An Independent Miss

by Becca St. John

  “I didn’t mean that.” He stared at the carriage, the escape it offered. “I need you as well, Felicity. Montfort Abbey needs you, your calm.”

  “She is melancholic—not you, your mother.” Everything fell into place, the dream, the ingredients, the patient who would need such things.

  Felicity knew all too well what a physician would prescribe for a woman unsettled by mourning. Foolish men. They would expect her to be stoic, to carry on and ignore the loss of all that love. Of course her nerves were unsettled. That did not mean she needed to be numb to that loss. How was she to deal with it if she wasn’t allowed to acknowledge it?

  His mother didn’t need her presence, as he thought. She needed her blood, her body, cleansed and calmed. It was more than nerves, no doubt.

  “Yes, Mother is melancholic, but not by nature. The deaths changed her. I have no doubt she will thrive in your presence, as I have done.”

  “Do not leave,” she warned him. “Do not leave. I know exactly what she requires. I have most of the ingredients…” Frantic, she barely registered the change in him, like a storm roiling and building, growing ever darker. She placed her hand on his arm. “You say she needs me, so I am going to go with you.”

  “No, Felicity.”

  “Yes!” she argued, though her mind was on what she would need. “You are right. I can help. I’ve meant to explain to you…”

  “No!” A thunderclap command, the harshness well in place now.

  “Andover, my reputation is beyond help, you know that. A carriage ride will not make it any worse.”

  Her mind raced to where she might find the burdock along the way, whether red clover would be accessible, if there was a decent apothecary near Montfort Abbey, who would have a good store of valerian.

  “It is not your reputation. I have no qualms about getting a special license, marrying immediately.”

  “Then wait for me.”

  He held up his hand. “Montfort Abbey is not ready for you.”

  “I care not a wit for that. Your mother needs me. I know how to treat what is ailing her…”

  “No, you don’t, and no, you will not care for her in that manner.”

  He held her by her shoulders. “Felicity, there will be few rules in our household, bar one. I refuse to have you playing with herbs and medicines, or any other dangerous ingredients. They are far more dangerous than you could ever know.”

  “They are not dangerous for me. I understand these things. I have been training since youth.”

  “You will forget them.” He walked away, his shoulders heaving with each quick breath, before he faced her again. “I will not have you play with dangerous plants in my home, like some witch of old.”

  Like a fish struggling to breathe on dry land, she fought for words.

  “I’m sorry,” he relented. “I did not mean to be so harsh, but you will find much to do in running Montfort Abbey. God willing, there will be children soon…”

  He had no chance to finish his argument, for shouts filled the courtyard as the serving girl, Maddy, ran from the path to the tenants’ home.

  “She’s dead!” Maddy cried. “Adele is dead, never woke this morn!”

  “No!” Felicity’s hoarse whisper, words strangled, deep in her throat.

  Maddy reached them. Even as frantic as she was, she managed a curtsy to Andover, as she faced Felicity. “The tin of your medicine was on the table.”

  The servant started to crumble, crying, as Felicity held her up by her shoulders. “I put it up high, on top of the rafter, hidden, but it was down on the table.”

  “Who would have done that?” Felicity worried, aware of Andover’s stiff stance beside her, his cropping tapping briskly against his leg.

  “Dangerous ingredients?” he asked carefully.

  “Yes.” She looked to him, though she was deep inside, trying to think of how this could have happened. She turned back to Maddy, wondering if Adele, God forbid, had taken her own life.

  “Not in my home,” Andover clipped. “Never. No witches’ play!” Before Felicity could explain, tell him she’d left strict instructions, used care with dangerous plants, and taught Maddy caution, he was on his horse.

  Witches’ play?

  “You said your mother needed me.”

  “Your presence. She has had enough medicinal tonics and teas and poultices and bleedings for a dozen people. I swore to end it all within my household, to refrain from any more quackery. I expect you to join me in this.”

  He turned his focus to Maddy. “I am sorry for your loss.” Offered a succinct nod and rode away, with a flick of his wrist telling the coachman to follow. No more discussion about Felicity joining him.

