Chapter 27
It was difficult to carry on a serious conversation over the road noise and all the jostling of Father’s poorly sprung gig, but when they returned to Churchdown, he insisted they take tea alone in his study and catch up before his “beloved brood” descended on her.
Before they could make good their retreat, however, little Matty met them at the door, threw her arms around Anne’s knees, and demanded she read a story.
Nancy appeared—baby Emma in the crook of her arm, stained apron over enlarged abdomen, and as lovely as ever—and took Matty by the hand.
After welcoming Anne home, she left them alone in the study, gently closing the door partway, and shepherded Matty to another room.
Father and daughter sat talking for some time. Anne explained about Lady Celia and how she had gone from resenting the snappish woman to caring about her, and how sorry she was to lose another patient under her care, especially after failing her mother.
“What about your mother?” he asked, looking confused.
“You must know I have felt guilty about her death all these years.”
“Have you? I am sorry to hear that. Surprised as well. For I have blamed myself, and assumed you blamed me too. A supposed healer who couldn’t heal his own wife?
And then to leave you like that. Not that I think you failed to do anything I prescribed.
I know you to be diligent. But that I left her final hours on your young shoulders .
. . ?” He shook his head. “It was not your fault. I was to blame.”
“Perhaps neither of us was to blame,” Anne said, relief washing over her. “I described the various treatments we tried to a physician I became acquainted with in Painswick—”
“Not Marsland, I take it?”
“No. A younger man. And he told me that even today, there is nothing more we could have done for her.”
“That is good to hear. And who is this young physician-friend of yours?”
As a magpie to something shiny, Anne’s stepmother again appeared in the doorway, eyes bright and voice eager. “Young physician, you say? How well acquainted? I do hope he is single?”
Anne laughed. “You are such a romantic, Nancy! But I appreciate your care and interest.”
Nancy Loveday stilled at the words—perhaps the first kind words Anne had spoken to her in far too long. Anne was surprised and chagrined to see tears well in the woman’s eyes.
With a watery smile, Nancy said, “I suppose I am. And coming from you, my girl, that is quite a compliment.”
Little Emma started fussing. Her stepmother patted Anne’s shoulder rather awkwardly and turned to go and tend to the child.
A swirl of emotions made Anne dizzy. Feeling almost disloyal to her own dear mamma while regretting that she had held herself distant from her father’s beloved wife for so long.
After Nancy left them, her father gazed at Anne, compassion and understanding in his kind eyes. “Your mother would not have minded you and Nancy becoming friends, you know. She always wanted her family to be happy—and for her daughters to be loved and to find their place and purpose in the world.”
Anne took a deep breath . . . and released a long exhale. Then slowly nodding, she said, “Thank you, Papa. I believe I have.”
A week later, when Anne arrived at the rectory, her sister embraced her warmly. She had not been so affectionate with Anne in what seemed like years.
“I am so glad you are safe!” Fanny exclaimed. “What an ordeal you’ve been through.”
Her father had brought Anne to her sister’s but couldn’t stay long, as he needed to tend to an ailing patient. After greeting Fanny and carrying in Anne’s baggage, he took his leave.
“Now, come and have some refreshment,” Fanny invited. “You must be thirsty after your journey.”
“I’m fine,” Anne replied. “Have you put me in the same room as last time? I will carry up my things and then—”
“Later. Come in and sit. I ordered tea when I saw the gig coming up the lane. We shan’t be disturbed in here. This sitting room is for my specific use.”
“Thank you. Tea sounds lovely.”
The two sisters sat in armchairs facing one another over a low tea table.
Anne asked, “And where is Mr. Norton?”
“Meeting with one of his flock in the Parish Room.” Fanny pointed to a closed door across the hall. It was a small study where a clergyman could meet with parishioners in private, without disturbing his wife.
Fanny added, “He spends a fair bit of time in his role of spiritual counselor. He is most dedicated.”
It might have been the first complimentary thing she’d heard her sister say about her husband since their wedding trip.
Gaze distant and thoughtful, Fanny went on, “He really is a good, honest, caring man. I am sorry I did not appreciate it earlier. He is quite devoted to me and faithful, something I did not fully value before. But I plan to make it up to him.”
The maid came in with a tea tray and set it before them.
