An Independent Miss

by Becca St. John

  Perfect sense, even in her muddled state. Andover hated anything of a medicinal nature, always had, even as a child he would suffer rather than take a curative. His grandmama didn’t help, with tales of beautiful witches who stole a man’s will, made fools of them when playing the doctor.

  She never should have allowed Andover to spend so much time with her mother. She hadn’t been right in the head after her fall from the horse. As a little boy, Andover thrilled to the stories and now, with real life offering its own reason to disdain healing mixtures or doctor’s orders, he grew worse. Her own weakness complicating the whole issue.

  She tried to honor his concern, allowed him to take all her medicines and tonics away. Kept the doctors at bay. She failed. Miserably.

  No, Mrs. Comfrey had the right of it. Her son wouldn’t approve her series of special tonics. He wouldn’t understand the hope offered in simple drafts. That his mother would believe a promise, if she did everything required, good health and a clear mind would follow.

  It was the stout warning recovery would not be easy, which assure her the promises were genuine. Good things were never easy.

  This hadn’t been.

  Thank goodness for Nellie and Mary, the maids Andover found, and their willingness to follow Mrs. Comfrey’s written instructions, keeping the schedule a secret from everyone—Andover, doctors, everyone.

  Appalling such basic, ordinary tasks had been so difficult to perform they needed to be retaught. As though she were an obstinate child. Simple as they were, she fought them.

  Rise by eight in the morning, no naps until two in the afternoon, and then only one before nightfall. Hot, steaming, herbal baths three times a day. Men might perspire and women glow but those tortuous baths had her beyond a lady like glimmer. She’d balk and hold back, but the ruddy, stocky farm lasses coaxed and maneuvered until her skin’s dead pallor gave way to a hint of pink not often found in a woman of her years.

  She wiped a tear, settled herself, took another sip of Mrs. Comfrey’s prescribed tea and waited. Calm in her own skin for the first time in months. Today she wore no gloves to protect from scratching, for she no longer needed them. Nor did she feel like a horrid swarm of bees chased jarring eels deep in the pit of her. All illusions subsided.

  She was better, for her son, the only love left in her life. She would see him marry, with children. If she continued to improve, as she was, she would oversee his new wife take on responsibilities once second nature to her. Now daunting obstacles.

  Once he settled with his own family, she would give in to the mourning, let go of the fight, sink past the pain.

  One bottle, of the original dreaming tonic, remained hidden in a Chinese vase. One bottle. Enough to free her from this life.

  For now, she would wait for the fascinating Mrs. Comfrey to arrive.

  ****

  Felicity swirled around the dance floor in her brother’s arms, next in line to Upton and Lady Bea. Surrounded by family. Not that she needed moral support from that quarter. Andover smiled. The tattle-monger’s tales were laid to rest the moment they walked into the ballroom, Felicity’s trembling hand upon his arm, to be greeted by her Grace, his mama’s cousin, and Lady Westhaven’s closest friend.

  For all Felicity claimed not to give a wit for society she’d grown so very quiet, still as marble, in the carriage. He wished to sit beside her, but that wouldn’t have been proper, so he gave way to her mother, who did not stop speaking about trousseaus and a hurried wedding, compounding Felicity’s quiet.

  It would be all right, how he hadn’t a clue, but there was something that happened to him when she was around. He felt hope. Her quiet composure contrasting wide, fearful eyes, soothed him.

  She made him feel strong. Made him want to care when he did not want to care. Could not afford to care. And still, he welcomed it, for she brought life back in palatable doses.

  He envied her father, sitting beside him, facing Felicity, reaching over to pat her knee. Offered a smile she returned. A weak thing, but a smile despite her discomfort, her worry.

  It needed to be done, to face the very people who had turned their backs on her. Worry enough without the added fear of marrying. She was not at all sure they would suit. There was no other option, there, either. He forced her hand on two issues this evening. To face the censures and to be locked into marriage.

