Chapter 12 #2
Mr. Dalby shot to his feet, chair legs scraping the floor.
With a quick glance at Katherine, Mr. Palling raised a placating hand. “Sorry. Didn’t come here to quarrel. Came here to invite you to a party in two days’ time. At the mill barn. All the workers and their spouses are invited. Several others too.”
“What’s the occasion?”
Albert Palling opened his mouth and, with another glance at Katherine, closed it again. “To show my appreciation to everyone.”
Katherine smiled. “How very generous of you.”
Mr. Palling nodded to Anne. “I am pleased to see you again, Miss Anne. Joe Webb can’t stop singing your praises.”
“Your life is now complete, Miss Loveday,” Mr. Dalby said, “now you’ve earned a weaver’s praise.”
Mr. Dalby’s smug sarcasm chafed, yet Anne strived to keep her tone civil. “It was a privilege to come to Mr. Webb’s aid. He has a devoted wife and four children who depend on him.”
It was Mr. Dalby’s turn to raise a placating palm. “Well then, forgive me, Saint Anne.”
The mill owner frowned at him before looking again to the others. “I have just come from Dr. Finch’s. He’s agreed to come. I hope you shall as well, Miss Anne. And Miss Fitzjohn and Colonel Paine, although I realize it might be difficult to . . . get away.”
For a moment Katherine held the man’s gaze, then she looked down, murmuring, “True.”
Anne said, “I sincerely appreciate the invitation, but as I am here to care for Lady Celia, I’m afraid I cannot.”
“Oh, do go and enjoy yourself, Anne,” Jasper said. “Certainly between us we can keep an eye on the old dear for a few hours. Call in Dr. Marsland, if need be.”
The other two did not second this notion, but neither did they protest.
Mr. Palling nodded. “Good. Then we shall look forward to seeing you there. And you, Miss Fitzjohn, if you are able.”
Katherine smiled vaguely but made no reply.
Once again, Mr. Palling speared Mr. Dalby with a sharp look. “And you really should put in an appearance.”
Mr. Dalby sighed. “Very well. If I have no other pressing obligations.”
After the visitor had taken his leave, Buxton returned and announced that dinner was served. The men made their way into the adjacent dining room, but Katherine lingered, walking with Anne to the bottom of the stairs.
She said, “How fortunate you are, Miss Loveday, not to be restricted by the dictates of society . . . or one’s mother. You are at liberty to attend the party.”
“Are you not? When so much of Painswick’s wealth has come from its cloth mills? And your own cousin married into a clothier’s family?”
“Sadly no. Mamma would not approve. But I would go. If I could.”
Anne hesitated. “He admires you, you know. Mr. Palling.”
An odd bleakness crossed Katherine’s face. “Then I fear he shall not be the first to be disappointed.”
A few hours later, Anne lay almost asleep on the narrow bed in Sir Herbert’s former dressing room. A sound startled her, and her eyes shot wide open—she was fully awake once more.
She listened and heard another sound. Lady Celia’s door creaking open. A brief silence followed, and then soft footsteps padded into the room.
Anne rose from the low bed as quietly as she could. As usual, she’d left her door ajar to hear Lady Celia, and through the crack she peered into the darkness. A figure in white walked in stealth across the room. Anne’s heart rate accelerated. Who was it?
She opened the door wider to follow the progress of the figure—a feminine figure—creeping about in the dark. When the female neared the glow of the fire, Anne recognized Miss Fitzjohn in a white dressing gown. Why was she sneaking around?
Anne watched as Katherine pulled down the silver mantel box, lifted the lid, and studied the contents by firelight. Then she moved to the desk and opened the top drawer. What was she looking for? The blue vase? Or something else?
Anne hesitated to intrude. This was the woman’s daughter after all.
Then Katherine moved toward the bed, standing over her mother. What did she intend to do? Surely she meant no harm to Lady Celia.
Over her thumping heart, she heard Miss Fitzjohn ask in a low voice, “Where are they? Where did you put them?”
Unable to remain silent any longer, Anne stepped into the room. “Miss Fitzjohn,” she whispered. “Forgive me, but is everything all right? Can I . . . help you with anything?”
“Ah, the diligent nurse.” Katherine turned and straightened. “How unfeeling you must think me, not caring for my mother myself.”
Anne made no reply but joined the woman near the bed.
Katherine sighed. “You might at least say something—even an insincere ‘Not at all’ to make me feel a little better—but no. Then again, I suppose you are only here to make Mamma feel better.”
In the bed, Lady Celia did not stir, mouth slack, breathing heavily, the increased laudanum doing its work.
Without thinking it through, Anne confided, “If it helps at all, I tended my own mother during her last illness. Praying and doing everything I could for her. She died anyway.”
A moment of silence. Then Katherine asked, “Were you sorry?”
“Dreadfully. I still am.”
“I suppose you loved your mother.”
“I did.”
“And she loved you.”
“Yes.”
Beside her, Miss Fitzjohn stiffened, her distress palpable.
“Your mother cares for you too,” Anne whispered. She reached a comforting hand toward the woman’s arm but stopped short of touching her. She doubted Miss Fitzjohn would appreciate the familiarity.
“Sometimes I wonder,” Katherine whispered back. “I do love her. Though at times I . . . hate her too.”
For another moment, the two stood there, gazing down at Lady Celia.
Then Anne said, “May I ask what you were looking for? Feel free to tell me it is none of my business.”
“It is none of your business, but I shall tell you anyway. I was looking for the letters she confiscated, from a man she does not wish me to marry.”
“Oh . . .” Surprise flooded Anne. “And do you wish to marry him?”
“I . . . The point is, they are my letters, written to me.”
Katherine’s voice rose, and on the bed, Lady Celia snorted and turned her head on the pillow.
“Well, we don’t want to wake her. I’ll leave you,” Anne said, reluctant to ask the daughter to leave.
Anne walked slowly back to the dressing room and turned at the door, expecting Miss Fitzjohn to leave at the same time.
Instead Katherine sat heavily in the chair at her mother’s bedside. After a few moments’ silence, she whispered, “I am sorry, you know, Mamma.”
Sorry for what? Anne wondered.