Lady Anne and the Menacing Mystic

by Victoria Hamilton

  They strolled down Brock Street toward the Circus, but along the way paused, at Anne’s request, as they came to the lane that held Margaret’s Buildings. Anne examined the narrow lane with interest, for her dear cousin and occasional chaperon, Miss Lolly Broomhall, lived in rooms above a tobacconist along the busy, if slender, thoroughfare. And as a matter of interest, so did the fascinating mystic about whom everyone in Bath seemed to be gossiping.

  “Alethea, I have heard a tale that many in Bath are currently enamored of a mystic, a woman with the sobriquet of Mother Macree, who has rooms along here somewhere,” Anne said. “Even my mother and grandmother have been to her. What say you? I know how much you enjoy the absurd; are you a devotee?”

  Alethea didn’t have a chance to respond, for Mrs. Venables stopped and stared back at Anne. “My lady, please do not make light of that woman and her powers!”

  “Oh, come, Bella!” Alethea said, staring at her husband’s cousin. “You and I went to her together. We listened and then came away laughing. Since then we have chuckled many a time over Mother Macree and her laden pronouncements.”

  Primly, the woman said, “You laughed. I merely smiled to see you so easily entertained.”

  “Not true!” Alethea cried, staring at the other woman with disbelief. “You laughed as heartily as I, surely?”

  Mr. Lonsdale, who had dropped Lady Anne’s arm, was silent, his expression blank of emotion, while Bertram watched, head tilted, as his wife protested.

  “It is not right to laugh at her,” Mrs. Venables insisted. “Not when I have reason to thank her for her enlightenment.”

  “And how is that, Mrs. Venables?” Anne asked.

  With an arch look, Alethea said, “Do you not know the gossip? Our dear Bella has caught herself a beau; a most eligible gentleman indeed, though far from a beau idéal, one must say.”

  “Don’t be cruel, dearest,” Bertram said with a troubled frown.

  “Not cruel, merely precise,” Alethea protested. “Bella, truly, I mean no disrespect, but he is so much older than you! Why, he is fifty or sixty if he is a day. And you . . . you are in the full bloom of beauty.”

  Mrs. Venables blushed, adding softness to her expression. She was beautiful, indeed, though Anne felt there was a reserve to her, a lack of openness that she could not like. It was unfair of her to judge, though, given she had met the woman a mere half hour before.

  “I count myself fortunate,” Mrs. Venables said gently.

  “And yet to the mystic you credit that good fortune, as you name it? I had thought it was your own beauty and wit that won the day, not some fortune-teller with bad breath.”

  “Who is the gentleman, then?” Anne asked to distract from Alethea’s impolite, acerbic comments.

  Mrs. Venables’s cheeks still held that tint of palest rose, like a full-blown but fair flower. “Lord Kattenby. He is a baron, by no means a handsome man,” she said to Anne, then turned to her cousin-in-law, “but he is good, and kind, and when you have had as little as I have had in life, you will learn, Alethea, to value the plain and good over the handsome and scandalous.”

  Alethea had the grace to look ashamed. “I am chastened and apologize, Bella, truly. Lord Kattenby is, as you say, reputedly a good man.”

  “And he will give me the quiet life I desire.”

  “And you will be the perfect wife to him,” Alethea said. “Why, Anne, she positively shames me, how she goes from kitchen to stillroom, darns Bertie’s stockings, oversees the laundry and manages our household like the perfect little huswife!”

  Anne smiled and commented, “You were not here last time I was in Bath, Mrs. Venables, last winter. When did you arrive?”

  “It is an amazing story, is it not, Bella?” Alethea cried. “She was in Italy—”

  “Spain,” Mrs. Venables corrected with a faint smile.

  “—when her poor husband caught some plaguey fever—”

  “A waterborne fever known in the tropics, which occasionally breaks out in Spain, carried there by travelers.”

  “—and died, leaving her stranded with little to go on.”

  “Mr. Venables died three years ago,” she said.

  “We had always been correspondents,” Bertie said. “After her husband died, we wrote to each other often at first, and I urged her to come back. We were childhood friends, as well as cousins; she was always kind to me. I would never allow my cousin to suffer in penury.”

