Chapter 31
Thirty-One
Agnes heard Harry shout her name over the cacophony of the busy street, but she stayed in front of two large men who had been walking past when she had left his office.
Before his cries got too near, she slipped into an alley.
She didn’t want to be found. What she needed was a safe place to shut out the world and get lost in her mind, at least until the hurt subsided enough for her to make her way back to York.
With her puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, it wasn’t as if she could sit in a tea shop without drawing looks of pity or contempt. So her feet carried her in the direction imprinted in her memories. Turning corner after corner, she walked until she saw the black wrought-iron fence.
There she was. The statue was no longer a beacon of hope, but an omen of reality. Change was a part of life, and sometimes, it wasn’t good. Soon she would have exactly what she had when she stood here at the age of fourteen. Nothing.
After more than a decade of relying on others, believing that she had deserved something in return after giving so much of herself, Agnes was back to where she started. How could she muster the courage to try again, to build another life, when she knew she might just end up here again?
“I’m coming, I’m coming. Hold your horses.” She could hardly believe her ears. The reflection of her past grew clearer as the same aging voice echoed through the yard. She was surprised to find that the spectre of a man was still alive, let alone still working as the gateman for the orphanage.
“Ah. It’s you again.”
Agnes looked around, expecting to see someone standing behind her, someone who would be a familiar visitor to this place. She saw no one. “You remember me?”
“I remember every face that stands at these gates. I didn’t expect to see you again. Your last stay was brief and you went home with that woman who brought the teas.” He opened the gate.
“Well, don’t stand there. Come in. The weather is shite,” he said, irritated, as Agnes stood frozen in place. The wind had picked up, and the darkening clouds in the gray sky cast an ominous shadow over the city. He huffed again, breaking her spell, and she followed him into the manor.
The woman who had shared her hack scurried down the hall and immediately pulled Agnes into a hug.
Stunned by the sudden contact, Agnes stood stiffly, arms stuck to her sides.
“Come inside for a cup o’ tea, lass. We have lavender and lemon balm.
Just what you need. I’ll let you have your space, but if you want to talk, just holler for me. Aye?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“No need to be so formal with me. Call me Margaret.”
Agnes sat alone in the drawing room, wrapped in the familiar scent of tea that resurrected memories of living in Holgate with Edith and Ida.
The window looked out over the large yard of the orphanage, but it was too empty to provide proper distraction. The passersby on the streets beyond the gate were too distant to observe properly. The chimes from the clock in the foyer informed her that the hour had grown late.
How had she gotten here? She had been so optimistic, certain she was chasing a future more astonishing than she could even imagine.
But instead she had crashed down into a wretched trench of loneliness.
She couldn’t even recall her precise argument with Harry, just vague memories of hurt, anger, and the sickening feeling of loss.
Was this who she really was? Someone who feigned courage and independence, but ran from one protector to the next?
She had been right to run from her mother.
The choice to leave Edith, and then Richard, had not been her own as death took them.
But she had run toward Harry, not for protection, but for love.
Yet at the first threat of conflict, she had run away.
Someone coughed behind her. Agnes turned around to find a young girl. The concern etched into her face told Agnes that she had been trying to get her attention for some time.
“Miss, it’s getting late. Mrs. Mackenzie asked me to prepare a guest room for you. It’s rather small, but several girls have bunked together to give you some privacy.”
“Mrs. Mackenzie?”
“Yes, the headmistress here. Margaret Mackenzie.”
Her immediate reaction was to tell the girl that she hadn’t needed to go through the trouble, but in truth, she had nowhere else to go. Night had fallen. York would still be there in the morning. After that, she didn’t know what she would do.
“You’re too kind.”
The next morning, Agnes’s stomach twisted and turned. She hadn’t slept a wink, wrestling with her own doubts and regrets. Passion was never worth surrendering the control that came from being alone. She had always known that, but she just needed the reminder.
Throughout her childhood, some of the men her mother brought back took a special interest in marrying.
Her mother would become lively, hopeful that their life was about to change.
But then the men disappeared, or their aggressive side revealed itself, crushing her mother’s dreams over and over until she was full of nothing but spite.
Agnes hoped that wouldn’t be her destiny. Maybe the women in her family didn’t get happily ever afters. She would never again hold out hope for a man, even one as promising as Harry. While he might not have hurt her with physical violence, he had his own ways of ripping her heart to pieces.
She crept down the stairs, still embarrassed over displacing girls from their bedroom last night.
Here she was, a grown woman, taking advantage of the hospitality from a children’s home.
One day, she pledged to herself, she would be able to stand on her own two feet after life took its cruel and twisted turns.
“Over here, Lady Skelton!” Agnes looked around the foyer, surprised to hear someone call her by her title. It was Margaret. “Yes, you! Who else would I be speaking to? Edith told me all about your marriage to her brother, rest his soul.”
Agnes tentatively stepped into the dining room from where Margaret had summoned her. The girls around the table all peered at her with rampant curiosity.
“Good morning, girls.” She smiled at the lovely faces. Agnes tried not to think about which girl’s bed she had stolen last night.
“Good morning, miss,” they replied in unison.
“No, girls. This is Lady Skelton. You should address her as my lady, not as miss.”
In unison again, the girls gave it a second go. “Good morning, my lady.” Their headmistress nodded approvingly. She was stern, but the impalpable warmth she inspired in the room was obvious. Margaret was preparing them for a society that would judge them harshly.
