An Independent Miss

by Becca St. John

  She refused to think of it just yet, on this their first stroll without parents or siblings or anyone who would jump into a conversation. Maddy and Jimmy were now out of sight, leaving them to converse in private.

  There were so many things she would like to ask him, to speak about.

  She couldn’t remember a one. Totally lost the easy comradery of their budding friendship.

  Instead, the healer in her kept sneaking sideways glances at the swell of his lip, the slight crook of his nose. One moment she’d be full of remedies to suggest, the next amused by the boyishness of his wounds.

  Like his smile, those hurts broke the austerity in his dark chiseled looks. A wayward lock of hair kept falling over his forehead and into his eye, revealing less a dream and more a tangible human.

  He neither complained of, nor acknowledged pain, though he must hurt like the devil. She suspected that was why he didn’t speak much, the swollen lip making it difficult.

  It was a quiet lane that led to the Smiths’ home, the path dappled with shadow and light as the sun slipped through a canopy of trees. Felicity’s hand rested lightly on Lord Andover’s arm, her mind whirling with thoughts even as she scrambled for conversation. Something, anything, to say that would keep her speaking, and save his mouth having to form words.

  She looked at that mouth and sighed.

  “Lady Felicity?”

  She jerked, noticed his frown.

  “Is my appearance so ghastly?”

  “No.” She promised, horrified for her soppy staring.

  “I am sorry to have been in a fight.”

  A fight for her. She swallowed another sigh. “It’s nothing. With Thomas, one half expects a fight, though…” she had rather he not suffer for her, “…though not usually physical altercation. He’s grown beyond that, or so I thought.” She rambled now. He would think her a mindless bore.

  Embarrassed, she looked into the growth along the path, a habit gained from years of wild crafting, always searching for new buds and plants she could use. Her eyes were trained to see what others missed. They didn’t fail her this time.

  “Oh! Look!” She pulled away, stepped off the path and into the woods, bent over a lifted mound of last fall’s leaves, knowing what pushed them up. “Morels!” Delighted, she looked up, just as Andover, his eyes wide with horror, grabbed her wrist before she reached her prize.

  “Don’t touch that!” he ordered, urging her away, as though she’d found a vipers’ nest.

  “But look…” She fought his hold, brushed away the clump of leaves with the toe of her boot, revealing a stout morel mushroom. “They’re absolutely divine! And if there’s one…” She stopped explaining, stunned by the revulsive shudder that racked his frame.

  “Please,” he asked, so agitated, Felicity held her breath, watching his nostrils flair, chest heave, as he desperately tried to breathe past panic. Visibly, he fought to calm. “Please,” he said, in a lower tone, gesturing for her to precede him to the path.

  With one sorrowful look back, she complied.

  He didn’t return to where they were standing, instead clamping her hand to his arm, as he led them toward the Smiths’. The firm grip could not hide the tremble of his hold.

  “I didn’t mean to alarm you,” he offered.

  “Possibly not,” Felicity said with quiet conviction, “but you did.”

  “Yes, of course.” He cleared his throat.

  “There’s more than a revulsion of mushrooms,” she offered.

  He nodded. She waited, her mind wildly filling with scenarios. He interrupted.

  “We’ve spoken of the deaths in my family.”

  “Yes.” And suddenly the tumult of her thoughts stilled in a solitary focus. “Something they ate.”

  “Yes.”

  Her heart sank. “Mushrooms.”

  “Foraged mushrooms.” He stopped, then faced her, eyes dark with memory. “I do not believe there is a more gruesome death, Lady Felicity, all three of them. My father, brother, and sister-in-law.” He looked to his feet, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Four, if you count the expected babe.”

  “How awful,” she whispered.

  “Yes.” He lifted both her hands to his lips, kissed the fold of her fingers. “Awful. Those hours of sitting with them, trying everything we could to save them. Everything. But in the end, all we could do was watch them suffer.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and grimaced, having forgotten the bruising from earlier.