“Thank you, Betsy.”
When the girl had gone and the tea had been poured, Fanny said, “I can hardly believe Mr. Dalby is dead.”
“I know.”
“After everything you wrote, everything you revealed about him, his true nature, his greed and lies . . . is it wicked to say that I’m . . . not glad of course, but not sorry he’s gone?”
“No, it’s perfectly understandable.”
“Tell me everything. About Lady Celia. About this Dr. Marsland and being locked in a prison cell at gunpoint. Sounds horrid!”
“It was . . . mostly.” Anne’s mind filled with other, far less horrid images, of wrapping Ernest Finch’s injured head with his cravat and later bathing and bandaging his brow.
Of him trying to jump in front of her to protect her.
Of him taking her hand in gratitude after she’d bandaged his head wound.
Of him embracing her under a yew tree in the churchyard . . .
“What do you mean, mostly?” Fanny asked.
Anne looked up to find her sister watching her closely, clearly intrigued.
“Well, it could have been worse. And we survived to tell the tale.”
“We?”
“Oh. I believe I wrote about Miss Fitzjohn coming to our rescue. I was locked in the cell with a second physician. A younger man, relatively new to Painswick and working with Dr. Marsland. An Ernest Finch.”
Fanny tilted her head, her expression all too knowing. “And you like this man.”
“I . . . confess I do. At first I was mistrustful of him. Later I came to admire him.”
“And he you?”
“I . . . believe so. I hope so.”
“But . . . ?” Fanny’s brows rose in expectation.
“Things are topsy-turvy for him right now. With Dr. Marsland being held awaiting trial, he has taken over his practice, for all intents and purposes, yet his future is uncertain at present. Besides, you know I have decided not to marry.”
Fanny shook her head. “No, you decided not to fall in with any of Nancy’s matchmaking schemes. Although not all of her matchmaking schemes have failed as it turns out.”
“And I am glad of that. Glad for you and Mr. Norton both.”
“Don’t be stubborn, Anne. No one will hold you to your declaration to remain single.
You made it as an understandable overreaction to Nancy’s endless machinations.
Of course you don’t want to be pressured to marry, nor to marry for anything but love.
And no one, well, no one except Nancy, wants that for you either. ”
“I’ve been unfair to her,” Anne admitted.
“Far too critical. I know now she really thought she was helping me. After living in Painswick Court and witnessing the complicated, often tense relationship between Miss Fitzjohn and her mother, and yet, how she grieved her loss . . .” Anne shook her head.
“Well, I’ve resolved to be kinder to Nancy in future. I don’t want to have similar regrets.”
“Really? I’m impressed. Now, enough about Nancy. Tell me more about this Dr. Finch. What did you say to each other before you left? Did you make no promises to return? Did he make you no offer?”
Anne shook her head. “It hardly seemed the time, considering recent tragedies.”
“I suppose so.” Her sister pouted for a moment, then eagerly urged, “Now go on and give me all the details you left out of your letter. . . .”
For a time Anne obliged her, recounting her days at Painswick Court and especially the night in the cell. Fanny listened with rapt attention, only interrupting to ask clarifying questions.
Anne had not planned to mention any details about how Mr. Dalby had died, nor the subsequent inquest, postmortem, and hearing. But Fanny pressed her, wishing to know all, so Anne reluctantly shared everything.
Eventually, as Anne talked herself out, the door to the Parish Room opened and Mr. Norton walked a young man out, hand on his shoulder, murmuring a comforting admonition to send him on his way.
When the door closed behind the caller, Anne’s brother-in-law came and stood on the threshold of his wife’s domain.
He lifted a placating hand. “Don’t worry. I won’t intrude. Just wanted to greet our sister.” He bowed to her. “How do you do, Anne. I am sorry I was not able to meet you when you arrived.”
Anne rose and gave him a warm smile and a curtsy. “That’s all right. A pleasure to see you now.”
“Do come in, Stephen,” Fanny said. “There is more tea and we would enjoy your company. Would we not, Anne?”
Anne looked at her sister in some surprise. “We would indeed.”
She glanced back at Mr. Norton and saw him looking similarly stunned.
He gathered himself and replied, “With pleasure, my dear.”
And the hopeful, smitten smile on his face nearly broke Anne’s heart.