And another bothersome moment from the night before: why did a perfectly capable maid suddenly spill a tray on Mrs. Noakes as that woman was becoming nervous and fretful? There was an answer that occurred to Anne. The poor woman had looked out of her depth and unhappy the whole evening. Had she instigated an incident so she could ask Mr. Doyne to take her home? It would be easy to jostle a maid’s arm and cause a spill; that was what Lady Sharples had loudly suggested.
Mary had no answers, and worked silently, letting Anne talk it out as she pinned and coiled the thick hair into a modish style. Finally, Mary gave her hair a pat and said, “I think you’re ready, milady.”
Anne stood; she wore one of last year’s gowns, a blue satin robe à la française, with exquisite Brussels lace at the neck and sleeves, enough to show she could afford the luxuries, not enough to be ostentatious at church. It had been freshened with a new stomacher in white silk with blue embroidery, an old-fashioned look contrasting the gown, but one that Anne thought was pretty. Mary helped her with her gloves.
When her mistress was perfect, Mary went back to the subject of Anne’s chatter. “Nouw, milady, don’t ye think you’re making up mysteries to avoid thinking of his lordship?”
“I’ve been doing nothing but thinking about him, in between other things, of course.”
“Aye. So . . . why are you in such a tumult?”
“I have asked myself that question, and myself has many excuses and answers, but few that will suffice. I consult myself like an Oracle, but myself merely bids me ask another question, for the future is clouded. Mayhap I should consult again the Mystic of Bath.”
“I’d no think you the fool if you did, milady; many an answer has been captured by such as yon mystic. P’raps it is that they delve into the innermost longings of their subject and fish out the answers from there.”
“You may have something, Mary. In part that did seem to be her method, to divine what the subject most wished, and to tell them those secrets within themselves. But still . . . there is much she knows that I don’t understand how she knows it.”
“Aye, milady; that is how life works, is it not? With mystery abounding? After all, are not mystery and the mystic allied?”
• • •
St. Swithin Church was a short walk along the Paragon, a perfect distance on a warm autumnal morning. The air was perfumed with the nutty aroma of fallen leaves and the faintly fishy tang of the river. Anne and her mother walked, arm in arm, while Lady Everingham took a sedan chair with two perspiring carriers. Despite their burden they outpaced Anne and Lady Harecross, and the older woman was settled in the family’s rented box in the upstairs gallery of the church by the time the two younger women arrived.
Built over an ancient crypt, on a site of worship to many generations of Bathonians, St. Swithin was popular. The new edifice had been constructed a few years before but had to be expanded not long after, and there was talk of continuing expansion, for it was in the increasingly fashionable section of Bath known as Walcot. After arriving they were joined by Lolly, who accompanied Lydia and John in their carriage and supported poor Lydia up the stairs. Anne appreciated John’s kindness in escorting the older woman. It was more than her grandmother and mother—Lolly’s cousins—had thought to do even though Lolly had obliged them the evening before by making up their card table of four.
Mrs. Clary Basenstoke was accompanied by both Mr. Lonsdale, who Anne had invited, and his cousin, Roger, who Anne had not invited. Lady Harecross had extended the invitation to their church to Mrs. Basenstoke’s new beau, Mr. Smythe, but he was not able to join them, so perhaps Roger was a replacement.
They took their places—their box in the upper gallery was crowded because of all of their guests, invited and otherwise—then there was a stir and a wave of whispers. Anne turned. Osei had entered on the lower level and stood at the end of the nave, glancing around the church. Anne stood and caught his eye. He found his way upstairs and joined them, murmuring a greeting, his ineffable grace allowing him to ignore the stir and the whispers and the eyes of everyone on him. Lydia welcomed him with pathetic gratitude, for Osei was a familiar face, and patiently kind and courtly with her in her uncomfortable state.
