by Kerryn Reid
Lewis stripped down to shirt and trousers and splashed icy water on his face. Then he went to the wardrobe and pulled from its depths the leather portfolio he’d bought in Leeds on his way home from Bath in August. Together with a generous supply of paper and good black lead pencils, it had cost more than his talent deserved or his pockets thought wise.
Had Anna been in Leeds already at that time? Would he have seen her, if only he’d looked in the right place?
He laid the portfolio beside him on the bed and untied the straps. There were the drawings for the dressing-room modifications in Jack’s bedchamber. Preliminary studies for the portraits of the Redfern household. Landscapes, plenty of them, and detail work of plants, rocks, and such.
And there was Anna. One of two small portraits he’d done in London in an attempt to amuse her, when she was long past any possibility of amusement. She had chosen one to keep, and asked for a drawing of him. He’d glanced in the mirror and dashed something off—quite dreadful, no doubt, but he felt sure she’d asked merely out of courtesy. What anguish she must have endured, even then.
Since that day he’d drawn her many times, with only that little sketch and his memory to guide him. Anna happy, pensive, haunted. And from his dreams, Anna shy, desirous, with a tremulous smile just for him, her hair loose about her bare shoulders.
Shame on me, when nearly all the time I’ve known her she’s been carrying my brother’s child. This is the mysterious circumstance referred to in her letters. Merciful heaven, no wonder she was desperate to keep me from visiting in Bristol.
Lewis clutched his hair, relishing the pain. So minor compared to Anna’s plight. He could not stop imagining it.
He saw her in a grimy room or two in the back streets of Leeds, living on cheap brown bread and milk, dressed in cast-offs from the poorhouse. Then he scoffed at the scene; the Spains had the means to support her in comfort if they wished. But Lewis knew Anna’s mother, and the little Anna had said about her father did not encourage the notion that he would treat his daughter with consideration under such circumstances.
He saw her with a dark-haired babe in her arms, both unwelcome inhabitants in her parents’ house, spending their days on the roof as she had done this summer past. Or Anna put to work, a drudge in her own home. When he blinked, he could envision other possibilities, but none that showed clear in his mind.
Most unwanted of all, he saw her with Gideon last spring in London. A variety of places and poses, by choice and by force, her expression in each circumstance. Where the devil had Gideon found the freedom to take her? Mrs. Spain’s unchaperoned parlor? Among the trees in Vauxhall Gardens, ensuring her silence with a hand over her mouth? Had he gained access to her bedchamber? Sneaked her into his rooms?
Though the thought of it ripped him apart, he almost hoped she’d been willing. At least she might have taken pleasure in the act itself. Yet how much more shocking Gideon’s defection when it came, and how much more desperate her grief. It all makes sense now. I should have seen it six months ago.
Oh yes, he knew exactly what Anna looked like pale and drawn, and that vision he could trust.
Sir John said there was nothing to be done. Lewis hoped he was wrong about that, because if it was true, he saw many more sleepless nights in his future.
He went to the writing table, pulled out his pencils and drawing paper. Those sleepless nights could produce innumerable sketches of Anna. Enough to fill a wall, a gallery, an entire museum. And they would accomplish nothing.
Chapter 23
Lewis dozed for an hour or two before dawn, disturbed over and over again by the images he had drawn—and the ones he had not.
He feigned sleep when the char girl crept in to rebuild the fire, but battled his way out of the crumpled bedclothes as soon as the door clicked shut behind her. Dim light filtered in when he opened the window curtains; he shivered in the frigid air trapped behind them.
The maid had brought water—not warm enough, but better than the gelid stuff from last night. He wanted to pull on his boots and coat and be gone, but he could not knock at the vicarage door looking like a beggar. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair a mess, his shirt wrinkled as though it had been slept in. Fair enough, because it had. Wherever he might end this day, he could at least begin it with the appearance of a gentleman. In any case, it was impossibly early. Plenty of time to shave, wash, and dress properly.
