The Headstrong Ward

by Jane Ashford

  This subject, and Charles’s warm tone, were making it very difficult for Anne to speak, but she felt she must. “I have forgotten,” she insisted. “I made at least as many errors as you.”

  “Hardly. It is kind of you to say so, but even if true, it would not excuse my negligence. You were not responsible—”

  “Don’t use that word,” interrupted the girl quickly. He raised one eyebrow. “I don’t like it.”

  For a long moment he was silent, seeming to think over her remark with growing understanding and realization. “Perhaps you’re right,” he murmured finally. “It is not a good word for us to use.”

  “Ever!” finished Anne.

  He gazed at her bemusedly. “What an extraordinary girl you are.” She flushed and looked down. His hand still covered hers. “Do you have any idea how extraordinary?”

  Gazing at him from under her eyelashes, she replied, “People have always called me an ‘original.’”

  Charles began to laugh. “Indeed they have. How right they were! And that is part of the answer to your question—perhaps the whole answer.”

  Anne watched him, suddenly feeling a vast contentment. It was as if she could visualize a great many future moments just like this one, when they would sit together alone and Charles would break into laughter. It was the same merriment, she realized then, that he showed so often with his intimate friends, and so seldom with his family. But now he was sharing it with her.

  “Ah, Anne,” he said when he regained control, “how could I have missed so much about you for so long? I’m not nearly as intelligent as my vanity would have me believe. A dull fellow, in fact.”

  “They say,” answered Anne, greatly daring, “that one often overlooks what is closest.”

  Holding her gaze, he nodded, then gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “An astute proverb. But when one becomes aware…” He paused. “We shall have a good deal to talk about once this Branwell problem is settled,” he added. “I am inclined to leave it till then.”

  Anne’s heart was beating very fast, but a spark of mischief remained in her gray-violet eyes. “Why?” she asked demurely.

  Charles looked up sharply, and began to smile. “I don’t quite know. A desire to have everything neatly in place, perhaps. Or perhaps a wish to prove something. Can you understand that?”

  She nodded, very serious now. Her throat was tight again.

  “Yes,” continued the viscount meditatively, “I believe that’s it. What a curious sensation.”

  “Thank you,” whispered Anne very softly.

  His head jerked round and he rose. Still holding her hand, he gazed down at her, his expression a mixture of tenderness and chagrin. “You mustn’t thank me, Anne,” he said unsteadily, and tightening his hold, he pulled her to her feet and into his arms. They stood still for a long moment, he searching her eyes; then he bent his head and kissed her very gently on the lips.

  Anne had never felt anything remotely like it. She trembled in his clasp, and a thrill seemed to run down along her spine. Her hands moved automatically up his arms to twine round his neck as she gave herself up wholly to the kiss.

  It ended too soon, as Charles drew away, holding her at arm’s length. “I should not have done that,” he said.

  She looked up at him, startled.

  “Not while you live in my house, under my protection.”

  “Pooh,” replied Anne.

  He threw back his head and laughed once more. “Well, not, at any rate, before I asked you—”

  The library door was flung open with a crash, and Mariah burst in. Charles quickly let his hands drop. “That blasted girl has let Augustus out again,” she cried. “He’s flown downstairs and is fighting the cook’s cat. You’d best come and help me recapture him.”

  Anne started to giggle. Charles gazed at her sternly. “Go and remove your detestable pet,” he ordered. “We will return to this subject when things are calm again.”

  Seventeen

  Anne took this as a promise, but unfortunately, calm did not return for some time. Separating an enraged Augustus from the thoroughly embittered kitchen cat, even in that low-ceilinged room, proved a lengthy task. And by the time it was done, Charles had to go out. “I’m sorry,” he apologized when he left her. “I have been promised to Alvanley for this afternoon these two weeks.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” replied Anne, and she spoke no more than the truth. She neither felt nor wanted to feel any hurry over this matter.

