Chapter 16
The next day, Anne and Rosa helped Lady Celia into her new banyan gown and watched as she donned the fine lace cap. “Very nice,” she said, eyeing her reflection in the dressing table mirror and clearly pleased with the purchases Rosa had made on her behalf.
After breakfast, when Anne took Louie for his walk, she stopped by Mrs. Baylis’s once more.
The woman welcomed her inside and said, “I haven’t heard much from the little lamb today. Is he all right now?”
“Better, yes. An earache. Very painful, but he is on the mend.”
“That is excellent news.”
“Dr. Finch and I are in your debt. Thank you again for letting us pass through your house.”
“Not at all. If anything, I owe you. Do you know, my neighbors have been delivering gifts ever since the rumor reached them that I had finally taken ill? Hartshorn jelly, chicken soup, and seed cake. I have been richly rewarded for my slight part in that ruse, and we shall say no more about it.”
“What did you tell them was ailing you? In case someone asks?”
“A mysterious ailment.” She waggled her grey eyebrows. “And one that has already passed.”
Later that afternoon, Anne read to Lady Celia from Northanger Abbey.
Despite the woman’s earlier protestations against romances in general, she enjoyed the tongue-in-cheek jabs at the Gothic romance genre so popular with swooning young ladies.
And while Catherine Morland’s dramatics made her roll her eyes, Henry Tilney made her laugh.
“I like him,” she said. “Reminds me of my Herbert.”
Rosa came in and sat with them, listening as she sewed. Suddenly something Dr. Finch had said to Anne in the circulating library came rushing back to her, “My sister and her daughter both loved Northanger Abbey and Persuasion. . . .” She’d not realized it before, but here was that daughter.
As the day was nearing its end and it was almost time to retrieve Lady Celia’s dinner tray, another thought came to Anne. “Rosa, you look exhausted.”
She glanced up in surprise. “Do I?”
“Yes. Perhaps it was the trip to Gloucester. Why don’t you retire early? Consider yourself off duty for the rest of the night? Do you need anything else before she goes, Lady Celia? I shall remain with you and will help you prepare for bed when you’re ready.”
Rosa looked from one to the other, expression uncertain. “But I don—”
“As a nurse, it is my opinion that you could use an uninterrupted evening of rest,” Anne insisted, eyebrows meaningfully high. “Would you not welcome some time away from these rooms? Several hours to . . . slip away . . . with a sweet lullaby on your lips?”
“Lullaby? What nonsense.” Lady Celia frowned. “She may be young but not that young.”
Understanding dawned on Rosa’s face and her eyes brightened. “Indeed, I would. But only if you’re both sure you can do without me.”
“Of course we can.” Lady Celia waved a dismissive hand. “Go on with you. Get your beauty sleep.”
When Rosa had gone, Lady Celia narrowed her eyes at Anne.
“Are you up to something?”
“I truly believe an evening off will be good for Rosa.” And for her child and uncle.
“You are certainly protective of her all of a sudden. I wonder why?”
Anne shrugged. “I suppose in part because she reminds me of my own sister.” She looked Lady Celia in the eye. “Fanny? You must remember her.”
“Must I? Why? I remember your parents and grandparents, but I don’t recall your sister. I did not remember you either when Dr. Marsland brought you here.”
“Fanny Loveday? A pretty girl. Far prettier than I. Fair-haired. Rather like Rosa?”
Lady Celia shook her head. “Any reason I should remember her, specifically?”
Annoyance flared, although Anne made a concerted effort to moderate her tone. “Because you forbade your nephew to marry her.”
“Which nephew?”
“Mr. Dalby.” Now that Anne knew more of his character, she did not feel obligated to keep silent about his past connection to Fanny.
Again the older woman shook her head. “I did no such thing. I never even heard him mention her. Are you saying he pursued her with . . . honorable intentions?”
“He courted her one summer, when Fanny and I were staying here with our grandparents. Professed to love her. Promised most faithfully to marry her but then announced he must break things off.”
Anne remembered holding Fanny in her arms as her sister sobbed inconsolably, eventually making herself ill over the loss. Anne had been sincerely worried for her sister’s health.
Lady Celia said, “I suppose I threatened to disinherit him, or some such?”
“Yes.”
“I did not.”
“But he—”
“Let me guess.” The woman lifted her chin. “Poor besotted Jude would have kept his promise if not for his cruel aunt. Not his fault. And you all felt sorry for him.”
“Fanny did, yes.”