Lewis needn’t have worried he would catch the Redferns abed. As he walked up through the frozen garden the kitchen door opened, spilling Kate and Barbara out into the cold. They ran toward him in their stocking feet, teetering along the narrow line of bricks that edged the gravel walkways.
“You came! You came!”
Lewis dredged up a smile, though it was perfunctory. As they turned to escort him to the house, Kate took his hand to help her balance. Barbara trundled ahead of them singing some ditty, her progress punctuated by an ouch each time she missed the bricks. She reached the door first and held it wide to usher him inside.
He’d forgotten to prepare himself for the noise. Toby’s open mouth spewed a continuous yell, accompanied by his spoon banging on his tray as he waited for breakfast. Beneath that, the voices and kitchen clatter formed an unremitting wall of sound.
The vicar was missing, but Mrs. Redfern stood at the hearth on the other side of the room. She was his port in this storm, his guide to some quiet location where he could make himself heard, where he would be able to think. At least, so he hoped. So far today, his brain seemed incapable of any such thing.
Mrs. Redfern met his gaze. Her mouth moved but he could not single out her voice. Her friendly smile faded as he moved toward her, a pucker of worry appearing between her brows.
“Oh dear,” she said, resting one hand on his arm. “That expression does not bode well.” She meted out instructions around the room, then took his elbow and led him into the hall. “You’ll be wanting my husband. Please, take a seat in the office. I’ll fetch him.”
“If you have time,” Lewis said as she headed for the staircase, “I could use your advice as well. But I know you’re busy.”
“Nonsense.”
Shivering, he paced the familiar room while he waited for them. The day maid brought in a tray with coffeepot and cups and took a poker to the coals in the fireplace. Lewis nodded his thanks but said nothing.
The door opened. Mr. Redfern came forward and put out his hand. Lewis grasped it as a lifeline.
“I apologize for disturbing your breakfast. I… It couldn’t wait.”
Mrs. Redfern gestured to his usual chair and he sat. But they’d hardly seated themselves before he was up again and pacing.
He’d spent the entire ride into town pondering what to tell them and what to avoid, but had come to no conclusions. The pieces skittered to and fro, round and round, never holding still long enough to be sorted.
Redfern broke the silence. “Is Mr. Wedbury worse than you feared?”
Lewis shook his head. “No. That is, yes. It’s a hideous situation. But that’s not why I’m here. Jack brought some news that’s knocked me sideways.”
“I can see it has.”
Lewis made himself stand still. “In Leeds the other day, on their way home, they met a young woman we knew in London, making her come-out along with Miss Wedbury. A lovely girl but from a difficult family situation, and shy. She didn’t take.”
He resumed pacing, the same six steps again and again. “The particulars don’t matter. Cassie befriended her and they visited back and forth. Lady Wedbury chaperoned her at a number of functions. I… We saw quite a lot of each other. I thought…” He felt a flush creeping up his neck. No, I’m not going to tell them what I thought. “But then she went home to Bristol, without a word to anyone.”
He stopped again and risked a glance at his audience. They watched him impassively.
Mrs. Redfern swallowed some coffee. “Bristol? You said she was in Leeds.”
Lewis nodded. “I thought Jack mu
st be mistaken, but Sir John confirms it was she. She and Cassie had some correspondence over the summer. I read it, so I knew she had gone to visit relatives somewhere, but never imagined she was here in Yorkshire.”
Mrs. Redfern gazed up at him quizzically. “What is it that’s upset you?”
Lewis turned his back on them. “She’s with child.”
Silence. Then the vicar said, “Dear me.”
Lewis whirled around and took three hasty steps toward Mrs. Redfern. He could have reached out and touched her chair. His eyes burned. “I need to know when, ma’am. Jack said she’s— He thought she must be near her time. I know nothing about pregnancy, but you, ma’am, you must know. If the child were born today, when did she…when did it…”
Katherine Redfern gazed up at him, a deep crease between her brows. “I can’t possibly know that, based upon what you’ve told me.” She paused a moment, watching as her fingers moved in calculation. “In theory, perhaps the first week in March. But tell me, does Jack Wedbury know any more about pregnancy than you do? It’s easy to be fooled by appearances. Some babies are larger than others, some women gain more weight than others, some babies are born early or late.” Her voice sounded hard.