  They all knew, though Felicity denied it, that the witnessed kiss in the garden bound them for life. He could take the blame for that, at least, ease the guilt from her shoulders.

  They would be married soon. She would be his wife. He feared it as much as she, but not for the same reason. She feared they would not suit. He feared they would suit all too well.

  He did not want to feel. Would have to guard against it.

  Distance was the answer, though he would hold to his promise. He would be a good husband. He would take care of her, offer all sorts of amusements and children. God willing, she could have a babe to care for within the year.

  He looked up, frowned.

  “Oh don’t look so serious.” Lady Jane slipped her arm into his, reminding him of where he was.

  “Where did you come from?” he asked.

  “The Atherton’s route.” She tightened her hold beyond propriety. “An awful crush. Tedious. Though we’ve been here for awhile.” She looked up at him. “But I’m too late for this dance. Walk with me?” she asked.

  He didn’t want to. Looked over at the sea of swirling couples and found Felicity watching them. He smiled. She twirled away with a swish of skirts, in her brother’s arms, though she’d danced with many a partner that night.

  He’d partnered her twice already. Didn’t dare do so again until the last dance, so he watched the parade of smiles and gallant attention aimed at his betrothed, though they didn’t provoke the same raw emotion as Robbie holding her hands, prompting promises he had no business requesting.

  Robbie spurred a tidal wave of determination to make Felicity his Andover couldn’t seem to shake.

  His. Not some country boy from next door or the doctor Thomas goaded him with back at Ansley Park.

  Doctor Henry.

  Lady Jane tapped his arm with her fan, chastisement for attending his thoughts and not her. “They’ll be a quarter of an hour at least. Come, walk with me.” And she tugged him away from the edge of the dance floor, toward the tall doors opened wide to ease the heavy air of an overcrowded room.

  He couldn’t stop thinking of the doctor. A man who shared Felicity’s interests. He had been there, in London, that very day, returning the book Andover saw, sitting on a side table in the reception room where he and his mother waited for Felicity.

  Only Felicity had not been there. She’d been out climbing trees.

  Lord Westhaven had stepped up to Andover, as he studied the tome. “Doctor Henry returned Felicity’s book.” As though Andover’s heart wasn’t near beating from his chest.

  The page was open to valerian. Had the two of them, Felicity and this sawbones, bent their heads over the illustrations? Had they discussed his mother?

  He’d read the little notes. Valerian, good for hysteria and melancholy.

  He flexed his fist. Damn the man for being her ally.

  He wanted to toss the book across the room.

  “Doesn’t this worry you,” he demanded of her father, “That she studies such dangerous things?”

  “Worry me?” her father quizzed, as though confused by the question, as though Andover’s concerns were unwarranted. “Not in the least. She acquired this book, her skills, from my mother. These books have been passed down through the female line of my ancestors. The first book was written by a Lady Veri in the thirteenth century.” Pride, he felt pride for these women. “Felicity is intelligent and educated. Her patients are safe.”

  A woman died, he wanted to cry out. Instead, he’d nodded, turning away from the morbid fascination that drew him to look in the first place. He’d never realized she even held an interest in such thi
ngs, let alone was so deeply steeped, bound with the power of ancestry.

  “So tense.” Lady Jane rubbed his arm, a brisk wake-up to the moment. “How awful for you, to be obliged to such a woman.” Her words unwittingly appropriate. Only he didn’t feel awful, or obliged, when he should.

  “It’s this weather,” he lied. “It’s a worry, for the crops.”

  “Crops this, crops that, is that all you gentleman can discuss? At a ball? Surely there are more important things than rotting seeds to draw your interest! You aren’t in the country where one is doomed to boredom.”

  Felicity understood the worry, the consequences of blossoms not blooming. But he must not think of Felicity now. Rude of him, with another lady on his arm. He would have a lifetime to think of Felicity.

  He looked at the torches, with their dark plumes of smoke rising into the night, their glow lining the low balcony and pathways. “Which way shall we go?”