  His mother needed her. Every condemnation he uttered proved how desperate it had become.

  But he did not want her kind of help, trained from a wee age, a valued healer who helped patients. People came from miles away for her medicines.

  Hobby?

  She would show him her hobby—but first, the Smiths would need her.

  “Maddy,” She put her arm around the serving girl’s shoulders. “Let’s have Cook give us a cup of tea and some scones, and you can tell me what you think happened. Then we will go back.”

  They walked back past the gardens, Maddy weeping, Felicity’s arm still around her shoulders.

  Yes, she could be a soothing presence, but Lady Andover was in need of far more than that.

  ****

  “Cis,” Thomas interrupted from the outer doorway of the stillroom. “Why do you suppose they call this a room? It’s larger than some of the tenants’ cottages.”

  Felicity looked up.

  “I’m impressed you heard me.”

  “Of course I heard you,” she argued, knowing how unfair she was to make the claim. Normally she didn’t hear, see, sense anything, when in what her family referred to as one of her moods. Nothing, outside of a plant, could reach her then.

  “Mother has been looking for you.”

  “Oh, God, I…” She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes with the back of her wrist and looked around the stone enclosure with its wide walls and small, deep windows.

  “You have been occupied.” He nodded. “I heard about Adele Smith. Tragic.”

  “She couldn’t wait,” Felicity slumped again the worktable. “She just couldn’t wait to get better. But don’t you dare let anyone know I said that. As far as the world is to know, Adele had no idea she couldn’t take big draughts of the stuff. We’ll not have her buried outside the church grounds.”

  “That would be a lie.” He tested her. Felicity knew that.

  “No, not really. I never gave Adele instructions. Not this time, anyway. She was too badly off.”

  “But you did last time.”

  “Yes,” Felicity sighed. “But you know how it is between first and second sleep. The mind can be groggy. Hope, that’s what I think drew her to drink so much of that brew. Hope that it would work faster.”

  She sighed. “But I am glad you are here. I need you to do me a favor.”

  He stepped into her sanctum, ducking to avoid plants hanging from the rafters to dry. As always, he touched everything, bottles, her scientific apparatus. She stayed his hand, nervous enough without fretting that he would damage something in his rough exploration. He looked up, fully aware of the reaction he would get. This was her space, no intrusion welcome.

  “What would you like me to do?” he asked.

  She took a deep breath. “Take me to Montfort Abbey.” She straightened her spine, got that mulish look that forewarned there was little chance of thwarting her.

  He tilted his head, studied her. “What for?”

  “Andover’s mother needs me.”

  “Ah, yes. You figured that out, did you?”

  She ignored his cynical smile. “So you will escort me?”

  “Not without his written request.”

  She fiddled with the burner, adjusting the height of the fire. “He won’t do that. I do
ubt he will ever do that. He was there when Maddy told me of Adele’s death and the part the medicine played.” When Thomas merely stood there, she added, “That’s why you tried to end the betrothal, isn’t it? You know how Andover feels about medicine.”

  “Even at school, he’d never let a sawbones near him. Abhorred anything of a medicinal nature. He’s worse now.”

  “I know how bad he is.” She rolled a twirled glass stirrer back and forth between her fingers. “There is no future for us,” she breathed in, against her tears, amazed that she could be so disappointed over a betrothal she’d not expected a week ago. “But that doesn’t matter.” She swiped at the tears, catching them before they could fall. “His mother really does need me.”

  Laughter and the thud of a chase drew them both to the door. Bea stumbled in, grabbed the doorway and doubled over to catch a breath that hiccupped with laughter. Upton crashed into her, grabbing her around the waist to keep her from toppling over.

  Bea looked up at Upton. The laughter stopped. Good Lord, he’s going to kiss her right here in front of us.

  Thomas cleared his throat as Bea pulled away with a triumphant, “I told you I could find her!”

  Felicity ignored Bea, focused instead on Upton looking up, stunned, still caught in that private moment with Bea. He recovered with an embarrassed smile and dipped his head toward Cis.