  “We will meet at dinner, then,” he added tenderly.

  “Yes.”

  He took her hand and kissed it briefly before striding out.

  Anne went to the window to watch him ride away, a meditative smile on her lips. But once he was out of sight, a plan that had been forming in her mind since their earlier talk surfaced once more. The single weakness in their proposed course of action could, she thought, be removed if she could convince a certain person to help them. The chances of success were small, but she was determined to try; she wanted to contribute something of her own to the conspiracy.

  Accordingly, she went up to her room and fetched a bonnet and light pelisse. She avoided Crane, who would certainly be scandalized if she discovered that Anne meant to go out alone. Mariah was again shut up in her garden, and the front hall was empty when she slipped down. No one saw her leave the house and hail a hackney cab on the corner.

  She directed the driver to an address on King Street and sat back to compose her thoughts and decide what to say. All of her persuasive powers would be called upon in the next hour or so, and she wanted to put her case as well as possible. The approach would be very delicate.

  After what seemed to her a very short time, the cab pulled up. She paid her fare and stepped down onto the pavement before the Branwell town house. For a long moment Anne gazed up at the facade. She knew that Lydia was out; Laurence had mentioned that he was driving her to Richmond Park this afternoon. And she felt tolerably certain that the bishop did not sit with his wife during the day. Callers were equally unlikely, in view of the lady’s shyness. She expected to find Mrs. Branwell alone.

  Anne stepped up to the front door and plied the knocker briskly. It was opened by the butler, and she asked for Mrs. Branwell. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Branwell is not at home,” was the reply. But the tone the man used told Anne that her quarry was in, though not receiving visitors.

  “This is very important,” she said. “I will just run up and speak to her. You needn’t announce me.” And before the butler could do more than gape at her in astonishment, she slipped past him and ran lightly up the stairs to the first floor.

  She looked quickly into the drawing room. It was empty. Hearing the servant’s heavy tread ascending the staircase, she swiftly tried two doors farther along the corridor; both opened to reveal empty parlors, and she hurried on. She must find Mrs. Branwell soon if she wished to avoid an unpleasant dispute. She heard the butler call, “Miss! Excuse me, miss, but you cannot…”

  She thrust open a third door, and found the lady—cozily settled in an armchair before a crackling fire, with a pot of tea, a plate of biscuits, and a novel open before her. It was an attractive picture, and Anne could not help smiling slightly; it was so clear that Mrs. Branwell was reveling in a solitary retreat from her formidable family.

  When the older woman saw Anne, her mouth fell open in astonishment and chagrin, and an almost laughable disappointment showed in her face. She looked like a little girl deprived of a promised treat. Anne felt sorry for her, but her errand was too important for more than a hurried apology as she shut the door in the face of the scandalized butler. “Pardon me for disturbing you, Mrs. Branwell,” she said, “but I must speak to you about something.” She sank into the armchair opposite her hostess.

  Regret turned to alarm and bewilderment in Mrs. Branwell’s features.

  “You will think it o
dd of me to have come,” acknowledged Anne. “We are not very well acquainted, but we are connections of a kind, through your daughter and Laurence Debenham.”

  The mention of Lydia made Mrs. Branwell shrink back slightly. “Lydia is out,” she murmured so softly that Anne scarcely heard it.

  The girl surveyed her. What could have made this woman so timid and frightened? Had she always been so? And was it a mistake to think that she could help them? She had expected a difficult conversation. It would be very hard to explain Lydia’s conduct to her mother without offending, and even more so to enlist the aid of this painfully retiring creature. But she was determined to try. She leaned forward. “Tell me, Mrs. Branwell, are you pleased with your daughter’s engagement? Do you think they will be happy?”

  Her companion looked more alarmed.

  “You needn’t mind about Laurence; you may say what you like to me. Do you truly think they will suit?”

  “Wh-why not?” stammered the other.

