An Independent Miss

by Becca St. John

  “There,” the young lass in question said to Mrs. Marshall, “that’s all there is to it. A few more pours, then put the poultice on as we discussed.”

  A mournful moan, a low undertone in the room, grew.

  Mr. Marshall looked down the row, met his wife’s gaze and shook his head.

  She tried to hurry Felicity out. “You are a lamb, Lady Felicity, can’t thank you enough.” But the building cry could not be ignored.

  Felicity stepped into the path between beds.

  “You are staying?” Andover asked, knowing the answer even as he put it to her.

  Distressed, by him, the patient or both, he didn’t know, but her eyes showed depths of emotion. “I can’t leave,” she whispered.

  “No, I don’t suppose you can,” he agreed, realizing the truth of it. This was who she was, what she was. Impossible to change her.

  He took her arm, and led her to the hall. Upton stood, his legs wobbly and his face ashen.

  “Are you uncomfortable here, Lord Upton?”

  He shot her a look, as though she’d lost her mind, to be anything but uncomfortable in such a place.

  “Rupert has never been good with blood. Fainted dead away when he cut his finger once.”

  “The smell…” Upton shuddered.

  “I won’t be long,” Andover promised. “Why don’t you see if the coach is outside?”

  No other prompting needed. Upton bowed to Felicity and headed for the stairs, leaving the two alone in the hallway. He watching her, she wiping Lord knew what off her hands and on to the stained apron.

  “So this is where you go, when everyone thinks you are shopping or walking, or in the park painting.”

  She nodded.

  “You use maggots on your patients?” Maggots. He rather thought he preferred bleeding.

  “On the dead flesh of an amputation.” She took his arm, led him further down the hall, away from doorways, as though all young ladies dealt with amputations and walks down dark hallways in a hospital. “He is improving,” she told him.

  He feared it was true. That this would encourage her.

  “You do all that…” he gestured behind them. She nodded.

  “I know it doesn’t seem so, but he was worse.”

  Yes, he must have been for Robbie to be calmed after such wild grief. For Mr. Marshall to be jocular in the face of his son’s ragged stump of a leg.

  He looked about the hall, the darkened doorways. A place full of foul odors with an undertone of moans, and wondered how one suffered a life among such things.

  The depths of her.

  He now understood Thomas’s words, his understanding, his heart breaking for himself, his mother, but not for Felicity. She knew what she wanted in life. Marriage would never be enough.

  “This is where your heart lies? In this place, such places, the reason you hesitate? What you wanted to talk to me about?”

  Swallowing against tears shimmering in her eyes, she admitted, “I rather thought you might want to be free. I did not want you tied to me without knowing the truth of everything.”

  His cheek twitched. He clenched and released his fist. Tapped the side of his leg. “You say this Jack Montgomery is doing better? With maggots?”

  “I will do what I must,” she told him.

  “And this is what you want? To leave balls for this? Miss appointments? Be from home when visitors expect you there?” He asked. “You choose this over all else? Including marriage?”

  A scream rattled through the house.

  Felicity turned away, and in that he had his answer.

  “I will speak with your father in the morning, and accept your rejection.” He bowed, refusing to acknowledge her tears or allow his own, for he realized, in this night, he’d found a selfless woman of peace and calm he could love. A woman who would be there for everyone or him—but impossible to do both.

  He’d not force her to make that choice.

  As he walked down the hall, down the stairs, he felt her eyes upon him but never, not once, looked back.

  CHAPTER 22 ~ DUPLICITY

  Heavy with the strain of the night, battling infection, caring for the other men in the ward. The echoes of screams from the other ward, still ringing in her ears. No doubt she’d hear them in her dreams. Thankfully, Matt had returned with more pouches and maggots, though where or how he got them in the night, Felicity didn’t want to know.

  She, Matt, and the Marshalls moved through the ward, washing, putting on poultices and maggots in turn. Even with his improvement, Felicity insisted they move Jack out of the home. Far better to be alone than risk contamination.