  Oh Bea, he loves you, truly loves you, Felicity realized, wishing against reality she could have the same.

  “Quite the set-up, don’t you think?” Thomas egged Upton to take a wider look.

  “Thomas!” Felicity chastised, too late.

  “And one of her patients died last night.”

  Upton’s casual assessment transformed to awareness. His smile froze, shifted to horror, his eyes wide. “Good God, this is a disaster.”

  CHAPTER 12 ~ MONTFORT ABBEY

  “Lady Andover is in her rooms,” Barton, the family butler, informed Andover when he arrived at Montfort Abbey.

  “She has had guests?”

  “A Lady Stanhope, who stayed the night. No more.”

  “She is not up to guests.”

  “Lady Stanhope was informed that Lady Andover was not receiving. It was Lady Andover who insisted they dine together.”

  “Did she eat?” His mother’s eating habits were abysmal. He was afraid he might lose her as well.

  “She tries to eat, m’lord. She tries.” Which meant she pushed her food around on her plate. “The doctor has given her a new tonic, a daytime mixture that revives her spirits.”

  The doctor was too fond of his own concoctions. “Let me get rid of the travel dust, then I will go see her.”

  “Yes, sir. I will inform her that you are home.”

  “Don’t wake her if she is sleeping. It is getting late.”

  “Yes, sir. She does retire early these days.”

  “Thank you, Barton.”

  He delayed, as long as he dared, half-hoping she’d be asleep when he did reach her. The door opened to a room lit by a fire. Instead of the lavender scent his mother always wore, this room smelled of stale breath, medicine, and unwashed bodies. The scent of decay. She had gotten worse.

  “Andover?” The croak of the once-melodic voice assaulted his senses, much as the room assaulted his nose.

  She couldn’t see him yet. The open door blocked him from the rest of the room. The shield gave him time. He could still back away, leave, return to the delightful chaos of the Redmond household. There was a balance there, a normalcy he doubted Montfort would ever house again.

  “I am here, Mother.” Crippled with helplessness and guilt, he could not run.

  “Come,” she whispered. “Let me see you.”

  In the weeks—the lifetime—he stayed with the Redmond’s, she had grown thinner, her cheeks more hollow, her eyes now huge in her narrow face. The width of her smile a mere quirk of shape. There was no sparkle to match it, no infectious liveliness.

  “Mother.” He leaned in, kissed her forehead, recoiled at the parchment feel of it. The God-awful tonic, sweet to smell from the bottle, soured as sweat.

  “Andover,” she smiled, as though he were a distant friend and not her son.

  “You did not respond to my letter.”

  “Oh, yes,” Her lids, her words, heavy and thick with slumber though she sat in a chair, lap robe pulled tight in an overwarm room. “You are betrothed to one of the Redmond brood.”

  “Yes.” He had written pages and pages about Felicity, certain he’d referred to her by name at least once. “Lady Felicity. You will like her. She is very comforting.”

  As suspected, she sighed, looked about at nothing. “It has been cold.”

  The weather, a fail-safe topic. A stranger’s topic. An avoidance topic.

  “Lady Stanhope visited.”

  “Yes.” In a dream-like trance, hands twitching on the lap rug, the rest of her so still, she continued. “So long since anyone has visited, tiring, very tiring.”

  He did not tell her of the scandal, that his betrothed was reluctant. He did not tell her of his guilt in asking Felicity to marry him, of his worry about bringing her here, to his home, to his mother.

  He did not tell her his heart was breaking.

  ****

  “This is insurmountable!” Upton blurted.

  “Hit by a wall?” Thomas clapped him on the back. Upton stumbled, caught by shock. “Accused me of being mean-spirited when I fought the betrothal.”

  “Impossible,” Upton stammered.

  Thomas shrugged, “They won’t have a smooth ride of it. But I will personally take action if anyone, especially Andover, hurts our Cis.”

  “Damn you,” Upton forgot himself enough to curse in front of the ladies. “He’d never lay a hand on a woman.”