Anne’s mother greeted him with frosty civility. Anne’s grandmother ignored him. The others politely nodded at Anne’s introduction, and prepared for service. Anne introduced him to Mr. Roger Basenstoke, whom she had spoken with the night before concerning Osei, explaining that she had not expected to see Mr. Basenstoke at the church. She was gratified that after a brief moment of surprise on the gentleman’s face he nodded and said he would be happy to speak with the secretary after service.
Baron Kattenby and Mrs. Bella Venables attended the service, as it was his parish church, but sat in a pew in the nave. There was whispering and much attention; that they had come together and without other accompaniment—Alethea and Bertie attended Bath Abbey, close to Pierrepont Place—revealed much about their relationship.
Anne’s mother leaned in to Clary Basenstoke and shared her opinion. “It can mean aught but that the vicar will read the banns. How awful. Especially after he courted you so assiduously all summer, only to turn from you in the wink of an eye and the turn of a pretty ankle. It is unconscionable.”
Mrs. Basenstoke kept her eyes rigidly forward and did not respond.
As the service approached the end, the vicar cleared his throat and declaimed, loudly, his resonant voice echoing in the upper reaches, “I do today publish the banns of marriage between Baron Tedrick Kattenby of Somerset, now residing in Bath, and Mrs. Bella Venables, widow, of Bath. This is the first time of asking. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it.”
There was silence for a moment, and the vicar closed the service with the blessing and grace, “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit, be with us all evermore. Amen.” There was then the usual rustle of cloaks and fans and hymn books, as well as the murmur of conversation, as congregants gathered themselves to depart, their weekly duty done.
Anne and her family had descended to await a sedan chair for Lady Everingham and a carriage for John, Lydia and Lolly. Lonsdale, as a vicar himself, had paid close attention to the service. He appeared thoughtful after, standing alone and looking down at his feet, hands clasped behind his back, as his aunt and Mr. Basenstoke stood talking to Lady Harecross. Anne’s grandmother wished to speak with the vicar—she was adamant that she had something she needed to see him about—and Lydia wished to remain inside and seated in a pew near the door until their carriage arrived. Lolly, out of gratitude to the young couple for bringing her in such comfort, remained at Lydia’s side as a kind of attendant.
As Clary stood chatting with her son, Anne’s mother took hold of Osei and talked earnestly with him. Anne overheard some of their conversation, which as far as she could tell consisted of the countess probing him about when the marquess could be expected in Bath, and him responding with vague assurances. Mr. Basenstoke stood courteously supporting his mother and awaiting the secretary’s freedom from the countess’s importunity.
With nothing else to occupy her time or mind, Anne decided to discover what the previous evening’s disagreement between the young vicar and her friend Bertie was about. She moved quickly and quietly over to Basenstoke’s cousin’s side. “Mr. Lonsdale, I feel a need for some air. Would you escort me outside?”
The young man nodded solemnly, and they exited into the sunny warmth of autumn and the St. Swithin garden. The grounds were neatly maintained. Mr. Lonsdale offered her his arm; she nodded in gratitude and together they strolled. There was a wide grass lawn with a border wall, below which was the Paragon. Along the wall were hedges of yew and some pretty flowers.
“I wish I were a gardener to know what those are,” she said, waving her fan at the small lilac-colored blossoms, naked of leaves. “Brave little blossoms!
They look like crocuses, but crocuses are spring flowers.”
“These are colchicum, my lady, often confused with autumn crocus, but a different species.” He dropped her arm and knelt, tipping the flower slightly with slim gloved hands. “See, in the crocus there are three stamens, but this flower has six, therefore it is a colchicum, not an autumn crocus.”
“How knowledgeable you are,” she said, watching him as he straightened and dusted his hands.
“A vicar often finds joy in such simple pleasures as the garden, milady,” he said, taking her arm again. Almost to himself he said, “I find God in the garden, and talk to Him.”
“If He is anywhere, surely it is in the garden,” Anne agreed. “What thought you of today’s service?”
“Not earthshaking. As one comes to expect, I suppose, but I am in no position to critique another vicar’s service.”
“Whyever not?” she asked lightly.
“I fear I would suffer by comparison.”
“How unfortunate.”
