Chapter 11
When Anne went down to the kitchen for Lady Celia’s luncheon tray the next day, it was not yet waiting for her at the pass-through window.
Noticing her there, the kitchen maid, Clara, lifted a wait-one-minute finger, set down the pestle she was using to crush herbs, and disappeared into the cold larder.
She returned a few moments later carrying the tray and set it on the ledge before Anne. The tray bore a glass dessert dish, a plate of cucumber salad, and a small ceramic vase of flowers.
“We made iced cream to tempt Lady Celia’s appetite. Had to keep it cold. Now, just let me add the chicken soup.” Clara went to the pot on the stove, spooned out soup, sprinkled herbs over it, then added it to the tray, along with a bread roll and butter.
“Thank you, Clara. Looks lovely. The flowers are a nice touch.”
“Can’t take credit. Mrs. Pratt added them, I expect.”
Anne smiled at the young woman. “Well, the food looks good too.”
She turned and walked away, carefully balancing the tray as she walked up the many stairs.
Entering Lady Celia’s room a few minutes later, Anne set the tray on the bedside table and greeted her patient. “You are in for a treat today: iced cream.”
“That is a welcome change after gallons of barley water and calves’ foot jelly.”
Anne chuckled. “I can well imagine.”
The warmth in the room on that June day felt oppressive. “Are you certain I can’t open a window? It’s so warm in here your iced cream shall melt before you’re ready for dessert.”
“Then perhaps I should eat it first.” A hint of a smile graced the older woman’s face.
Anne smiled back. “Good idea.”
“I suppose a crack will be all right.”
“Excellent.” Anne went to the window, lifted the latch, and pushed it open a few inches.
“Just a crack! I detest flying insects.”
“Very well.” Anne adjusted the window, and a lovely breeze came in, even through the narrow opening.
“Ah, much better.” She returned to the woman’s bedside and helped her sit up a bit, adjusting the pillows behind her.
She picked up the salad in one hand and the dessert dish in the other. Teasingly, she asked, “Which shall it be?”
Lady Celia lifted her spoon and clinked the dish of iced cream.
“Shall I help?” Anne asked.
“This, I think I can manage.”
They talked companionably while Lady Celia ate a few bites, and then Anne offered her the soup and salad.
“No salad,” Lady Celia said. “I don’t think my stomach is ready for that.”
Anne returned the salad plate to the tray. A tiny prickle of movement caught her eye. She bent and looked closer. Some insect was slowly crawling up one of the stems in the vase.
A bee.
Anne’s breath caught. She stifled an exclamation, not wishing to startle the older woman. She knew Lady Celia abhorred flying insects. And what had Jasper said about his aunt’s reactions to bee-stings? Anne was not fond of bees either, having been stung more than once in her youth.
She glanced over to the window. Had the creature flown inside already? Or had it been hiding in the flowers? Wouldn’t Clara or Mrs. Pratt have noticed it? Wouldn’t it have flown away before now?
What to do? She looked again to the flowers, to keep an eye on the bee. Now a second emerged from the vase, slow and lumbering, almost as if drunk. What in the world? A third emerged, and Anne’s skin prickled with gooseflesh at the invasion.
She said evenly, “Don’t panic, my lady, but there is a bee . . . just there. I’m going to—”
“A bee? I told you not to open the window. I react most violently to their stings.”
“I think they came in with the flowers.”
“They?”
“Shh. At least three. I’m going to open the balcony door, carry the vase outside, and hope they fly away out there instead of in here.”
“Be careful!”
Going to the balcony door, Anne unlocked it and pulled it open.
“Hurry,” Lady Celia said, voice urgent. “They’re beginning to move faster.”
Anne returned to the bedside table, bit her lip, and gingerly picked up the vase, carrying it to the balcony as though it were a lit fuse, trying not to jostle it.
Stepping outside, she set the vase on the parapet’s ledge and quickly retreated, closing the door behind herself and the window as well.
“Do you see any more?” Anne returned and studied the tray and table and then looked toward the ceiling.
“No,” Lady Celia replied with a long exhale. “Thank you, Anne. That was quick thinking. If you had tried to swat them you would have succeeded only in stirring them into a frenzy.”
“That’s what I thought. I’d probably knock over the vase and break the dishes but could not strike all three before one of us got stung.”
“And in my case, that would be bad,” Lady Celia said. “The last time I was stung, my throat swelled and I had difficulty swallowing or breathing. My mother reacted the same way. I inherited all my weaknesses from her: weak heart, reactions to shellfish and bees.”