  “I was not penurious then, Bertie, and truly . . . you have been too kind.” Mrs. Venables had colored more deeply, giving her for that moment the elusive beauty of youth.

  “But she would not come, and then I did not hear from her for two years, during which time I’m afraid she suffered terribly,” he said, his expression sober and remonstrative. “When I finally convinced her to return to England and come to us, she was a changed woman.”

  “Illness and poverty do change a woman,” she said, touching a gold and amber cross she wore around her neck. “I am so grateful for my family.”

  “That was the cross Mr. Venables gave to you on your wedding day, is it not?” Bertie asked, his tone gentle.

  “It is,” she said, her lips trembling. “I never take it off. It reminds me of all our years together in Spain and abroad. He was a provisioner for the army. We had many good years, until illness robbed me of such a good man.”

  “Though you have found another good man?”

  “Baron Kattenby is the sort of gentleman who makes an ideal widow’s husband,” she said. “Good, kind, undemanding, attentive.”

  “What did you do in the years when Bertie did not hear from you?” Anne asked, curious about people, as always. “How did you live?”

  “I sold what I had to sell,” she said, her eyes tearing. “Including much that was dear to me . . . much that my beloved husband had given me. Except this cross, of course, which will be around my neck until the day I die. I was ill with the same fever that had killed my husband for much of the time, fortunate to have with me a woman who nursed me through it. Poor Betty . . . she was such a kind woman, but she, too, died of the fever, leaving me alone.” She caught back a sob. “Please, I don’t like to speak of that time. I was too ashamed to write to dear Cousin Bertie, too afraid of sounding wretched.”

  “It is a pity that poverty and illness bring with them shame,” Anne said gently.

  “It’s over now, and I am on the way to being happy, so I do not wish to dwell on the past.”

  Anne offered her an apologetic smile. She was clearly a private woman, and to have her past dredged up like that to a stranger . . . it was hideous. Alethea looked a little ashamed, while Bertie turned his face away in compassion for her suffering.

  A young man approached and bowed, misty sunlight piercing the clouds and shining on his golden hair and glinting in his sky blue eyes. “Mr. Thomas Graeme at your service, ladies. Lonsdale, how do you do this fine day?”

  Mr. Lonsdale appeared taken aback to be accosted on the street. He glanced at the ladies, then doffed his hat, bowed and said, “I am well, Mr. Graeme.”

  There was a discomfited silence for a moment. The young gentleman’s behavior was forward. “Lonsdale, will you not introduce your friend?” Alethea finally asked, censure in her tone as she continued, saying, “Since he has already been so bold as to address us?”

  Anne was interested to note Mr. Lonsdale’s confusion; his friend’s behavior had put him out of countenance. But he acceded to her wishes and said, “Certainly. Lady Anne Addison, Mr. and Mrs. Birkenhead, Mrs. Venables, may I introduce Mr. Thomas Graeme? Mr. Graeme, may I introduce you to Lady Anne, Mr. and Mrs. Birkenhead and Mrs. Venables?”

  “Good day to you all,” the young man said, sweeping off his cockade-adorned hat and bowing elegantly, one shapely leg fitted perfectly in buff cloth thrust forward.

  “And how do you two know each other, Mr. Lonsdale?” Anne asked, curious. Graeme appeared young, a fresh-faced fair-haired fellow with an elegant cravat and jacket
that was slightly too large for his frame.

  “Our club,” Graeme answered, as Lonsdale said, “Eton.”

  “Come now, which is it?” Bertram asked, his gaze slewing between the two men. His brow was furrowed, and a look of suspicion marred his normally elegant insouciance.

  “Both,” Graeme said. “I replied with the current association and dear Alfred replied with the older connection.”

  Lies, Anne thought, and wondered why. Such a simple thing, to tell how they knew one another, and perhaps so revealing; her suspicious nature asserted itself in the face of falsehood. Graeme whispered something to Alfred and he nodded, then the other man bowed and walked away.

  “I, er, must speak to Graeme about something of import,” Lonsdale said. “If you can all do without me for a moment, I will rejoin you at the Circus?”

  “No, Lonsdale, that is too bad of you,” Alethea said sharply. “We invited you so there would be no lady without an escort.”