He smiled faintly. “Do not mind my melancholy frame of mind, my lady. I think I came to service this morning looking for moral clarity, for a higher voice to show me the way.”
“Show you the way?”
“Have you ever had a choice to make, a choice between what you feel is right and what is expedient?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What would you choose, in that case?”
“Why, I hope I would choose what is right, of course.”
He shook his head and squinted into the misty light. “What if ‘right’ is not so easy to tell because . . . what if to do what seems right will almost certainly hurt someone you love, while what is expedient will protect that person, but possibly hurt more people . . . people you don’t know or care for?” He glanced at her anxiously. “Do you understand, or am I making a muddle of it?”
“That is a dilemma,” she murmured, feeling out of her depths. How could one advise someone on a moral tangle when one did not know what the issue was? And yet, she knew him so slightly it would feel forward to ask. She was beginning to think it impossible to plumb the depths of the previous night’s quarrel. He had been so thoughtful and questioning. To scrutinize someone who was so clearly struggling would be an imposition, a manipulation. They strolled on and came to an ancient tree, leaning for support on the wall of the churchyard. To lighten the subject matter, Anne said, “To test your garden knowledge, what bush is this, sir?”
He smiled. “I fear you are having a joke at my expense, my lady, for I’m sure you know the answer. It is a yew, of course, ancient, by the looks of it. To impress you, though, I will tell you that our pagan ancestors are thought to have worshipped this venerable tree. It holds symbolism both of death and rebirth.”
“How did that come to be?”
“Perhaps it is the yew’s poisonous nature that makes it a tree of death, but how it became a tree of life in Celtic folklore I cannot say.”
They walked on in silence, his gloom impenetrable. She felt it flowing from him to her by way of their linked arms. Perhaps there was a way to introduce the previous night’s quarrel without being discourteous. “Pardon me for dreadful inquisitiveness, Mr. Lonsdale, but I could not help but notice a friction between you and Bertie last night, and some tension between you and your cousin, Mr. Basenstoke. Bertie is a dear friend, and I dislike seeing him disturbed. What is wrong among you gentlemen, or is it private? Am I being fearfully prying?” she asked, leaving him a way to refuse to answer.
He was pale and quiet, paused, then shook his head. “It is private, my lady. I will say . . . Bertie is something beyond a friend or a brother; he is a steadfast soldier of rectitude and someone I view with unrelieved admiration. I fear I have fallen into disfavor with him.”
“And Mr. Basenstoke? What disagreement is there between you?”
“My aunt is a wonderful woman, as I’m sure you’re aware. She has been so kind to me, and guided my education and vocation with a steady and friendly hand. Since I lost my own dear mother, she has stood in that stead. Roger was like a much older brother to me as a child. I worshipped him. He’s clever, and sure of himself, neither of which attributes I possess.”
Anne remained silent, hoping he would speak more, and he did.
“Somehow, somewhere along the way, Roger and I fell out. He does not approve of me.”
“Why is that? You appear an abstemious, learned and good-natured gentleman.”
He shook his head and stared at the yew. “I have faults; he can be cruel concerning them. My lady, another question, if I may: do you think it is right for someone with a deep moral failing to preach to others?”
He was one for asking difficult questions of a stranger, she mused. “It depends on the moral failing,” she said, gazing at him with a smile. When she saw his sad, unchanging stare, she wished she had answered more thoughtfully. She was searching for a better answer when he spoke again, almost to himself, it seemed.
“It matters little. I don’t suppose I will be a vicar much longer. There are some failings the church will not . . . that is . . .” He shook his head. “Pardon me, my lady, for my sadness today. I have few friends and have fallen out with those who matter most to me.”
“Like Bertie?” she said softly. “I know you said it was private, but I dislike seeing him troubled. You had words.”
He looked over at her in alarm.
“I overheard the argument between you in the hall last night, after Mr. Graeme left in what appeared high dudgeon. I did not mean to eavesdrop, but I was too close not to hear. It seems unfair of him to berate you over your friendship with Mr. Graeme.”