“Please, Lady Skelton, Charlie can help you with your plate.” In the interest of not dismissing anyone from their responsibilities, she complied even though she could serve herself.
She expected to find a young footman, but was surprised when a gangly brunette girl brought her an empty plate from the table.
Charlie seemed only a few years younger than Agnes herself had been when she had sought refuge here.
“Tell me what you’d like, mi—my lady, and I’ll put it on your plate. I’ll pile it on good for you.” Agnes smiled at the generosity. Even so, she requested small scoops, claiming lack of hunger, but when Charlie put the plate on the table, Margaret scoffed.
“You pick that plate back up and put more food on it, Charlie. Lady Skelton missed dinner last night. She’ll be hungry this morning.
” Agnes wouldn’t insist a lack of appetite a second time.
Her stomach growled with anticipation. Margaret was right, but she had missed more than dinner.
Yesterday’s breakfast in York had been her last meal.
“So, Lady Skelton, how long do you plan to stay with us?” Margaret asked once they were all seated again.
“Oh . . .” Agnes hadn’t suspected that her hostess would presume she would stay for any significant length of time. “I plan to go back to York this morning. I believe there is a train soon I might catch.”
“But will you come back for a visit? A real visit?” a young girl in piggy tails asked. Her eyes displayed an eagerness to offer unearned affection.
“Of course.” For now, it was nothing more than an empty promise.
Agnes couldn’t think beyond the next hour, but she would consider it when her mind cleared.
Perhaps in her new life she could find time to volunteer at a place like this.
If there were no more gardens to tend or no more apothecary to run, she’d have to find ways to fill her days.
“What subjects of study are you proficient in, Lady Skelton?” Margaret asked, landing a second question that caught Agnes off guard.
“Oh, I love maths!” interjected one of the girls before Agnes had a chance to consider the question.
“But you’re rubbish at it,” replied another girl from across the table.
“Am not!”
Agnes watched the smile on the little girl’s face waver and her shoulders slump.
She had to say something. “I bet you’re wonderful at it.
But what makes us great at something is not the number of times we are correct, but the effort we put into it.
The depth of the questions we ask. The commitment to get better every day. ”
The girl’s green eyes narrowed, locking onto Agnes. “Really?” She sounded skeptical.
“Yes! I particularly enjoy making remedies with all kinds of natural herbs. People from all over York come to pick up my tinctures, teas, and oils. I even make deliveries in London. But you know what? The other day, I made a tea that was absolutely terrible. Har—my guest, he could barely swallow it. And his face, you should have seen it!” A pang clinked against her heart with the memory.
His familiar company would be erased from her life. It was over.
Despair weaved its way through her body. She was too ashamed to allow the girls to see it, especially not after they had greeted her with such sunniness. To hide her faltering smile, she took several bites of coddled eggs.
Marget addressed her again. “Lady Skelton, if you ever find dower life not to your liking, or if circumstances have become . . . uncertain, we always have a need for teachers. I believe you would be an excellent role model for the students.”
Agnes blushed. “But Mrs. Mackenzie, I’m a baroness by title alone. I earned it through marriage, not merit. I haven’t been to school since girlhood and even then, I was quite distracted.”
Agnes had loved going to school when she was a kid, but with only a few hours of sleep, if that, each night, she had struggled to stay awake and focused during her lessons. Edith had been the one to develop Agnes’s fluency in reading and writing so that she could record notes in her journals.
“Yes, but you have other skills. We prefer an eclectic set of courses for our young ladies. Herbalism would be greatly beneficial. Besides, we already have a teacher who handles arithmetic and reading.” Mrs. Mackenzie’s eyes shifted to the open door as footsteps approached in the hall. “Ah, here she comes now.”
Agnes turned around to see a short brunette in the doorway.
The glasses perched at the tip of her nose would have fallen off if she didn’t have it pointed in the air.
Her mousy hair was pulled straight back into a bun, emphasizing the roundness of her cheeks.
At her entrance, the girls corrected their posture, straightening their backs off the chairs.
While Mrs. Mackenzie taught manners, this woman must teach discipline.
“Allow me to introduce my daughter Belinda or, as the children call her, Miss B.”
“Good morning, Mrs. . . .” Belinda said, pausing with an expression of impatience while she waited for her mother to introduce their guest.
“Oh, excuse me. Belinda, this is Lady Skelton. She was Edith’s protégé.”
“Please, call me Agnes.”
Belinda’s hard expression broke with surprise. “Oh. Welcome, then. You are here to seek employment?”
What a strange turn of events. Her arrival at the orphanage had been a surprise to everyone, but they all had welcomed her without hesitation.
Or was she really surprised? It seemed like Columba of Sens’ Children’s Home had a way of calling her when she needed to be here.
Maybe this children’s home was a home to many lost souls.
“It is something I may consider. Yet there are many matters left unsettled right now. Furthermore, I am quite committed to my work as an herbalist in York. The idea of leaving my patrons without their cures pains me.”
“Yes, of course. We know all about that. The clever people speak highly of you. The ignorant spread nasty rumors. But we don’t mind them. All of us have been called a witch before.” Belinda handed Charlie her plate to fill up with breakfast.
“Nothing wrong with being a witch, either,” added Margaret. The girls around the table whispered, but Belinda’s pointed look silenced them.
“Oh, Bee. Loosen up,” said her mother. Belinda replied with a humph and sat down to eat.