Chapter 17
Anne had received no reply to her last letter to Fanny, yet she felt duty bound to write now that the situation had changed and she’d learned Mr. Dalby had lied to her sister. So the next day she again sat down at Lady Celia’s desk with pen, ink, and paper.
Dear Fanny,
I thought I ought to let you know that since my last letter, Mr. Dalby has moved back to Painswick Court. His wife died last year, I recently learned.
I feel I should also share the—I hope not too distressing—discovery that Lady Celia did not forbid him to marry you.
I confronted her about it, and she was clearly ignorant of the entire affair.
Said he apparently fabricated her objections as an excuse to break things off with you while placing the blame at his aunt’s door.
Lady Celia allowed that his intentions might originally have been honorable, until he realized your dowry was insufficient to provide the style of living he had become accustomed to. She asserts that had you married him, you would have been poor and miserable and you are better off without him.
Having lately met another young woman he took advantage of and abandoned, and then learning his former brother-in-law (Albert Palling, whom you may remember) blames him for infidelity and even his wife’s death, I have to agree with Lady Celia’s assessment.
I don’t relay all this in a spirit of “I told you so,” but rather in the hope that learning his true nature, you will finally be able to lay aside those past regrets and what-might-have-beens and begin appreciating the life and husband you have.
I truly hope all is well with you and Stephen.
Yours sincerely,
Anne
After attending church on Sunday, Anne spent another pleasant afternoon at Yew Cottage with Miss Lotty.
This time Ursula didn’t join them, having been invited to dine with an elderly relative.
Anne was grateful for the opportunity to share a simple meal and a heart-to-heart talk with her mother’s dear friend and hers as well.
Raising a topic that had been on her mind, Anne began, “You mentioned that after your father died, you nursed your mother through her final illness.”
“That’s right. Mamma took turns at Father’s bedside with me, but I was on my own when she fell ill. Well, except for Richard and kind neighbors like Ursula. Those were difficult days but precious too.”
“How so?”
“Much of it was unpleasant, I won’t pretend otherwise, but before she passed we shared many hours in sweet communion.
Toward the end, her agitation lessened, and she grew peaceful.
I don’t know if she could still hear me or not, but I read from the Psalms to her, and sang, and prayed.
As she breathed her last, a single tear escaped from her eye.
I like to think she was seeing her Savior, though of course I can’t say for sure.
Either way, I know she is in heaven now. And that gives me hope and comfort.”
“Did you ever . . . feel guilty?” Anne asked. “Wondered if you neglected to do something that might have extended her life?”
Lotty’s eyes widened. “No, my dear. I have regrets, of course. We all do. I’m sure I could have been a better daughter.
More caring and attentive before she grew ill.
I regret some sharp words during my younger years, and kind deeds left undone.
But no, at the end, I did not feel guilty.
I did all I could to ease her suffering, but it was beyond my power to save her. God alone held her life in His hands.”
Lotty studied Anne’s face, compassion in her gaze. “You once wrote that you were alone with your mother when she passed, and you feared you should have done more for her. Do you still have doubts about that? Surely your father never blamed you.”
Over a knot of pain in her chest, Anne admitted, “When he returned and learned she’d died, he said, ‘I shouldn’t have let you talk me out of trying those other treatments. And I should never have left her alone with you.’”
“He was upset. I am sure he didn’t mean it.”
Anne shrugged. “He said something similar before I came here. Either way, I’ve felt guilty for years.
Fearing it was my fault, at least in part.
After Mamma died, I was still willing to assist Papa, to help patients under his guidance, but I avoided having sole care of anyone.
It’s one of the reasons I hesitated to serve as Lady Celia’s nurse. ”
“I did not realize or I would not have encouraged you to do so.”
“I am glad you did.” Anne took a deep breath.
“The experience has been good for me. I’ve begun to realize I am more capable than I credited.
Dr. Finch and Dr. Marsland have both praised my care.
Even Lady Celia has done so. Despite a few .
. . problems, I’ve learned I am reasonably competent, even without my father or another doctor at my side day and night.
I am still not certain there wasn’t more we could have done for Mamma, but now I am certain I did all I knew to do. ”
“I am sure you did your best, my dear. And in the end, that’s all any of us can do, besides praying for help.”
“I prayed a great deal at the time and wondered why God did not answer.”
Lotty squeezed her hand. “I’ve wrestled with that question as well, for God’s infinite wisdom is often beyond human understanding. Yet I believe He does hear, and answer, even if the answer is not the one we wished for.”
Anne slowly nodded. Feeling tears heat her eyes, she blinked them away and said as cheerfully as she could, “Now, how about I cut some of the beautiful flowers in your garden and put them on your parents’ grave on my way back?”
Miss Lotty smiled. “That would be lovely, as long as you take some for your grandparents’ grave as well.”
A short while later, Anne left Yew Cottage, carrying the flowers and a basket of Lotty’s freshly knitted stockings to deliver to the poorhouse at her next opportunity. Anne left the flowers on the graves and then continued on to Painswick Court.
Upon her return, she found Lady Celia chatting with a visitor. So, leaving the basket in her small, dim room, she picked up the copy of Northanger Abbey and carried it to her secret reading nook. She settled herself on the cushions of the window seat, found her place in the book, and began to read.
. . . moreover, she gives you reason to suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted, and informs you that you will not have a single domestic within call.
With this parting cordial she curtsies off—you listen to the sound of her receding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you—and when, with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover, with increased alarm, that it has no lock—
Suddenly the door flew open.
Anne gasped, pressing a hand to her chest.
Jasper Paine drew up short, clearly surprised to find her there. “I say, Anne, you gave me a start. I see you have discovered my hiding place.”
