Chapter 2
Anne wrote to her sister, explaining her plan to go to Painswick for the summer or perhaps longer.
Fanny, who lived with her husband some ten miles away, wrote back immediately, insisting she would deliver Anne there herself.
Anne questioned the wisdom of Fanny traveling to Painswick.
In fact, she was fairly certain it would not be wise at all.
Despite Anne’s protestations, less than a week later, Fanny came for her as promised.
While Anne stood at the window, watching the carriage rattle up the road, Nancy came and stood beside her. “You are leaving on my account, I suppose.”
“You did say it was time for me to go,” Anne replied. “And in this, I agree with you.”
“So now your father will blame me.”
He blames me for something far worse, Anne thought but did not say the words. She supposed she should tell Nancy her leaving was not her fault, but Anne could not honestly say so. She swallowed and said rather awkwardly, “I hope you . . . remain in good health.”
Picking up her things, Anne went outside. Nancy remained in the house, but Papa came out to see them off. Tears threatened, but Anne willed them away and said briskly, “Now, you will remember Mr. Cowley needs more horehound for his cough, won’t you? And Miss Bates her feverfew tablets?”
“I will remember.”
He kissed her cheek, and Fanny’s as well.
Then, a few moments later, Anne and her sister were on their way back to Painswick after an absence of nearly three years.
Painswick, the place of ninety-nine yew trees and many more memories.
A place where loved ones had once lived .
. . and a few friends, and one foe, still resided.
Inside the small vehicle, the sisters occupied the single bench, while Fanny’s young maid sat on the pull-down seat at one side. She soon fell asleep, her chin bobbing against her chest as she dozed.
Anne glanced at her watch pin, then asked her sister, “I suppose Mr. Norton was . . . busy today?”
“Oh, no more than usual. He offered to come along, but I preferred to bring Betsy.” Fanny nodded toward the slumbering maid. “She is quiet and will better serve as companion for the return journey.”
At the dismissive words, Anne felt a stab of pity for her sister’s well-meaning husband.
About an hour later, the carriage topped a rise and rounded a bend, and the tall tower and spire of St. Mary’s came into view through the side window.
Anne glanced at her sister next to her, concern for her making Anne uneasy.
Fanny stared straight ahead, not reacting, her view obstructed by the flapping coattails of the coachman on the box.
Anne guessed she was seeing more scenes from the past than present scenery anyway.
“We shall be there in a few minutes,” Anne said softly, gentle warning in her tone.
“Hm?” Fanny stirred from her reverie. “Oh. Yes.”
“It was kind of you to bring me,” Anne said. “I hope this will not prove difficult for you. Being here. The memories.”
For Anne, memories of Painswick were primarily pleasant.
Their mother had been born there. And Mamma’s parents had continued to live in the thriving wool town long after she and Papa had married and moved away.
Together Anne and Fanny had spent many happy summers visiting their maternal grandparents before their deaths a few years before.
So Anne was grateful for a chance to return.
Then again, she had not had her heart broken there, her plans to marry the man she loved destroyed.
Fanny’s expression remained distant. Dreamy. “Painswick might have been my home, even now. If only it were. If only his aunt had not interfered. I might be happy instead of trapped in a loveless marriage.”
“Fanny, Mr. Norton loves you. That’s easy to see.”
“Then that makes one of us.”
When Fanny had broken her heart over a man who’d promised to marry her, their stepmother had urged her to recover her spirits by marrying a lonely clergyman she knew—a rector with an excellent income and a fine home.
Her sister did so yet seemed unable or unwilling to forget her first love.
Anne felt sorry for her sister but also frustrated with her for making no real effort to learn to appreciate the man she had married.
A man she resented for not being Jude Dalby.
After Fanny had wed, their stepmother turned her efforts on Anne, trying to marry her off as well. She also insisted Anne begin acting like a young lady and cease assisting her father in his surgery and the apothecary shop. Her father did not contradict her.
How the rejection had stung.
Fanny suddenly gripped her hand. “Do you think we will see him?”
The frenzied light in Fanny’s eyes unsettled Anne anew. Taking a deep breath, she replied evenly, “I would not think so. Even if we do, remember he is married now, as you are.”
“I know that. You need not remind me. You must promise that if you meet with him while you are here, you will not flirt with him. I remember you liked him first.”
“I did not!” Anne protested. She could not deny she’d thought him handsome, but she’d liked his cousin Jasper far better.