Her husband’s, by contrast, was the same as always. “Let us say, then, the first of March is the earliest likely date. I don’t suppose that helps you much.”
It didn’t, except to rule out any date before Anna arrived in London. Lewis returned to the window, his hands twisting together behind him. A knuckle cracked.
Mrs. Redfern set her cup down with a clink. “Mr. Aubrey, clearly you feel responsible. Are you?”
“Katherine—”
Lewis twisted back and stared Mrs. Redfern in the eye. “I assure you, ma’am, it is not my child. Though my father would be disappointed to know that.”
“Your father knows of it?” the vicar asked.
“Jack threw his thunderbolt in the middle of dinner last night. I was unable to hide my horror, and Father leaped to the same conclusion you did, ma’am. He all but applauded, pleased to think I had finally proved my manhood.” Words poured out of him then, the whole nauseating exchange in the hall, his disgust and murderous rage afterward.
He sank into his chair, exhausted. His eyes felt gritty, as though Gideon had thrown sand in his face as he used to do. He closed them and slumped into the upholstery.
The vicar had risen at some point during his diatribe, and now squeezed Lewis’s shoulder. “Have you had anything to eat, lad?”
Lewis waved that away. Such an irrelevancy. He heard a swish of skirts and the click of the latch as Mrs. Redfern left the room.
“I know you don’t want it, but a bit of breakfast will do you good. It feeds the mind as well as the body, you know.”
The comforting hand left his shoulder and another silence fell.
The vicar cleared his throat. “I hardly know where to begin.”
Lewis rubbed his eyes and opened them. “Might as well tell me I’m the crazy one, not Jack. My head feels like a metal box full of hornets.”
“Your father’s reaction is unnerving.”
“Ha! That’s a kind word for it. But he doesn’t matter. He’s merely a diversion from the main event.”
Redfern nodded. “The girl.”
Mrs. Redfern returned with a fresh pot of coffee, followed by the maid bearing a large tray. The vicar hurried to clear a space on the desk.
A little voice piped up in the hallway, plaintive. “Not yet, Barbara,” Mrs. Redfern replied. “See if Kate can help you.”
Lewis pulled himself out of his rude sprawl to an upright position better suited to a lady’s presence. He could at least act like a civilized human being.
There was a plate for each of them, eggs and sausage and good Yorkshire oatcakes. Not that he could taste them, but he ate anyway out of courtesy, and because Redfern was right. He needed sustenance, even though it sat like a rock in his gut. The coffee scalded as it went down.
While they ate, his hosts talked of household and parish matters. Their voices were comforting; Lewis paid no attention to the words. When they finished, Mrs. Redfern removed their dishes to the tray and returned to her chair.
“That’s better. There’s a bit of color in your cheeks again.” She leaned forward and laid a hand on his forearm. “I can see that you care deeply about this young woman. What will you do, dear?”
As he gazed into her troubled face, a particle of determination pierced the aimless buzzing frenzy. “I must know the truth, ma’am. Because I’m certain—almost certain—the child is my brother’s.” Lewis owed no loyalty to Gideon, nor to his father. But to his own niece or nephew, he owed whatever he could give.
And Anna? What did he owe to Anna? She’d given her favors to his brother while Lewis got nothing but a bruised heart and a troubled mind. Still…
The vicar stood and took a turn about the room, coming to rest against the edge of his desk. His wife pressed her fingers against her lips. Lewis thought they trembled.
Redfern cleared his throat. “Does he know, do you think?”
“I doubt it. And without knowing how she feels about it, I can’t approach him.” He itched to be moving again, but forced himself to stay in his seat. “But how do I find her? And if I do, what do I say? Sir John says she nearly fainted when they met. Will it only cause her more anguish to be found?”
Mrs. Redfern clasped her hands in her lap. “How does she feel about you, do you know? Does she paint you with the same brush as your brother?”