His pale cheeks colored pink and he held one hand over his stomach, appearing ill. “Don’t think that Bertie had no right to say what he said; I would not have you think ill of him. I have failed him.”
“I don’t think I understand, Mr. Lonsdale.”
“I cannot explain; there are others involved, and private matters among them. But what think you of someone who would stand by and say nothing, knowing that someone is doing something wrong? What should a person do, someone who, with one word in the right ear, could keep people from immeasurable heartache?” He was becoming agitated, dropped her arm again and paced away, then turned back to stare into her eyes.
She tried to form an answer, but could not without knowing more. It was all so vague, so tangled. She wondered if it had to do with the moral dilemma he had, of whether to do the right or the expedient thing?
“One should do something. One should take action, speak up, be brave,” he said, his mouth trembling as he formed the words. He wrung his hands, his gloves pinching and puckering. “But some of us were not formed for courage, and if there is a bitter personal price to be paid . . . it is unthinkable, but some put themselves ahead of others, and that is surely not how society should advance.”
“Is this the same moral dilemma you questioned me concerning earlier, sir? I fear I am at a loss as to how to answer.”
“I beg your pardon, my lady, I am being most unreasonable. I abuse your kindness. I have in my life right now several moral dilemmas, and I must untangle my thoughts before making any decision.” He swayed on his feet.
“Mr. Lonsdale, are you unwell?”
“I slept but little last night. I’m so weary. If you don’t mind, Lady Anne, may I return you to your family? Though you may not think so, in hearing me out you have helped immeasurably. My dilemma is clearer to me now. I have something I need to take care of, something I must do now, while I have screwed up my courage to the sticking place.”
• • •
Anne returned to Lydia and John’s comfortable townhome to spend the day with them. Her uneasiness over Lonsdale’s moody depression dissipated in the homely atmosphere of the Bestwicks’ company. Setting aside all her own confusion, she focused on her friend. Lydia was pale and fretting, and John was worried about her. It seemed to be more than the normal anxiety of a woman heavy with child,
to Anne, but who could know what “normal anxiety” was? She sat quietly with Lydia late into the evening as John retired to his study to write letters. Try as she might, her friend would confess no concerns or worries.
“I cannot say, I’m sure, dearest Anne,” the pretty young woman said in response to Anne’s repeated request to explain what was troubling her. Dark circles under her eyes spoke of her lack of sleep, but she shook her head when asked why.
Turning to more practical matters, Anne said, “Then is there anything I can do to distract or comfort you?”
Lydia slyly peeped at her through her thick fringe of lashes. She leaned forward, resting one hand on her bulky stomach. “Take me to see Mother Macree tomorrow,” she whispered.
“Why are we whispering?”
Tears welled in her eyes. “John is being horrible. He says he will not allow me to do such a thing, that it is foolish and not good for me. But I say it is worse for me that I can do nothing entertaining, that I am kept in like a cow in a barn, waiting for birth.”
“Lydia, that’s vulgar.”
“It’s true!” she wailed, then hushed, her gaze slewing toward her husband’s study door across the entry hall. “Please, take me,” she said, grasping Anne’s hand. “I am so weary of being shut in. You went with Lolly, and she said it was ever so entertaining.”
Against her better judgment, Anne agreed. “All right. We’ll go tomorrow. But I’m telling John.”
“No! Please don’t. He doesn’t understand.”
Anne sat and watched her young friend. As silly as she sometimes was, Lydia was an adult woman, and if the law insisted on treating her like a child or halfwit, Anne should not, or she made a lie of her own rebellion. To ask permission of John was behaving as if she agreed with society that a woman needed a keeper. “We’ll go, and I’ll not tell John unless he asks.” She rose and bent over, kissing her friend on her soft tearstained cheek. “I’ll come get you tomorrow morning. We’ll have Lolly meet us there, shall we? She is acquainted with the woman and can get us an appointment. Then after we’ll go to Sally Lunn’s for teacakes and indulge ourselves.”
Lady Anne and the Menacing Mystic Page 9