  “Over there, shall we?” She angled to the left, were the light of the torches tapered into shadow. He hesitated, slowed their pace as Lady Jane continued to warble on, a tendency of the Upton women. So much so, Upton himself claimed he didn’t even listen, just let them chatter away.

  “She’s been welcomed back into society. Well done of you.”

  Andover managed to catch that sentence. “You expected less of me?”

  She laughed, a delightful sound, easy and light. “No, you silly goose. No one ever expects less of you.”

  “Why, thank you.” He listened to the crunch of pea gravel beneath their feet, as the followed a path, not dissimilar to the one he’d traversed with Felicity only an hour or so earlier. Except this path was lit. The other was not. Which made him wonder if Lady Westhaven actually did see him with Felicity.

  They had been in shadows, though in her direct line of sight. He’d assumed she’d seen them, though there’d been no hint of it, when they returned to Lord and Lady Westhaven in the salon.

  “You’ve done what you needed to do, you know.” Jane rattled on, snaring his attention once more. “You can’t be expected to do more than ease her back into polite society. Give it time, now. The gossip will subside and then, I’m certain, you can convince her to let you go. Simple, really.” Her smile lit her face. “No reason for the doldrums.”

  She made it sound so easy, as though he chose Felicity for no particular reason. That his chosen did not pull at his senses. The troubling thing was, she did pull at his senses. He’d rather she didn’t. He’d rather not be drawn to jealousy, a foolish thing, or hunger for her smile, let alone deep dark kisses.

  He could not afford to feel so deeply.

  “And what would become of her if we were to…” He scowled, disliking the slant of the conversation, but curious anyone would think the situation so smoothly navigated. “…drift apart?”

  “Oh, that.” Lady Jane stopped, faced him at the darkest point between two torches. The sort of place a seducer would lead a foolish lass.

  He was no foolish lass and yet he allowed her hands on his chest. An unwarranted closeness.

  “I wouldn’t worry about her.” Lady Jane’s whisper lowered to a deep provocative brush. He removed her hands, though didn’t know how to let go of them without being insufferably cold.

  He was not a prude. Neither was he a seducer of young women

  She continued, clasping the hold. “Lady Felicity has always been most pleased with her own company. Odd sort, don’t you think? Prefers country life.”

  He lowered their hands, loosening his hold so hers could slide free, and offered his arm to lead her back into the ballroom, as the music had ended.

  “Shall we return?” he asked, and looked up to see, for the second time that evening, a figure in the doorway. No, not a figure but two, Felicity and her brother.

  The light behind them so much stronger than the torch light, obliterated any chance of determining expression.

  Would they have seen him standing there with Lady Jane? If not, had her mother, in that spill of light from the house, witnessed a passionate kiss halfway down a dark garden path?

  Then, a part of him intended it to be so. The other part of him, drawn by far more elemental forces, didn’t really intend anything, but to feed his hunger for her.

  The die was cast. No room for alternatives, even if Felicity thought so.

  Felicity. Reeling him in, despite her fascination with all he abhorred.

  His grandmother had the right of it. Like a witch, drawing him to danger.

  Peace and calm, two things he sought in marriage. Lady Felicity offered neither.

  ****

  She felt like Cinderella requesting the carriage long before dawn.

  “If that is what you wish.” Andover obliged her and, contrarily, she wished he tried harder to dissuade, even as he turned, stern-faced, to a footman.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she apologized, as he guided her through the throng, her apology weak. Her real reason for leaving enough to have him leave her there, in the center of the room, alone.

  Lord Richardson caught his arm, bowed to Lady Felicity and mumbled something about seeing Andover at the club, later, which relieved Felicity to no end, knowing Andover would be out until dawn, at least, if not later. This also meant he would not be with Lady Jane.

  She should leave him with Lady Jane.

  Once he heard, found out what his future bride was up to this very night, he would reject her for someone more like Lady Jane.

  Felicity tripped over nothing.