Lewis shook his head. “No. She trusts me, I think. At least, she did.”
“What about her family?” said the vicar. “They sent her away for her confinement, but most families do in such a circumstance. It doesn’t mean she’s been cast out.”
A few well-chosen words served to describe Mrs. Spain. “Anna’s father was not in London. I received the impression of a moralist, strict and distant. There’s a brother too, much older than she. Not much love lost amongst any of them.” Restlessness took hold, pushing Lewis out of his chair again. “How can I stand not knowing? If she’s alone in this…” He peered into the vicar’s face, searching for an answer. “Am I justified in intruding?”
“It’s a difficult—”
“You must try, Mr. Aubrey.” Mrs. Redfern rose and took Lewis’s hand between hers, her eyes imploring. “It may be painful for her, and for you as well. But if she needs help, and you can provide it, then you must. Paul tells the Corinthians, ‘Though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.’”
Redfern frowned. “There is, or used to be, an asylum for young women in such circumstances, in Boar Lane I believe. It’s doubtful she’s using her own name, though, and they’ll hardly let you in to inspect all the residents. The workhouse is a possibility, but I think it unlikely.” He thought for a moment, rubbing his thumb back and forth across his chin. “I doubt she’s registered with the Leeds parish, but it’s a safe place to start. Ask for Mr. Fawcett—he’s the vicar at St. Peter’s. Tell him I sent you.”
A cry of rage sounded from somewhere in the house, followed by laughter and running feet on the stairs, the slam of a door. Mrs. Redfern rolled her eyes. “I’d best return to the fray. When do you leave, Mr. Aubrey?”
“As soon as I get some clothes packed.” The decision made, Lewis twitched all over with the need to be on his way.
She held his hand while she said her goodbyes. “Godspeed, then. Do find her. If the situation is dire, send word. We can find a safe place for her.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Standing on her toes, she gave him a peck on the cheek. “Take care.” She opened the door and the dull hubbub of noise became a bombardment. “If you go out the front, you can avoid whatever ruckus is going on in the kitchen.”
Redfern accompanied Lewis to the hall with words of encouragement. But as s
oon as he was out the door he forgot everything the vicar had said.
Too much time wasted. He flew down the steps and rounded the corner. His greatcoat blew open like a cape as he strode down the side road to the stable entrance. It would be a cold ride, but for good or ill, at least he would be moving. Away from the constraints he’d allowed to bind him all his life, toward something his own heart demanded of him. Whatever the outcome might be.
Chapter 24
Amidst the bustle and grime of Leeds, the Rose and Crown was the only place Lewis knew she had been. So he paid extra he could ill afford to obtain a room overlooking Briggate, where he could see the pedestrians coming, going, or passing by.
Picking up a parcel, Sir John had said. The devil take it, Anna could stay in Leeds a year and never pick up another. There must be mail on occasion, a note from Mr. or Mrs. Spain at least, but he could so easily miss it. Sitting by his window from dawn ’til dusk was out of the question.
What if Anna’s companion came without her? He would never know. Seeing Sir John might have scared Anna indoors. And as long as she kept to her rooms, she was safe from discovery.
He spent the scant hour of remaining daylight prowling the inn and its neighborhood, telling himself she must live nearby. When he felt conspicuous loitering outside, he went in and paced back and forth across his upstairs window, peering at each woman approaching or leaving the building. Sometimes he could see little besides the top of a hat. But if there had been any who were about ready to foal, he would have seen that.
It would be a miracle if he found her at all; he certainly couldn’t expect it to happen the first day. But as he sat in the public room, picking at a wedge of mutton pie and pondering his options for the morrow, it was hard not to feel discouraged. Even if he found her, what would he do about it?
Patience, fool. He had brought one of his drawings—he would take it to St. Peter’s, and if he had no luck there, to the other churches nearby. Someone might recognize her, by some other name if not Spain. If not, they must surely know of the asylum Redfern had mentioned. They might be able to gain access and make inquiries where Lewis could not.