“Besides, I am hardly likely to flirt with a married man. Especially one who promised to marry you and then changed his mind.”
Fanny shook her head. “His aunt forebade the match. It was her fault, not his. You are wrong to judge him harshly.”
All the old arguments gathered in Anne’s mind.
He was a grown man. If he had really wanted to marry you he could have, inheritance or no.
But Anne bit her tongue. There was no point in rehashing that now.
It was all in the past. If only Fanny could see that too, resign herself to reality, and commit herself to the husband she had.
They reached the outskirts of town and then rattled along New Street, passing the half-timbered post office, familiar shops, houses of honey-colored stone, and the Falcon Inn, before halting in front of Yew Cottage.
The two-story home stood across the street from the magnificent parish church set in its large, park-like churchyard.
“You will come in and greet Miss Newland?” Anne asked. “She invited us both to take tea with her.”
Her sister did not move.
“Fanny?”
Her sister stared out the window at the many yew trees in the churchyard.
Tears pooled in her eyes. “Actually, I won’t.
I thought I wanted to see Painswick again, but now we’re here .
. . no. I don’t even want to set foot on its cobbles.
” She sniffed and raised her chin. “Please pass along my greetings to Miss Newland and instruct John to take us on to Stroud. We’ll rest the horses and have dinner there before heading back. ”
“Very well. If you are certain . . . ?”
“I am.”
Anne descended alone, reticule and medicine case in hand.
The coachman carried her travel trunk and valise to the front door of Yew Cottage and then climbed back on the box.
A moment later the carriage was once again in motion, continuing on its way.
Anne raised her hand in farewell, but Fanny’s face remained averted, staring straight ahead.
Anne lifted the knocker, and a few moments later a young maid she didn’t know opened the door and led her into the parlour.
As soon as Anne entered, her gaze fastened on the sight of dear Charlotte Newland with her faded auburn hair parted at the center, slender nose, and kind, fawn-like eyes.
Charlotte rose awkwardly on a bandaged ankle and enfolded her in a tender rosewater-scented embrace.
“Welcome back to Painswick, Anne. How I’ve missed you.”
“And I you, Miss Lotty. Now, do please sit down and tell me what has happened to you.”
“It’s only a sprain.” Releasing her, the woman gestured to the other occupant of the small parlour, a somewhat older woman with curly ash-grey hair and spectacles. “You may remember my neighbor, Miss Ursula Birt?”
“Of course I do. How good to see you again, Miss Birt.”
“Miss Loveday.”
“Call me Anne, please. And thank you so much, Miss Lotty, for inviting me to stay.”
“My pleasure, my dear. I trust your father could spare you?”
“Yes, rather readily it seems.” Realization struck. “Ah! You were referring to yourself when you wrote, ‘Someone in Painswick could use your help.’”
“Well, actually . . .” Lotty exchanged a covert glance with Miss Birt. “My needs are small compared to others’.”
“You should have let me know you’d injured yourself,” Anne went on. “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
“I was afraid you would postpone if I told you. Or insist on fussing over me. This is only a trifle, and I shall be back to full speed in no time. For the present, however, the accommodations here may not be all one might wish. Dinah is a good girl but inexperienced. I haven’t braved the stairs to see what condition the guest room is in. ”
“Never mind that. I shall be happy to lend a hand while I’m here. Much pleasanter than chasing toddlers and changing soiled baby cloths all day.”
Miss Birt gave a theatrical shudder. “Horrors.”
“I am fond of my half siblings,” Anne clarified. “Just not the role of nursery maid.”
“There are three children now, is that right?” Lotty asked.
“Four, and a fifth is on the way.”
“Good heavens! And your mother has been gone, what, less than eight years?”
Anne nodded.
Worry creased Lotty’s brow. “Forgive me. Perhaps I should not have mentioned her.”
“That’s all right. She is never far from my thoughts. I think of her every day.”
“I am sure you do, my dear. I miss her too. Still, I’m surprised you’ve had time to act as nursery maid. I thought you helped in your father’s surgery and apothecary shop, and with his female patients and such?”
“I used to . . . and took great satisfaction in doing so. But Nancy disapproved. Said it was part of the reason I had yet to marry.”
“Your stepmother forbade you? And your father went along with it?”
“Well . . . yes.” Pain pricked Anne anew.
“Evil stepmother, indeed,” Ursula Birt muttered.