t be discouraged. We shall split up the work. I will continue climbing the family trees, so to speak. I have a good deal of experience in that type of research. You start looking through histories of the Tudors to see if you can find a mention of alchemists and this Anne Ballew. You can try a biography of John Dee, perhaps—that might be helpful. Oh! I just remembered. Alfred Symington sent me a book he wrote—we correspond now and then, though he’s rather fonder of folklore than I. Now, what was it called? It was tales of witchcraft, I believe. I fear I never read it. It’s not one of my interests. But I’m sure I kept it—I know him, you see, and in any case, one cannot simply toss a book away.” He looked appalled.

  Thisbe turned to survey row upon row of shelves. “Do you know where it might be?”

  “Goodness, no. It could be in history or religion or perhaps... Well, truth is it could be any number of places.” He brightened. “We can call up young Livvy—she enjoys digging through books. She’s been up here quite a bit lately.”

  Unsurprisingly, Olivia was happy to leave her Latin grammar book and join them in Uncle Bellard’s rooms. While Thisbe took on the task of finding alchemists, Olivia chose to research the subject of witches. Uncle Bellard got diverted now and then by some connection to a historical event and Olivia wandered off into a discussion of spiritualism in the United States; even Thisbe was waylaid once by a biography of Isaac Newton. But they kept at it, working steadily through teatime.

  Though they found nothing about Anne Ballew, they doggedly returned to the search the next morning. Bellard followed strand after strand of Cornelia’s lineage, but in the end he announced with certitude that there was no Ballew in the dowager duchess’s ancestry.

  “I did find one of her grandfather’s cousins who was hanged, however,” he said with a mischievous glint in his eye. “A Jacobite. He would only have been banished to the colonies if he hadn’t offended the judge by questioning the judge’s understanding of the law.”

  “That sounds fitting.” Thisbe laughed. She turned toward Olivia. “Have you found anything?”

  Olivia shook her head. She was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, a veritable fortress of books stacked up around her. “Did you know that there were two sisters in the States who fooled everyone into thinking they were ‘channeling’ spirits? They held séances where spirits would make rapping noises and such. Why do you suppose a ghost could rap on something but couldn’t speak?”

  “Perhaps these sisters didn’t have Grandmother’s ‘gift’ of speaking to the dead.” Thisbe flashed a grin at her sister.

  “Many people believe the sisters manage all the rapping and noises themselves. But their followers are adamant that it’s all true. Spiritualism is a sort of religion over there.”

  “It’s reaching England,” Thisbe replied. “Desmond’s mentor studied spirit photography from some chap from New York City.”

  “That was interesting,” Olivia admitted. “My supposition is that they were using plates that had been used before and not cleaned properly.” She grimaced. “It seems a really rotten thing to do to someone in the throes of grief.”

  “It is.”

  “What did you say? Spiritualism?” Uncle Bellard looked up from his book. “Isn’t that what that nice young lad who calls on you does, Thisbe?”

  “Desmond isn’t a Spiritualist,” Thisbe protested. “He agrees that spirit photography is a swindle. Desmond is a scientist conducting an experiment to prove or disprove the existence of—” She stopped abruptly, aware of Olivia’s gaze on her. “Not that it matters what Desmond thinks.” She frowned at her sister. “Have you learned anything about Anne Ballew?”

  “No. I’m still trying to find the book Uncle Bellard’s friend wrote.”

  “He is more a correspondent than a friend,” Bellard remarked. “But I am sure I have it. It won’t be out here.” He gestured toward the books scattered about the room. “Those are ones I’m using. It will be tucked away on one of the shelves. Have you tried down there?” He nodded toward the opposite wall.

  Olivia stood up and started toward the bookcase, but stopped. “Uh-oh, I hear the Greats.”

  It was, indeed, the pounding of tiny feet that heralded the approach of the young twins.

  “I don’t think they have a pace slower than a run. Of course, that’s good—it gives one warning.” Thisbe cast a worried glance at her great-uncle’s miniature military figures.

  Bellard caught her look. “No need to fret. They’re well-behaved with the soldiers...though Alex does have a regrettable tendency to now and then stick one in his pocket. Not that he means any harm, you understand. I think perhaps he’s inherited the Moreland fondness for collecting things.”

  Con hurtled into the room, exclaiming, “I won!”

  “Did not,” Alex protested automatically. “I helped Miss Katie.” He cast an angelic look back at his caretaker.

  “Aye, and so you did,” the woman said, swooping him up and kissing his cheek with a loud smack. “But you still cannot have the biscuits until teatime.”

  “I helped, too,” Con announced, never one to be left out.

  “Aye, I’d be lost in this place without you two,” their nurse agreed cheerfully.

  At least Desmond had given them Katie, Thisbe thought somewhat sourly. The woman had been a godsend. She was able to take the twins in stride and managed them better than any nurse before her.

  The twins and Bellard spent the next few minutes examining the newest additions to his collection, the boys astonishingly quiet. Even Con wasn’t rattling away as he usually did. After a few minutes of awe and serious discussion, the boys were off again, running to their sisters for a hug and a kiss, then pelting out the door and down the hall, Katie in their wake.

  After that interruption, the room was silent again until Olivia cried, “Ha! I found it!”

  “Symington’s book?” Bellard asked. “Excellent.”

  Olivia was looking through it as she walked back to he
r nest of books. “Middle Ages. Fourteenth century, the Tudors. Oh, my, this is a large section.” She scanned through the pages, and suddenly her eyes widened. “She’s here! Thisbe, she’s here!” She looked up at her sister, beaming. “Anne Ballew.”

  “What does it say?” Thisbe hurried over to her. They had been searching for so long it seemed as though they had won a prize.

  “She was from Dorset.” Olivia scanned down the page.

  “Dorset. That’s where Desmond grew up.”

  “You think that’s significant?” Olivia asked.

  Thisbe couldn’t help but remember Desmond’s words when he first told her about the Eye. His aunt believed he was Anne Ballew’s descendant. But the fact that they were both from Dorset didn’t prove anything; there were thousands of people from Dorset. She shook her head. “No. I’m sure not. It just seems...odd.”

  “Go on, Livvy.” Bellard joined them.

  “Doesn’t say anything about her having a husband or children. She was a ‘woman of great knowledge for her day, a well-educated and highly respected alchemist.’ An associate of John Dee. Moved to London. ‘The common mob knew her as Annie Blue and believed that she was a powerful witch, capable of speaking to the dead and even commanding them. Feared as a necromancer—’” Olivia looked up. “What does that mean?”

  “I believe they’re saying she could raise the dead,” Bellard replied gravely.

  Olivia’s jaw dropped.

  “What else does it say?” Thisbe whisked the book from Olivia’s hand to look at the open page.

  There, above the name Anne Ballew, was a drawing of a woman with a long face and dark, compelling eyes, her black hair bound up in an Elizabethan head covering. Thisbe went cold all over.

  It was the woman of her nightmares.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “THISBE? ARE YOU all right?” Olivia peered into her face.

  Thisbe most definitely was not, but she wasn’t about to tell anyone her insane notion. “I, um, was just...surprised, I suppose, to see a picture of her. I hadn’t expected there to be one.”