  “Those were the worst moments of my life. Mother and I would not be here, but neither of us can abide mushrooms of any sort.” Humor, though he did not smile. “As expected, the doctor was useless, his concoctions, to purge them when they already convulsed with nausea, bloodletting when their bodies writhed so fiercely blood spewed across the room, cupping. Worse, those supposed men of science, always they make it worse.” He shuddered.

  “I’m sorry.” She was, for she’d seen such deaths and knew there was little anyone could do against the poison of fungus.

  “You’ve nothing to be sorry for. We didn’t speak of it, I don’t speak of it.” He released her, put his hand to the small of her back, moving them forward before offering his arm once more. “That is the only firm rule I think I would ever ask of you, that you do not bring foraged food into our home.”

  “But surely…”

  “No, I am most fixed on this.” He frowned, no doubt registering her distress. “Have no fear, we have extensive orangeries and greenhouses and all sorts of modern modes of growing whatever you want, and forcing them to bloom when you want. Even mushrooms, if you must. My father and my brother loved them. I believe the gardener has a place in the cellar where he grows them. Just don’t show them to me, ever.

  “You will have your fill of anything you want. But I beg of you, do not bring anything into our home that has been found in the wild.”

  “You will hunt.”

  He nodded. “Fair enough. I will forego hunting, if that eases your palate for my edict.”

  “I love to gather in the woods.”

  “Surely you have other interests.” He tried, but she didn’t. Not really. She gathered - in the woods, in the fields, in meadows - and created medicines, many to be imbibed. That was who she was and the one thing he couldn’t abide her being. “You can cultivate whatever pleases you.”

  Could she? Would that be the same?

  Andover, gentleman that he was, changed the subject, leaving her numbed to revelations she very much feared were breaking her heart.

  “You’ve been very attentive to the Smiths?”

  Yes, she had been, because, through her gathering, she had the means to help. “Childbirth is not a good time for Adele. She has a tendency toward melancholy once the babe is born. Devastating for sufferer and family both.” She looked straight. “Maddy is her sister.” She nodded to the serving girl with her basket, now visible ahead of them. “She feels utterly useless, as does Mr. Smith.”

  Lightly as her hand rested on his forearm, she felt the sudden flex of it, and realized mushrooms and gatherings were not the only triggers to his tensions.

  “This upsets you?” she asked.

  He urged her forward, Felicity not even aware she’d stopped. “Melancholy hits the best of people.”

  “Yes, it does,” she agreed, wondering if that was one of his weaknesses, as well. A melancholic nature. She would have to ask Thomas.

  Their chaperones, meager protection that they were, turned another corner leaving them alone again. He turned to her, lifted her chin ever so slightly, enough he looked down, directly into her eyes, his gaze lowering to her mouth.

  “I cannot help but believe your presence will ease Mrs. Smith’s sorrows. There is a calm strength in you, Felicity.”

  It is not my presence, she wanted to cry out. I take her medicines—the ones that I make with foraged plants.

  She could say nothing, dared not quell this moment, for he bent his forehead, rested it against he
rs, his eyes closed, as if in prayerful gratitude.

  She held her breath hoping, against her better judgment, that he would kiss her. A light touch of his lips to hers, no more. Perhaps the only chance she would have, if this betrothal were called off for differences neither could abide.

  Surely it wouldn’t hurt his wounded mouth to press her lips, the way he’d caressed her wrist with his lips this afternoon. Nor would it taint her reputation if the betrothal needed to be called off.

  Just a mere brush of flesh against flesh.

  She shivered with the possibility, a singular opportunity. He pulled away.

  “Thank you,” he offered a bow.

  Disconcerted, habit took over. She curtsied, “you’re very welcome,” and hoped he did not see her disappointment.

  CHAPTER 5 ~ ONE IN EVERY FAMILY

  Felicity and the physician, Samuel Henry, looked back at the journal sitting on the table in the stillroom. “You think the mixture will help Mrs. Smith?” he asked.

  “Yes, I do, though it must be administered with care.” Felicity remembered the strict instructions she’d given Maddie. “She took the first dose of it this afternoon. I’m afraid it will be a good week before we see results. She’s in a very bad way, but these things must not be rushed.”