  She’d written out strict instructions on how to care for his ward mates and future amputees.

  She left the Marshalls to make arrangements as she walked slowly down the stairs, dumb with fatigue, to stand on the front steps.

  The porter stepped lively before her, whistling into the grey mist.

  She waited, arms wrapped tight around her middle, holding shards of sorrow from flying into the night.

  A large, well-appointed carriage pulled up, too rich for what she would use, so she kept her head down.

  A crunch of gravel, the step of a footman. “Lady Felicity Stanton?”

  Confused, she looked up, recognizing the livery. Behind him, a coach door bearing the Andover family crest. He opened the door, lowered the steps. “Lord Andover wishes to offer you conveyance.”

  “Oh.” Like a herded lamb, she climbed into the sumptuous conveyance, her mind sparking to one idea. As the footman folded up the step, she asked, “Could you take me to Lord Andover’s home? I’d like to sit with his mother.”

  “Yes, m’lady.” Well bred to his post, he didn’t show any sign of censure, but then, that wasn’t his place and she was too tired to worry whether it was hers or not.

  She didn’t want the secrets any more. Andover would free her to this life, of caring for others, giving of herself, following in her grandmother’s training.

  Except her grandmother had married and borne children, as had all the women who learned from the book.

  They married men who allowed what they did, even admired their work. Rare men.

  Andover was a rare breed as well, just not in the way she needed him to be rare.

  He deserved the full truth, as did his mother. Then they could part ways. He could find the perfect sweet miss to sit with his mother. His wonderful mother. Felicity was more than fond of her. A woman of fortitude.

  To be mama-in-law to another woman.

  After the scandal, Felicity would never marry. Impossible. The line of healers would die out with her, as she was the one fated to carry it on.

  By the time they reached the Earl of Andover’s home, the kitchens had come to life with baking bread. Felicity passed the warm scented rooms, nodding to the few servants about their business before daylight, and took the back stairs up to Lady Andover’s chambers. A path she’d learned days ago.

  The chambermaid was just leaving as Felicity stepped into the room.

  Startled, the young girl tried to stop her, whispering. “She’s still asleep, m’lady,”

  “I know, it’s all right, I’ll wait.”

  Odd though her actions were, the maid managed to bob a curtsy. Before she could leave, Felicity touched her arm and signaled toward a wingback chair that stood by the fireplace.

  “Help me move this.”

  Quiet as a soft breeze, they moved the heavy chair next to the bed. Felicity smiled her thanks as the maid left, and stepped up to the mirror, as she tugged off her gloves, revealing hands chapped from harsh soaps.

  Her dress no less worse for wear. A pretty white sarcenet gown, with a sky-blue ribbon along the high waist, was not meant for a sick bed vigil. Without much hope, she brushed at the wrinkles, tried her best to fix loose tendrils of hair back into the intricate weave Jesse had managed, and splashed water on her face from the pitcher the maid left for Lady Andover.

  Nothing could be done for he
r red-rimmed eyes.

  A truly foolish way to meet the woman once meant to be her mother-in-law. Their history was not a normal one, so she counted on Lady Andover taking her presence in stride. After all, when she woke, she would see Mrs. Comfrey and Mrs. Comfrey always visited in the middle of the night, to sit by her bed.

  This was not so terribly different.

  Having assured herself she could get away with what she was doing, Felicity did what she’d done so often in her life as a healer. She curled up in a chair beside the bed, to wait.

  If she had seen the night through at the ball, she would still have the energy to swirl and dance her way through her nightly ablutions. But not tonight. Or morning, as it was nearly dawn. No, this breaking of day she could barely hold her head up.

  ****

  As per usual, Lord Richard Henry Albert Carmichael, Marquis of Andover, Earl of Sutton, Viscount St. John, arose at dawn with every intention of a bracing morning ride. Again, as per usual, Jones fussed about the dressing room, making noise, speaking quietly to someone.