Lady Celia raised her hands. “Maybe he did admire her. Perhaps his intentions were even honorable, until he realized she had no dowry.”
“She did have a dowry! Not on the scale you are likely accustomed to, but certainly a respectable amount. My mother had some money of her own from a wealthy uncle, and my father is a successful surgeon.”
“Not enough to keep Jude in the style he has become accustomed to. As soon as it had been spent, the two would have been poor.”
“Yet the fact that you could threaten to disinherit him means he expects an inheritance, and they might have lived on that.”
Another shake of her head. “My daughter will receive the lion’s share. I did plan to leave something for each of my nephews. Not a fortune, mind, but at least several hundred pounds. But even if I do, they won’t receive anything until after I’m gone.”
Lady Celia took a deep breath. “To be honest, if I had known of his interest in your sister, I might have tried to dissuade him, since such a match would have landed them both in penury. But I did not.” Lines scored her brow.
“I still don’t understand why I did not hear of it.
Most gossip reaches me eventually. . . . ”
“I believe your husband was failing at the time, so you spent your days at his bedside.”
“And nights too. Yes, I remember those dark days. So that was when this little romance took place?”
“It wasn’t a ‘little romance,’ at least not to my sister. She was devastated.”
“Then I am sorry for her. Though she is likely better off without him. Don’t mistake me. I am terribly fond of Jude. When he was a boy, we were quite close. He was like the son I never had. Affectionate and funny and winsome. But as he grew older, well . . .”
She sniffed, then said, “I will add that even had I counseled him against the match, that does not mean he would have listened. After all, he married against my wishes.
“Miss Palling also had a dowry. Perhaps larger than your sister’s, I don’t know, but not enough. That’s why he negotiated a life interest in one of the mills as part of the marriage settlement.”
Remembering Mr. Palling’s speech as well as the argument she’d overheard, Anne said, “And now they are facing bankruptcy.”
“Exactly. So now he’ll reap his share of debt and financial embarrassment instead of the profits he wished for.”
Anne thought, then asked, “How did his wife die?”
“I don’t know. The details were kept quiet. Jude told me it was an accident. But I heard gossip too. There were rumors she might have taken her own life. Others blame him, saying she died of shame and a broken heart when she became aware of his roving eye. Perhaps even infidelity.”
Definitely infidelity, Anne thought.
“Whatever the truth is, the inquest returned a verdict of accidental death, which meant she could be buried in the churchyard. For her family’s sake, and ours, I was glad of that.”
“Yes, poor woman,” Anne murmured, thinking that Fanny had made a fortunate escape, whether she realized it or not.
Lady Celia said, “By the way, my sisters were far prettier than I was too. Especially Elizabeth, Jude’s mother. Both married for love instead of sense and security. Sir Herbert was not the most handsome or exciting of men, but he was wise with his wealth and kind.
“Marianne, Jasper’s mother, married a man of property but little money, and whatever is left is entailed upon Jasper’s eldest brother.”
Anne remembered him telling her that.
“Elizabeth married a dashing gentleman who turned out to be an adventurer. Risky investments. Gaming debts. Elizabeth died young, poor beautiful creature. And her husband went to see a plantation he’d bought into somewhere in the West Indies and never returned.
This was years ago, when Jude was still quite young.
He left Jude with us. And what was supposed to be an absence of a year stretched on until we ceased expecting him to return.
“Sir Herbert was good to both of those boys. He saw to Jude’s education and paid for Jasper’s commission. He agreed I might leave each nephew a bequest but was firm that Painswick Court and the bulk of the estate go to our daughter.”
“Do your nephews know that?”
“Not the specifics, nor the amount. Why do you ask?”
“It might be wise to moderate their expectations.”
Lady Celia smirked. “Ah, and lessen their motivation to hasten my end, ey? You are probably right.”
Eventually, Lady Celia grew tired of talking. Anne brought up a late supper for them both, then gave her precise doses of digitalis as well as the laudanum to help her sleep. She wished Rosa were there to verify and initial her records but would ask her to do so when she returned.
Finally, she helped Lady Celia prepare for bed. When the woman was tucked beneath the bedclothes in a fresh nightdress, teeth cleaned and face washed, Anne lit the shaded reading lamp and sat near the fire with a book.
Her concentration was broken by a soft tapping on the door before she’d read two pages. She glanced at the bed and was relieved her patient did not stir.
She rose, stepped quietly to the door, and opened it a crack.