  Thomas proved obstinate now. “Don’t be a fool, Upton. There are more ways than physical violence to hurt a person, but mulishness is no easy opponent and Cis has an abundance of that.”

  He put his arm around her, giving the brotherly support she hadn’t realized she needed. “Haven’t you seen how Andover looks at her? The man doesn’t know he’s in so deep, let alone what he’s facing.” Thomas snorted, releasing her to pace. “Marrying for his mother? I don’t think so.”

  Bea watched the interaction, her brow furrowing. “What, Lord Upton, what is wrong?” she pressed.

  Resigned, Felicity leaned against the worktable. “At best, Andover would call me a quack, or perhaps a foolish woman with a poor choice of hobby.”

  “Lady Felicity,” Upton objected.

  Thomas chuckled. “Admit it, Upton. That’s exactly what Andover would say.”

  “At worst…” She lifted that mulish chin. “…he would call me a witch.” She was stunned by the sudden need to sniffle, the tears filling her eyes. She turned to her work, determined not to cry.

  Thomas was at her side in a flash. “He said that? Damn the man! I should have throttled him when I had the chance!”

  “In so many words,” she sniffed, as she measured dry bits of leaves, furious that her hands trembled. “But…” She set her shoulders, determined to squash weakness. “…his mother needs me and I dare him…” ah, yes, defiance, “…just dare him to stop me from helping her.”

  “What?” Bea took up Felicity’s other side, wrapping her arm around her. “Who, Cis? What blackguard called you those things?”

  Felicity looked over her shoulder, caught Upton shaking his head. Poor man couldn’t get the idea to stick. “She’s a, a, she makes up concoctions. She…”

  “Don’t be so obtuse, Upton! Felicity is the best damn apothecary in England!” Thomas snapped.

  Felicity smiled. “Perhaps not in England.”

  “Fiddlesticks!” Bea defended. “Physicians come to you for advice.”

  “Quacks!” Upton whispered.

  “What…” Bea’s eyes narrowed. “…do you mean by that?”

  “Oh, ah,” Upton stepped back from Bea’s glare.

  Upton visib
ly shook off his confusion. Poor man was driven by the threat of upsetting Bea. As Thomas would say, no longer his own man.

  The threat of tears billowed again. Felicity quelled them.

  Upton soldiered on, “Too many quacks out there, parading as physicians.”

  “Well,” loyal Bea fixed him with narrowed eyes, her arm still around Felicity, a united front. “You may be right, Lord Upton.” Her voice holding the same steel her mother was known for, “No doubt there are many quacks who play doctor. But our Felicity is not one of them, nor was my grandmother or my grandmother’s grandmother and that again, all the way back to the thirteenth century! If I had a pinch of Felicity’s ability, I would not be a quack either!”

  “Bit of a bungle,” Thomas chuckled.

  What Bea meant to explain was that their family line had always had one female with a talent for doctoring. This generation, the skill fell to Felicity, not Bea. Bea had other talents.

  Upton backed out of the stillroom, fell onto the bench outside, hands on knees. “Andover won’t understand. He never met a competent quack.”

  They all followed him outside. “Too bad,” Felicity held to the doorway, an avenging angel protecting her space.

  “You don’t understand. He lost a good lot of his family in one night, all victims to ill-directed foraging. And his mother, well, he doesn’t speak of it, but my mother went round there and it is not good.” Agitated, he rose, paced. “Not to forget his younger brother, either. The whole of his family were victims of foolish doctors and worse.”

  Felicity sagged against the doorjamb. “Then tell me. Tell me all of it.”

  Upton nodded, sat again, elbows on knees, hands clasped before him, he looked at the ground. “We were all from the same neighborhood, you see, Andover, his brother Lord Sutton, who we knew as Billie, and Billie’s wife, Lady Sutton. We grew up together, everyone knew Billie would marry Bets, even if there hadn’t been an understanding between the families.”

  “Is she the one who gathered the mushrooms?” Felicity asked.

  Thomas’s head jerked up. “They died from mushrooms?”

  “Yes,” Felicity told him, her eyes on Upton. “Andover told me that much, and that they were foraged.”