  “Alethea, enough,” Bertram said. His wife glanced at him, her brow furrowed, but he was frowning at Graeme, who had walked away and awaited Lonsdale.

  “My friend, I am fully capable of walking alone,” Anne said to her. “I have proved it many a time. Why, just the other day I took a dozen or more steps before tottering like a rotten apple tree and toppling over.” Her jest alleviated the tension and they walked on, but Anne did notice Bertram casting one long assessing glance over his shoulder as he watched the two younger gentlemen walking away together, deep in conversation.

  Anne, close to Bertram for a moment, murmured, “Do I sense disapproval of young Lonsdale’s choice of companion?”

  His lips twitched. “I have heard the young man’s name before as a newcomer to Bath. Graeme is . . . light in his morals.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Bertram merely shook his head. “I do not gossip, as you know. Let us say he’s not quite the thing, and I do not like to see Alfred led astray by such as Mr. Thomas Graeme.”

  “Is Lonsdale so easily imposed upon as to be led astray?” Bertram did not answer. “Where is Mr. Graeme’s family from?”

  “No one knows.”

  And that, Anne thought, gave the lie to the Graeme-Lonsdale tale of meeting, and was, perhaps, the crux of Bertie’s disapproval. Family history was the all-important indicator of weight and substance in their world. To be untethered, to be a nobody, made social dealings more difficult. Still, she had not thought Bertie a prig, though, to be fair, she had her own reservations emanating from the lie of the two young gentlemen’s acquaintanceship. But that could equally apply to Lonsdale, who she had also just met. She was prejudiced in his favor, she realized, because his aunt, Mrs. Basenstoke, was such a dear friend. That was hardly fair to Mr. Graeme. As bad as it seemed, who could blame the young man, if he was indeed untethered in this world, for trying to form connections with others, even if it was at the risk of appearing impolite?

  They strolled to the Circus and regarded the townhomes there, the pallid sunshine struggling to make itself seen through the canopy of trees that had yet to shed their leaves. And yet no decision was forthcoming. Alethea preferred the Crescent, with its views, and Bertram thought the Circus, closer to the Assembly Rooms, was the more convenient. Quin, his foremost concern, would be able to walk so far, he hoped, and sit in the Octagon Room, or even the ballroom, as others danced.

  “We can engage a sedan chair for Quin so simply from the Crescent.” Alethea watched her husband, then shook her head impatiently. “Dearest, please be reasonable. You expect too much from Quinny, truly, you do. Think on it. You say the Circus will be more convenient than the Crescent, but unless you plan to walk him through one of the townhomes, out their yard and directly to Alfred Street and the Upper Assembly Rooms, he must still walk all the way to either Bennett or Gay Street and around.” Exasperated, she added, “That is far too distant for dear Quinny.” She sighed. “He fears your reliance on his recovery, Bertie, he truly does.”

  Birkenhead looked pensive and crestfallen, staring down at the cobbles and muttering his muted, unintelligible response. His brother was dearer to him than anyone in the world, Anne knew, and valued him the more for it. Her feelings for Jamey were such that though their cases were far different, she was sympathetic to Bertie’s yearning for his brother to recover. Anne knew Quin was frail, but he had a fierce inner strength far beyond his physical lack.

  But Alethea was right; Quin was not likely ever to increase in strength. To expect it was unfair. “I don’t wish to interject myself into a family discussion, but practicality dictates that you must choose the situation that is best for you both, not disregarding Quin, but recognizing his limitations. If you are close to the Assembly Rooms and he knows you purchased on the Circus for his benefit, might he not feel compelled to try what he may not be able to achieve? You know Quin best, of course, but might he not feel guilty that he cannot take advantage of your generosity to walk all the way? On the Crescent, at least, he can walk on the green for a few minutes, and if weary, your footman can help him back to your home.”

  He nodded. “But the Circus, too, has a lovely green space opposite.”

  “But not the open view, dearest,” Alethea said, with a glance of appreciation to Anne.

  She shook her head. Now, having spoken, Anne feared her powers of persuasion. She did not wish to be the deciding vote after all. “What do you think, Mrs. Venables?” she asked.