  “My apologies,” Andover offered, catching her before she fell into a group of ladies. “I’ll get you through this mess.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, disappointed by his rush to have her gone. If only she didn’t need his escort, but he’d brought her and her parents…her parents! “Oh, I forgot, how will Mother and Father…”

  “I’ve sent a message to them. They’ll meet us in the foyer.”

  “Of course.” He would see to everything, and he did, getting them to the entrance before her parents found them.

  “There!” he exclaimed, when they were free of the mass of guests, out in the entrance to the grand house. He faced Felicity, all grave concern, as he traced her cheek with his gloved hand. The soft texture rippling down, deep inside. “You’ve done it, my sweet, made it through the battle and won the war.”

  “Oh,” she said, willing some intelligence to rise through the sensation of that one touch. “You led the fight. Quite the champion.”

  “Was I?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Let us hope it is true, that I can be your champion, always.”

  Her mother took that moment to rush up to them, Lord Westhaven in her wake. “Oh, Felicity, are you all right?” she fussed, scowling. “No doubt all the excitement,” she exclaimed to Andover as her husband went to get the women’s wraps. “Felicity never weakens, not so much as a headache, even after sitting up, night after night…”

  Ill-considered words, opening avenues of discussion best left closed. No, she wouldn’t—couldn’t—divulge that bit of information.

  “Tired, I expect,” Felicity offered, relieved the night was at an end.

  “I will see her home.” He bowed, but her mother shushed him.

  “Westhaven and I have seen enough of the night and you’ve only just returned to town. No doubt you have catching up to do. If you allow us the use of your carriage, we will see it turned back well before you will be ready to move on.”

  “I will ride with you.”

  “There’s no need,” Felicity added. His eyebrow raised. “My parents can see me home.” She touched his arm, assurance he had no part in her leaving. She was tired. Truly. It had nothing to do with Lady Jane’s hand on his chest, as though a simple gesture of no consequence.

  How life had changed. Only a few weeks ago, when Andover proposed, Andover had pressed her hand between his palm and his chest, so startling her by the intimacy of that touch, she’d failed to hear his proposal.

  She’d been t
erribly naïve. So very terribly naïve.

  “Enjoy yourself.” She told him. “It’s been a year since you’ve seen your friends, and now you will be free of a Lady tagging along by your side.”

  “I hope never to be free of that.” He bent over her hand, lifted it to his fingers, turning it at the last minute to kiss the inside of her wrist, his lips touching bare flesh, where the wrist button had popped free. “Allow me to visit you tomorrow afternoon. We could go for a ride.”

  “I would like that,” she scrambled, thinking of her commitments at the convalescent home. “Later, if we may? There’s much to be done,” she fudged.

  “Nonsense, you can go at the fashionable hour, Felicity,” her mother snapped.

  “If that isn’t convenient…”

  “No.” Lady Westhaven patted his arm, eyeing Felicity. “Perfectly convenient. Can we expect your mama?”

  He stilled, Felicity held her breath. “No, I think not.”

  “Well,” Lady Westhaven soldiered on. “Perhaps it would be better if we paid a call on her in a day or two.”

  “Her health is still fragile.” Unknowingly, relieving Felicity of the need to face her duplicity.

  Mrs. Comfrey.

  Would she tell Lady Andover tonight? Perhaps not. It might not come to that. They truly wouldn’t suit and, if they didn’t, Felicity would not be out in society. There may never be a need for Lady Andover to know who she was

  An hour later, Felicity stood on her bedroom window ledge, looking down at the balcony one floor below.

  She studied the Gibb’s window surround, blocks spaced and prominent enough to be scaled. Or so she hoped. She’d never considered climbing down a building’s façade before. The most prudent path as the floor, outside her rooms and her parent’s chamber, creaked loudly with every step.

  Her plan seemed so easy. She would use the surround to climb down to the lower story balcony and climb in the window of the family dining room. She’d already made certain those doors were open.

  From there, she would make her way through the house. Getting back up would be trickier, but by then her parents should be well and truly asleep, allowing her to get to her room by normal means.