Anne asked lightly, “Any other dangers I should know about?”
Lady Celia hesitated, her expression suddenly somber. “Not that I know of.”
Anne did not press her. Instead her mind puzzled over the question How?
She could believe one insect had unknowingly been transported inside within a posy of flowers.
But three? She thought back. Clara had set the tray in the larder to keep the iced cream chilled.
Had the cold stunned the bees, only for them to awaken upon entering the warm room?
But how had three ended up inside that vase?
Twenty minutes later, Anne slipped back onto the balcony and shook the vase upside down, heedless of the flowers falling to the floor. There was no water in the vase, but one dead bee fell out with them. She noticed the bottom of the vase had been marked with a little heart.
She carried the empty vase back inside. “All gone.”
Lady Celia’s gaze latched onto the vase. It was a simple ceramic vessel painted blue with a small crack repaired with glue. Crudely made, as though by a child or amateur potter.
“Let me see that.”
“It’s empty. I made certain.”
Even so, Lady Celia held out her hand, and Anne set the vase into it.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve seen this before, though not in years.”
“Oh?”
It certainly did not seem on par with the woman’s collection of fine Wedgwood.
“Was it a gift?” Anne asked.
A kaleidoscope of emotions passed over Lady Celia’s face. Confusion, dismay, distress? She frowned, glanced at Anne, then set the vase aside with a dismissive hand.
“I . . . forget. Never mind. No need to mention it. No harm done, after all. And a gesture kindly meant, I’m sure.”
Anne was not so sure. Bewildered by Lady Celia’s odd expression and unexpected dismissal, Anne picked up the tray without mentioning her intentions. “I’ll take this down, if you’re sure you’ve had enough to eat.”
“Yes, thank you. And do thank Mrs. Pratt for me. The iced cream was delicious.”
Anne carried the tray back to the kitchen and there sought out Mrs. Pratt. She found the woman reviewing the inventory of the pantry.
“Lady Celia enjoyed the meal and wished me to pass along her thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
“Also Clara mentioned it was your kind idea to include a vase of flowers on Lady Celia’s tray today?”
“My idea? No, miss. I’ve been run off my feet today. Hadn’t the time to think of such niceties. Clara was probably just being modest.”
“And the iced cream? Lady Celia certainly enjoyed it.”
“Not my idea either, I’m afraid. Miss Fitzjohn requested it. Said her mother deserved a treat after her ordeal. Thought it might tempt her appetite on such a hot day.”
“And the flowers? Did she bring them in?”
“Might have done. Can’t say that I noticed, busy in here as I’ve been. We received a large order from the greengrocer today.”
“Then I’ll let you get back to work.”
As she was leaving the kitchen, Anne asked Clara, “Did you happen to see any of the family down here today?”
“No, miss. I don’t think so. Why?”
“Never mind. Thank you, Clara.”
Later that afternoon, while Rosa was brushing and washing Lady Celia’s hair, Anne crossed the lawn toward the flower garden.
There, she saw Katherine Fitzjohn, her pale face shaded by a broad-brimmed straw hat.
One by one, she staked tall delphiniums to canes with twine.
She was wearing a stout linen apron over her day dress, gardening tools—pruning knife, shears, trowel, and a length of twine—protruding from its ample pockets.
Her hands were protected by long gauntlet gloves that reached nearly to her elbows.
She looked up as Anne approached. “Ah, Miss Loveday. Is Mamma all right?”
“Yes. Rosa is washing her hair, so I thought I’d come out for a few minutes of fresh air. Your flowers are lovely. You must enjoy gardening.”
“Must I? I don’t know that I enjoy it so much as it gives me something to do. Something to tend, to nurture. And the flowers are pleasant to look at, I agree.”
Anne looked around again, seeing lavender, lilies, foxgloves, irises, and more. Then she noticed poppies growing near the stone garden wall, their fluffy heads swaying in the breeze. “The red ones are bright and cheery.”
Katherine looked over. “Papaver somniferum. I prefer the lighter ones. White exterior, bruise-purple heart.”
A bee flew past, and Anne stepped back, startled. It landed on the delphinium near Katherine, but she paid it no heed.
“Are you not afraid of bees?” Anne asked.
“Hm?” Katherine looked up as if just noticing the creature on the flower nearby. “No. I ignore them and they ignore me. Then again, everyone does. Well, almost everyone.”
“Then you don’t share your mother’s unpleasant reaction to bee-stings?”
“No, thankfully.”