  “Oh, I have no say in the decision,” she replied. “Nor should I. After the baron and I wed, I will, of course, be removing to his home on Camden Crescent.”

  So the relationship had come far enough that she was expecting a proposal, or had, perhaps, already received one! “Camden Crescent! My grandmother’s home is on the Paragon, close by. Will you attend St. Swithin?”

  “Yes, indeed! Shall we see you there Sunday?”

  And with such chat of church and congregation, the matter of the lease or purchase of a townhome passed and they strolled the Circus until they came in sight of the landau, where Lonsdale awaited them.

  Chapter Three

  The afternoon was not yet gone, and Anne had a task she had been wishing to perform since she arrived in Bath two days before. She marshaled her forces and set out with her maid, Mary, Mary’s son Wee Robbie, and her cat, Irusan. As Mary carried a basket on her arm laden with treats from the Everingham cook—the woman loved to display her arts and baked far too many sweets for a household of women—tea and various other sundries, Anne utilized her grandmother’s creaky carriage to manage the slight distance to Margaret’s Buildings. The driver let them down along Brock Street. Anne tugged at her bodice and settled her cat in her arms. He grumbled and flexed his claws, catching them on Anne’s shawl, then withdrawing them with an impatient growl.

  “This is it, Mary; this is where Lolly lives now,” she said. She eyed the row of townhomes down the narrow lane as they strolled it. The buildings were relatively new, but already the owners were renting space to shops along the ground level, with rooms and apartments on the first and second floors.

  The afternoon had turned dusky, with a dusty light from the sun that was obscured by the angling shadows of the buildings. “She has moved rooms since I was last here. It’s the door beyond the tobacconist, she wrote,” Anne said, hefting Irusan—a not inconsiderable weight, halfway between one stone and two—on her hip like a baby. “Look at all these townhomes that have become shops and rented rooms! I see a day when all are shops and rooms to let above, not homes.”

  “Aye, milady. Robbie, Robbie! Dinna run aboot so; it’s ill-mannered,” Mary said, distracted by her son’s excitement as he dashed along the cobbled lane.

  Anne had feared the stultified atmosphere of Bath would dull the boy, but she realized she had not reckoned with the difference in life experience between a lady of her age and means and a boy of the serving class. Between making friends with other tigers and scullery lads along the Paragon, escaping his lessons—his mother had been to
o busy with Anne’s Bath wardrobe to attend to his reading and arithmetic—and stuffing his face with the Bath buns Anne’s grandmother had the cook purchase from Sally Lunn’s, he was rarely still.

  “Let him go, Mary. He can’t get into trouble along here, I don’t think,” she said as they strolled, and she examined the shops along the street level. “Let him run about and release his fidgets.”

  “He will visit with Miss Broomhall, or I’ll know the reason why,” she said sternly. “She was verra kind to him in Cornwall, and he willna advance in life by disremembering kindness.”

  With one sharp word from his mother, he was swiftly brought to heel. Anne located the correct building, with a stained white painted door beside a tobacconist’s shop. “Oh, dear,” Anne said, staring at the coal smoke–dirtied door. “This does not bode well for the cleanliness of the establishment.” As she stood and allowed Mary to employ the door knocker, Anne observed a well-dressed young lady, her face veiled, departing from a house a few doors down, as an anxious-looking couple arrived, cast glances both ways, and hustled in. Her nerves tingled. Could that establishment be the infamous Mystic of Bath’s residence? Something told her it was, though she was no seer.

  A woman in a soiled apron answered the door. As the ladies and Robbie entered the dim entry that smelled of boiled beef, fish and cabbage, she indicated, with a laconic and put-upon sigh, that Miss Broomhall’s rooms were up two floors at the top.

  “Will you bring up tea, madam, while I visit my cousin?” Anne said to her, eyeing her stained apron with disapproval.

  The woman glanced at Mary, Wee Robbie in his pint-sized livery, and then sized Anne up and straightened. “Aye, miss, I’ll—”

  “Her ladyship, Lady Anne Addison, daughter of the Earl of Harecross,” Mary snapped.

  The woman nodded and curtseyed. “I’ll bring it up in a jiffy.”

  “See that you do, madam,” Mary replied tartly.