  “Well, to my mind, their temperaments are antagonistic. It seems to me that your daughter has strong opinions and does not enjoy having them contradicted. And she prefers to make most of the decisions. Now, Laurence is very kind and considerate, but he will expect to rule his own household. I fear they may not agree on that, and you know, the happiness of each party is essential to a successful marriage.”

  Mrs. Branwell stared at her like a bird fascinated by a snake.

  “I honestly believe that both of them might be better off with different sorts of partners. Your daughter, for example, seems to have many more common interests with a man like Mr. Hargreaves. Do you like him?”

  A spark showed briefly in Mrs. Branwell’s eyes. Anne could not tell what emotion it signified, but she felt she was making an impression. Her listener no longer looked quite so timorous and downtrodden.

  “Something that happened recently made me see all this more clearly,” continued the girl, choosing her words with great care. “I believe your daughter misunderstood Laurence’s politeness to a friend of mine, and as a consequence she passed on a false story about her, which is doing a great deal of harm.” She paused, watching Mrs. Branwell. This was the best possible construction she could put on Lydia’s behavior.

  The older woman straightened in her chair. Her thin lips turned down. “Did Lydia start those rumors about Miss Arabella Castleton?” she asked in a voice Anne had never heard her use before.

  Anne colored; she did not know exactly how to answer this. She could not lie, but she did not want to antagonize Lydia’s mother. “Well…er…I’m not certain she…”

  “She did!” The woman’s nervous expression faded entirely. “I knew she was using them. That was bad enough, but if she deliberately spread a lie!” Mrs. Branwell stood and faced the fire, seeming to struggle with herself. “If she did that, then I can be silent no longer,” she finished. And she sighed so heartrendingly that Anne held out a comforting hand. Mrs. Branwell did not take it. Turning to face her, she continued, “You are absolutely certain of what you say? I do not like to believe this of my own daughter.”

  Slowly Anne nodded. “I overheard her. And I know the story is false!”

  Her hostess scanned her face in silence for a long moment, then nodded and sank into her chair again. “I did not think it had gone so far with her. I tried in the beginning, you know. I set out to be a good mother. But Lydia was always headstrong, and so attached to her father, who is…a man of strong opinions. And then, when there were no more children…” She trailed off, but Anne built a vivid picture from these few phrases, and felt sorrier for the other woman than ever.

  A silence stretched between them. Mrs. Branwell seemed lost in thought, and Anne was overcome by her suddenly broadened vision of the world. She had not quite realized what life could be like in a loveless marriage.

  “Why did you come here?” asked Mrs. Branwell finally. “I suppose you want something from me.”

  “No! You have borne enough.”

  The other looked surprised, then smiled thinly. “Very kind. But I wonder if you will feel the same when you have returned home without whatever you came for?”

  Seeing Anne’s horrified expression, her smile widened. “Come, my dear, I am very ready to make what amends I can for Lydia’s behavior. You needn’t look so stricken. None of this is your fault, I suppose.”

  “I…I mean to break up the match,” stammered Anne. “And I came to ask you to help me.”

  Some of her former timidity seemed to return as Mrs. Branwell contemplated this idea. She looked distinctly alarmed, but resolved. “H-how do you hope to accomplish this? And what part am I to play?”

  “You would only have to see that Lydia comes to a particular room at a set time,” replied Anne eagerly. “You would not have to stay, or to…to do anything else. Oh, except make it seem that Laurence is behind it.”

  The other woman eyed her. “You must tell me a little more than that. We are talking of my daughter, after all.”

  Nodding, Anne explained their plan in some detail.

  “I see.” She thought it all over. “Very well, I will do what you ask.”

  Anne held out her hands. “Thank you!”

  Mrs. Branwell merely looked at her. “That is all I will do, mind. And I agree only because Lydia has acted very badly and deserves a lesson.” She sighed. “I daresay she would rather marry Mr. Hargreaves in any case; she seems to like him. Now, if there is nothing else, I wish you would go.”