  Odd. There shouldn’t be anyone but Jones in the dressing room, or the splash of water poured into a basin.

  He didn’t shave or bathe until after his ride. He barely woke until he left the barn and was deep in the morning air.

  “Jones?” Andover called, as he pulled on a full-length silk robe. He flipped the sash into a loose knot, as he strode into his dressing chamber.

  Short and stout and fussy, Jones stood over a footman, critically watching as the man poured water into a pitcher.

  “Don’t let it splash!” Jones warned.

  “What are you about?” Andover snapped. Not so put out by the interruption to his routine, as he was to the why of it. Why would Jones take it upon himself to break a perfectly sensible schedule?

  “Go!” Jones shushed the footman off like a mother with too many chicks, following him to the door. He reminded the man, “We’ll be needing the bath water.”

  “No,” Andover said. “We will not.” Angered by the exchanged looks between his servants. “We will not,” he confirmed, before the door was closed.

  “You will,” Jones pranced past him. “Because you have a guest.” And he sniffed, like a woman countered when she was best not countered.

  “Guests? At this hour?” Unbelievable. The only likely guest when the sun rose would be another fellow wishing to join him on a ride, and he would be damned if he’d bathe for that.

  “I think, my lord, you should wear your buffs and…” the man said, as he bustled about.

  “For riding?” Andover headed straight for the coffee tray on the bureau, hoping the brew could clear his head against the muddle of the day.

  “Not for riding,” Jones informed him, as Andover poured a cup of strong black coffee.

  He savored the rich scent, already feeling better. He’d let it do its work as he waited for Jones, so obviously bursting with information, to divulge it. “All right, then, who has come to pay a call that requires me to dress the gentleman? Prinny?”

  “Your betrothed,” Jones said with a sniff.

  “What?” Andover put his cup down with a clink. “Lady Felicity?”

  Smug, Jones nodded and gestured for Andover to sit for his shave.

  “No.” He waved the idea away. “Dress me as you would. I’m going for a ride, and then I will meet with Lady Felicity.”

  “M’lord?” Horrified, Jones paced, hands flapping about in front of him. “You really must see to this.”

  “Which room is she in?”

  Jones relaxed, standing still, though oddly excited to be the teller of such titillating news. Sotto voce, he leaned toward Andover. “She’s with your mother.”

  His mother? Felicity visited with his mother? “Why didn’t Coachman take her home?” he wondered aloud, coming to grips with all the implications. He would have to send for her parents, a vicar.

  To visit his mother at dawn? His mother would be sleeping soundly. She always did at this time of day, didn’t she?

  “When Coachman went to take her home, Lady Felicity asked to be brought here. Seems she wanted to sit with your mother.”

  Andover toyed with the cup, staring down where it sat so crookedly on the saucer.

  “She arrived just before dawn. Not so long ago. Came in through the kitchens, greeted Cook and went upstairs, calm as could be. She knew exactly where your mother’s rooms were.”

  “Is my mother ill?”

  “Oh, no, no, no.” Jones waved that worry away. “No, nothing like that,” he assured Andover, sighing over the buff trousers he now questioned as the appropriate choice, no doubt fretting over just what a man should wear for such an occasion. “Your mother was sleeping like a baby. Probably still is, as it’s a bit early for her, but your betrothed…”

  Jones shot Andover a wicked, gossip-y glance. Not that Andover would rise to this bait. No one would see how he felt about this.

  “Go on, my betrothed, you were saying.”

  “She had the chambermaid help her move a chair over to the bed, so she could sit and watch your mother sleep. Or so we guess that’s what she is doing.”

  Andover blinked. “I see. Well, I’d best get dressed, but not for guests. I will wear my riding clothes.” He would not change his routine for this situation.

  This was no social call. No, it was the outrageous behavior of the sort a woman who climbed trees would instigate. He would not dress for receiving, although he allowed Jones to take more time with his cravat and brush down his jacket with more vigor than usual. He waited as his valet polished already shiny boots.