  “You really believe it’s something inside, an illness, and not just…weakness of the mind.”

  Men. “Samuel, you have seen this before in perfectly fit and mentally strong, capable women. There is something inside that disrupts their humors after they give birth. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t believe it has anything to do with their minds. Nothing at all.”

  “I will see that she takes it.”

  “Thank you. It will ease my mind when we are in London. I do worry so.”

  He looked back down at the thick oversized journal. “Don’t suppose I could borrow this? It is the most thorough book on case studies I have ever seen.”

  Felicity ran a loving hand over the page of her own transcriptions. “I take them with me, wherever we go. Mother swears I prefer books to gowns. I’m afraid she is right.”

  “Don’t blame you.” He looked longingly at the journal. “Beautiful drawings. You did them yourself?”

  “Copied from copies of copies.” Old drawings that still held true. “Actually, if you are ever so careful, I could let you take Grandmother’s journal… This was copied from that. It just doesn’t hold my notes.”

  “I will treat it as the rare jewel that it is.”

  “Fine, I will have them wrapped and delivered to you before I leave.”

  “Splendid!” He gathered his hat from a hook by the door. “I’d best be off. Please send my regrets to your mother.”

  “Oh dear!”

  “What?”

  “I forgot all about dinner. Mother won’t be pleased, what with a house full of guests.” Felicity shut her journal, carried it over to a wall of shelved journals. “Especially as she knows where I am, letting her down again, preferring the stillroom to dinner parties.”

  “But this time you have a gentleman waiting for you, as well.”

  Yes, she did, she thought, as she showed Samuel out the door.

  He hesitated, before climbing up into his gig. “Do you think he will accommodate your interests, Lady Felicity?”

  “But of course he will,” she lied, remembering their walk that afternoon to the Smiths’. You are good to sit with your tenants when they are ill, he’d said.

  But she didn’t just sit with them.

  “You are lucky, then. Most men are not so understanding.”

  ****

  For the second time that day, Felicity stopped just shy of a doorway to gather courage and settle the butterflies swirling inside.

  Once inside that room, her father would announce the betrothal.

  She shook out her skirts, patted her hair and took a deep breath—for calm—and sneezed.

  Oh, dear.

  Of course. She should have known.

  The carriage with the golden curlicues and tall plumes in the porte-cochère that afternoon, the one she couldn’t place. Who else would commission such a conveyance?

  Aunt Vi, and her wake of perfume, deigned to visit. Felicity closed her eyes, sent a quick prayer to the heavens. Not that it would help. Aunt Vi couldn’t help but be her exhausting self.

  It was futile to wish for any difference.

  Vi was Vi and nothing could change that. Felicity sighed. She really didn’t want to be the center of attention, truly she didn’t. To be fussed over, winked at, hugged by a house full of guests. She squashed any foolishness of the sort and stepped into the room.

  Andover stood with their neighbor, Sir Bertram, his split lip no better and his poor aristocratic nose, not so aristocratic anymore. He should have used the salve she sent up and kept ice on it rather than gallivanting off to the Smiths with her, but he refused to even discuss it.

  She would have to nip that avoidance, if they were to have a happy marriage.

  Thomas, her other patient, leaned against the mantle, looking into his drink. The skin around his eye a puff of deep purple and red, with the merest slit to spy through. No doubt he refused the walking stick, as not manly enough, which was why the mantle held him in place.

  Quick to flare, sulking was not his normal behavior. But he was most certainly sulking now and the look he sent, with his one good eye, toward Andover reeked with satisfied fury. Somehow he had won a round in whatever battle they waged.

  Felicity headed toward her mother, as a billow of perfume forewarned she’d be stalled. Aunt Vi glided near enough to wrap her in an embrace, all arms and bosom and overly sweet scent. It was not enough to disguise the sour smell of an overworked liver.

  “Cis!” Vivian cried, for she never spoke below an exclamation.