“Your hiding place? I thought it was mine alone.”
“No, no. This has been my special place for many a year, though I am happy to share it with you. As a lad, I used to hide in here with a book when unwelcome guests came to call or Aunt Celia was in a foul mood. I wouldn’t close both doors, however.
Too obvious. Only the one. Which created a shield large enough to sit behind without being seen by a passerby. ”
“Devious.”
“I thought so.” He grinned. “What are you reading?”
She told him, only then noticing the book in his own hand.
He turned to go. “Well, I shall leave you to it.”
Anne swung herself off the cushions and rose to her feet. “That’s all right. I had better go and look in on Lady Celia anyway.”
“I believe her caller just left.”
“Perfect timing, then.” She swept her hand toward the window seat. “It’s all yours. For now.”
That evening, Anne sat reading aloud to Lady Celia when Dr. Marsland arrived to look in on his patient.
The three chatted pleasantly for a time, and then he listened to her heart, gauged the swelling of her ankles, and asked after her appetite.
Louie went to the door and whined to go outside.
“Would you mind taking him out, Miss Loveday?” he asked.
“Not at all.” She had been about to do so before he suggested it.
She ignited a long match in the fire, lit a chimney lamp, and carried it to the dressing room. “I will just get my shawl and gloves.”
“Good idea. Cool and damp tonight.”
When she emerged, she clipped the lead on Louie’s collar and said to Dr. Marsland, “By the way, I’ve already given Lady Celia tonight’s sleeping draught.”
“Ah. Good.”
“Yes. Very diligent is our Anne,” Lady Celia said. “As diligent as Nurse Horlick, and she doesn’t even snore. Smells nicer too. Nearly as nice as Dr. Finch.”
They all shared a smile at that, and then Anne took the dog outside.
When she returned a short while later, she found Dr. Marsland sitting in the bedside chair Anne had recently vacated and Lady Celia lying with eyes closed, snoring lightly, in a deep sleep aided by laudanum.
Anne said, “I will just put away my things, and then I can sit with her again.” She again carried the chimney lamp into the dressing room and set it on the shelf beside the medicine bottles while she removed her shawl and tugged off her gloves.
By the light of the lamp, she noticed something was different.
What was it? She looked closer. The digitalis bottle was where she had left it.
But the laudanum bottle stood at an angle and was also full.
It had not been full earlier—she had already given Lady Celia three doses from that bottle.
Someone had been in there. . . . She knew the housemaid periodically came in to tidy up, but this felt different, like an invasion.
She stepped back into Lady Celia’s room, bottle in hand. “Dr. Marsland. Did you put this laudanum in the room I use? This is not the same bottle that was there before.”
“I brought a fresh one.”
“But the other was still half full.”
“I thought it a wise precaution. After the . . . digitalis incident.”
“How so?”
“You will recall that I replaced that bottle straightaway. In case the physic itself had been tainted or wrongly prepared somehow by the druggist. I decided it would be wise to do the same with the laudanum.”
Conflicting emotions surged through Anne.
Embarrassment that he felt he had to take precautions due to her presumed mistake.
And unease at the thought of him, of anyone, going into her room without her knowledge.
She said, “I wonder if I ought to keep the medicine in a locked case. Have you one to spare?”
“I don’t. Surely that’s an unnecessary precaution.”
Anne was not so sure. Perhaps she ought to ask Buxton to find a key so she could lock her doors when she stepped out.
A few moments later, Dr. Marsland rose. “Well. Now you’re back, I will take my leave. Good-night, Miss Loveday.”
Had he really come over to deliver a bottle of laudanum because of the digitalis issue, when the existing bottle—which Lady Celia had had no adverse reaction to—was still half full? Or had he another reason for coming to Painswick Court that night, and the medicine had merely been his excuse?
Curiosity nagging at her, Anne let herself into the other dressing room and knocked softly on Rosa’s door.
A moment later, Rosa opened it, already in her nightclothes, book in hand. “Is something wrong?”
“No, I just want to go downstairs for a moment. Could you keep your door open until I return and listen for Lady Celia? She seems to be sleeping peacefully, but just in case?”
“Of course.”
“Need anything while I’m down there?”
“Hmm . . . milk and biscuits?” Rosa suggested with a grin.
“Good idea.”
Anne tiptoed out into the corridor. Miss Fitzjohn’s bedroom door was ajar and her room dark.
Anne crept as quietly as she could down the stairs without aid of a candle, hoping she would not trip and fall.
Reaching the main level, she tiptoed along the passage until she neared the parlour, firelight and quiet voices revealing that her suspicion had been correct.
Katherine’s voice and a man’s low baritone.
But as she drew closer, she realized she had been wrong after all. It was not Dr. Marsland in a tête-à-tête with Katherine.
The man’s voice belonged to Mr. Dalby.
“. . . if she has, I need to find it, but between her dashed nurse and lady’s maid, there is almost always someone with her.”
“There are . . . things . . . I need to find in there too.”
“Let’s work together. Surely between us, we can manage it. We’ve always been good together, haven’t we, Kat? And we can be again, after she—”
“Don’t speak of that.”
“We both have a lot to lose. And a lot to gain.”
“You more than I.”
“Perhaps financially. But in matters of the heart . . .”
Katherine snorted. “What do you know of hearts?”
“I know yours. And I know when she is not here to forbid you any longer, you can marry whomever you like.”
Was there really something between him and Katherine, Anne wondered, or did he refer to another man?
“You really do have the most inflated view of your charms, Jude,” Katherine said. “Be careful. One word to Mamma of this and she will disinherit you tomorrow. If she has not already.”
At that, Anne tiptoed away and continued belowstairs for the promised milk and biscuits, concluding that any romantic inclinations were on his side alone.