  Riding in the morning was a matter of fresh air and exercise. One did not greet ladies at such a time, so what one wore did not need to be in the first state of appearances.

  He took the time to compose a short note. “See this gets delivered to the Stanton household immediately, and arrange coffee for me and two hot chocolates for the ladies.”

  Business taken care of, he stepped into the hall, very aware of the significance of all he’d just done. Ordering hot chocolate for a woman. An intimacy he’d not anticipated. But what other man would ever do so, order morning chocolate for this woman other than immediate family?

  None—bar a husband.

  His mother’s rooms were on the far side of an open gallery. Barton, his butler, and too many servants for this time of the morning looked up from their posts below, polishing stair rails and floorboards. He raised an eyebrow, doubting the man could see it, but not surprised Barton anticipated the message, sending the busy servants scurrying out of sight.

  They would all know the outcome soon enough.

  Disquieted, he stood for a moment, outside his mother’s rooms. Outrage or admiration? He couldn’t decide between the two. He did not like choices made for him and Felicity had done just that, more often than not. Forcing issues out of his hand.

  Much as a husband would do with a wife in ordaining their life.

  The hypocrisy was not lost on him.

  He let himself into the room with gentle care, not wanting to wake his mother. Once inside, he found his stealth unnecessary. She sat up in bed, looking at the chair pulled close. Andover couldn’t see the occupant of the chair, due to the deep wings, but he knew who to expect.

  Time enough to look there, once assured his mother faired well, despite this odd occurrence.

  Beatific love, not for him but for the woman in the chair, as though taking in the features of a long-lost child. Precisely why he wished to marry. She needed another in her life. Desperately enough to accept a woman who would slip into her chamber in the wee hours of the day without invitation.

  But she had, if she was of a right mind, and not imagining other things.

  She saw him them, sitting up from her pillows, obviously bemused, not put off at all. She put her fingers to her lips in the age-old command of silence and nodded toward Felicity.

  He stepped more fully into the room to see beyond those forbidding chair wings. Ador
able as a kitten curled up on a windowsill, Felicity’s head rested against the side of the chair, her legs tucked under her, bare toes peeking out. Not a wild hoyden, but a sleeping woman, barely beyond the age of a girl. His heart softened, melting, as he desperately tried to freeze it.

  His mother caught his eye and waved him over to the window seat.

  A good location. Although across from Felicity, this would put him just far enough out of her line of vision she wouldn’t notice him straightaway. He could observe her, see what the devil she expected to accomplish by coming here. It was not done, just wasn’t done, but he couldn’t quite muster the outrage he knew he should be feeling. Outrage for his mother’s sensibilities, and the possibility that this might send her into one of her long, dreamy, absences.

  Except his mother didn’t look dreamy or disturbed. She looked delighted, a hint of mischief in eyes he’d long ago stopped hoping to see lively again.

  Felicity accomplished that, put that little smile on his mother’s lips, the even larger sparkle in her eyes. With all he’d done, all he’d tried, this woman made the difference. Not at all as he’d planned it, but what did that matter, when the outcome remained the same?

  His mother cleared her throat, a dainty sound.

  Felicity stirred, weighted lids lifting slowly. Suddenly, her head snapped up, eyes wide.

  “Mrs. Comfrey?” his mother asked, so obviously delighted to prove there was such a woman, Andover was horrified at the duplicity.

  Oh, he’d considered the possibility, even suggested it to Felicity. All the scenarios had fallen into place, except for Mrs. Comfrey’s appearance at Montfort Abbey. He’d not been able to place any credence on that, so he dismissed the possibility.

  Felicity blinked, confused by her own dozing. “Oh, Lady Andover! I didn’t mean to sleep.”

  “Nonsense, child. You look all done in,” his mother soothed.

  She didn’t deserve soothing, not when she risked compounding his mother’s muddled brain with her duplicity.

  Andover would have none of that.