  This was spoken in such a tired, hopeless voice that Anne could not be offended. She rose at once. “Of course. I will write to you when we have made our final plans. Thank you, Mrs. Branwell. I think you are doing the right thing.”

  Her companion smiled slightly again. “Indeed? How could you not?”

  As she walked down the stairs to the door, Anne felt very subdued, and she was too preoccupied even to notice the butler’s freezing courtesy as he bowed her out. Poor Mrs. Branwell; how did she bear it? Then Anne remembered the fire, the tea, the novel—perhaps she knew.

  She reached home in the late afternoon and had just taken off her bonnet and come back down to the drawing room when Laurence came in. He looked angry. “Anne, I want to speak to you!”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Here I am.”

  “Something must be done about this ridiculous gossip!”

  “I have told you that—”

  “Yes, but it is worse than I realized. Lydia was telling me—”

  “She mentioned it to you?”

  Anne’s tone was so outraged that Laurence frowned at her. “Yes, it has reached her as well. She was very shocked and didn’t seem to credit it when I told her it was, of course, a total fabrication.”

  “Did she not?” The girl laughed scornfully.

  “No, Anne, she did not. And many others, who do not know Miss Castleton as you do, will feel the same. We must do something!”

  Nearly speechless with rage at Lydia Branwell’s new offense, Anne replied, “We? What do you propose to do, Laurence?”

  “What is the matter with you? I thought you would be as upset as I over the way this story is spreading.”

  “But I am. And I asked you what you mean to do.” The words came out harshly. But Anne was too angry to care that she was blaming Laurence for his fiancée’s fault and expecting him to behave as if he knew the truth when he did not.

  “I shall tell everyone I know that it is a lie,” he retorted. “But that will not be enough. Rumors are pernicious; they stick even in the absence of evidence. We must try some more dramatic measure soon. This could make Miss Castleton bitterly unhappy!”

  “It already has,” responded Anne.

  “She does not know!”

  “Yes, indeed. Some kind soul told her.”

  Laurence struck the palm of his hand with his fist. “Monstrous! I must go at once and
tell her…”

  “Tell her what?” asked the girl sweetly when he paused.

  He seemed to struggle with himself, every limb vibrating with tension. “No,” he added finally. “But you will tell her, please, when you see her next, that I do not believe a word of it. I find it inconceivable.”

  “I’m sure that will make her feel a great deal better,” answered Anne sarcastically.

  “What is the matter with you?” said Laurence again. “You are acting as if this were my fault somehow.”

  Realizing that he was right, she tried to regain her composure. When she thought of Lydia Branwell’s poisonous tongue, she nearly screamed with vexation, but it was, after all, none of Laurence’s doing. “I’m sorry. I am upset. It has been very hard to see Bella treated so.”

  “I should say so!”

  “And we have worked out a plan, so you needn’t worry.”

  “What is it?”

  This time Anne cursed her own tongue; she couldn’t tell Laurence without spoiling everything. “Really, Laurence, you needn’t be concerned.” Suddenly inspired, she added, “Indeed, I don’t think you should be, considering.” She gave him a meaningful look.

  He colored a little. “What do you mean?”

  “You are very taken with Bella, are you not? But of course, you are an engaged man.”

  His flush deepened. He seemed to search for a reply. Finally he said, “I am,” in a strangled voice.

  “Well, then, you’d best leave it to others to defend her.” Anne shrugged. She did not wish to be unkind to Laurence, but she must divert him from the subject of their plan.

  “You promise that something will be done?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And if I can help in any way, even the smallest, you will tell me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Very well,” he replied curtly, and he turned and walked out of the room without another word.

  When he was gone, Anne’s first thought was to find Charles and tell him of recent developments. But he had not yet returned home, and as it was nearly time to change for dinner in any case, she went up to her room and curled up in the window seat, looking out over the rooftops and chimney pots of London and thinking over the dramatic events of the past few days.