  “Aunt Vi.” Felicity pulled free, scanned her aunt’s face. A yellow cast dulled the whites of her eyes. Her use of powder failed to hide the sallow tint of her complexion. “I didn’t know you were expected.”

  “I wasn’t,” Vi chuckled, “but tales are being told, and I wanted to find out for myself.”

  “Tales?” Felicity asked, but her father had spotted her and she could see Andover making his way through the guests to reach her. A twinge of satisfaction, that she was the one he sought, chosen, echoed through her.

  “There she is,” Lord Westhaven, her father, arrived first, gesturing with his glass. “The one child who is happy to visit me in the library, debate the arcane books we read, share a quiet look when the family explodes with drama.” He winked at his wife who had joined them, a positive crowd of family. “Our little Jenny Wren.”

  She ignored her father’s pet name, more concerned with the thousand butterflies that filled her. Vi might overshadow a little Jenny Wren, but this was a moment she’d dreamed of, the announcement of her betrothal.

  Thomas limped away from the mantle, a snide smile on his lips. She caught his eye, he saluted her, blew her a kiss.

  Andover reached her, no smile on his lips. In fact, he looked decidedly grim, as he bowed to both her and her Aunt.

  “Felicity. Lady Stanfield.” The starkness in his eyes softened when he leaned toward her and whispered. “Jenny Wren?”

  An awful nickname, made worse once Lady Jane unearthed it for the whole school. Somehow, the way it slipped off Andover’s tongue slid straight to her heart.

  They both jumped when a closed fan thumped his arm. “Surely you see what a little wren our Felicity is?” Vi snipped. Andover shot her aunt a glance that made Thomas’s fury look like a toddler’s grimace.

  Vi ignored it. “Andover, we are parched. Please do get us a sherry.”

  Sherry, not champagne?

  Eyes narrowed, he gave a curt nod. “Of course. I’ve been remiss. My pleasure.” He turned to Felicity and asked, “Will you come with me to fetch the drinks? There is something I would like to discuss with you.”

  Her intelligence fluttered away as she stared at him, ready to
say, yes, please, and I would go anywhere with you.

  Vi saved her from gawking. “Now Andover, do let me have a moment.”

  “No, Vivian.” Lord Westhaven said.

  Felicity blinked, realizing her parents did not look ready to make any sort of announcement. Her father’s blue eyes lacked their normal sparkle and her mother…well, her mother often looked like a boiling pot with its lid on when Vi was present. She was not concerned about the expression her mother wore, but the dark expressions of the two men worried her.

  “What?” she asked, prepared for the worst.

  ****

  They were not going to announce the engagement.

  Foolish fantasy.

  Numb, Felicity sat between their neighbors, Sir Bertram and Mr. Andrews. At least Andover didn’t look pleased, which went a small way toward consoling her.

  Neither did her parents.

  “Such sad news,” Mr. Andrews was saying.

  Yes, it was sad. Felicity sighed, caught in her own thoughts, oblivious to whatever Mr. Andrews referenced. She wrinkled her brow, careless of her mother’s warnings about lines in the skin, and then thought to send her brother a glare. He winked. She sighed again, with a bit more relish.

  Thomas had convinced their father to give Felicity more time to adjust to the betrothal before making it public. A sound idea, if she weren’t so contrary.

  She wanted this marriage but knew, in all honesty, she must introduce her work. If he loved her, that would be enough.

  If he loved her.

  He proposed without one opportunity to learn how she spent her days. Thomas had a lengthy list of activities to keep his friends occupied during the day. In the evenings, she’d remained quiet, a listener. He’d need to speak of sorrow and loss, newfound responsibility, common to his father and brother, but not him. His life had changed, his path readjusted. He was a man in transition. He spoke, she listened, and when the words ran dry they sat in silence, allowing thoughts to settle.

  She offered him the opportunity to sort it all out in his own mind, with his own words.

  This afternoon, he revealed his mother’s melancholia. Not surprising, with the loss of a husband, son, daughter-in-law, and expected grandchild. Of course she suffered. And Andover as well. He was only just coming out of mourning.