Anne licked dry lips and asked casually, “I suppose it was you who added the vase of flowers to your mother’s luncheon tray today?”
“Me?” Katherine shook her head. “Probably Mrs. Pratt. I learned long ago not to give her gifts.”
“What do you mean?”
Katherine chuckled dryly. “As a girl, I made a little vase for her birthday. My art tutor at the time took it to a potter he knew in Stroud to have it fired in a kiln. I painted it blue, her favorite color. I was so foolishly proud of that little thing. I added a few flowers and gave it to her. She thanked me and set it on her dresser. She was not exactly effusive in her praise—then again, she rarely is—but even so I went away pleased. But two days later I was playing outside and happened to pass the rubbish heap and there it was. Cracked and discarded, waiting with the rest of the worthless trash to be burned. I picked it up and carried it to my room, repaired it as best I could, and tucked it away in the drawer of my bedside table. She never mentioned it again, and neither did I. But every time I open that drawer, I remember. And my heart sinks all over again.”
Katherine glanced at Anne and then away again.
“You will think me silly. So many real problems in the world. Children going hungry, men crushed by mill machinery . . . I have no reason to feel sorry for myself, I know. Self-pity is never attractive.” She uttered another humorless chuckle.
“And if you saw that humble little thing, you would no doubt understand why Mamma got rid of it.”
“I would not. And I have seen it. A small blue vase with a repaired crack.”
Katherine gaped up at her. “How could you . . . ? Where?”
“It was on your mother’s luncheon tray today with a few flowers and—”
“What?”
She’d been about to say bees before Katherine interrupted her.
Katherine threw down the remaining stakes in her hand and turned. “Come with me.” She stalked up the garden path and across the lawn in long, energetic strides, little resembling the delicate, mincing woman she was reported to be. Anne had to hurry to keep up with her.
Pushing through the side door, Katherine cast her gloves onto the hall table, took hold of her skirts, and started up the stairs. Anne followed.
Reaching her room, Katherine marched straight to the bedside table and pulled open the drawer. Anne hovered near the doorway, unsure she should enter.
“It isn’t here,” Katherine said breathlessly. “Who would take it? And why?”
Why indeed, Anne wondered. “I don’t know. But your mother has it now.”
“Until she discards it again.”
Anne felt for the woman’s bruised daughter-heart and was thankful anew for the kind and affectionate mother who had raised her.
Tentatively, Anne asked, “Do you . . . want to ask her about it?”
“Heavens, no.” Katherine drew herself up to her full height. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to finish staking the delphiniums.”
“Y-yes. Of course.” Anne watched her walk away, bewildered by the reactions of mother and daughter both.
That night, something woke Anne yet again. A moan from Lady Celia? She quickly rose and slipped into the adjoining room to investigate.
The fire had gone out, and the shaded lamp as well, and Anne had no ready means to light a candle.
She didn’t want to fumble around in the dark for the phosphorus bottle and sulfur matches.
Dim moonlight shone through the transom window above the balcony door.
She opened the shutters to let in more light.
As her eyes adjusted she saw Louie gazing at her from his basket.
Lady Celia moaned again.
Anne stepped to the bed, wondering if the woman was in pain or having another disturbing dream. “My lady? Shh. I’m here.” She gently rubbed her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
The older woman awoke with a gasp. “Oh! Oh, Anne. Thank God.”
“Another bad dream?”
Lady Celia nodded and her whole body shuddered with it. “A nightmare.”
“It’s over now.”
After Anne soothed the woman and offered her a drink of barley water, Lady Celia calmed and lay back against the pillows.
Anne returned to the window, planning to close the shutters. Through the glass, she glimpsed movement below. Someone walking across the moonlit lawn. Anne had heard the clock strike midnight some time ago. Who would be roaming about the grounds at such an hour?
The figure was obscured by the shadows of house and trees but emerged briefly into the open as it moved toward the garden.
Anne made out long, wavy dark hair and a full-length mantle. The figure turned, and she saw his mustache and pointy beard. He was wearing a doublet jacket over pantaloons with a white ruff collar at the neck—a fashion two hundred years out of style.
A chill snaked up her spine.
King Charles I.
As if aware of someone watching, the figure looked up toward the house.
Anne gave a little shriek and jerked back from the window.
“What is it?” Lady Celia whispered.
“Sorry, I . . . I saw someone. Or thought I did.”
“Who?”
Anne gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “King Charles’s ghost.”
“Oh, is that all?” The old woman exhaled and closed her eyes once more. “You would not be the first.”