“Indeed,” Penelope asked, her hand gripping her husband’s arm. “What does he want in return? This all sounds wonderful, but he must want something in exchange for this seeming generosity!”
Randall gazed at everyone around the table, his eyes finally resting on Anne. Lloyd saw the look and sputtered, “Of course, Randall. Our Lord Westmeare is in need of a new wife!” Lloyd turned to Anne. “And he has chosen Anne!”
Anne glared at Lloyd while she tried to process his words. She shuddered as a sudden inexplicable chill enveloped her. For a moment she could not speak. Then turning to her brother, she uttered a barely audible whisper. “Randall, tell me that is not what the Viscount Westmeare wants!”
Lydia fanned herself violently with her fluttering hands and frowning said through pursed lips, “Mercy on us! Surely. Surely, you are mistaken, brother Lloyd!”
Randall spoke to the group as he addressed his sister. “Anne, the Viscount has indeed offered to assist our family if you agree to accept his hand in marriage,” Randall confirmed, but he could not now meet Anne’s bewildered eyes.
Anne’s legs grew weak and the blood drained from her face. She slumped onto her chair as she attempted to check the sudden echo that roared inside her head. No. No. This could not be happening. Why?
Penelope reached her sister first. “Anne, are you alright? You look so pale.” She took one of Anne’s hands and began to chafe her fingers. “You don’t have to do this thing. We will find another solution to our problems. You do not have to marry that man!”
David joined his wife. “Yes, he is a bit odd. You do not have to sacrifice your happiness for ours, sister.” Then turning to Randall, he asked, “But can Anne truly refuse such an offer?”
Little Edwina hurried around the table and offered Anne a glass of water. “Thank you, dearest,” Anne said, cupping the chin of her little sister and kissing her forehead. Over Edwina’s head, Anne stared at Randall.
He again diverted his gaze. His remorseful eyes studied the floor, but finally he raised his head. “Anne, Penelope is correct. You do not have to do this. We will find another way.”
“Tell me, Randall. How much time does the Lord Westmeare allow for us to move from here, should I refuse his offer?”
Randall hesitated.
“Randall? Tell us!”
Randall murmured, “One week.”
A universal gasp sprang from the table. “One week?” Penelope cried as she sank back down. She looked to her husband, placing one hand in his and the other over her abdomen. “But where would we go?”
“Well, I see that I do not have much of a choice.” Anne pushed herself up from her chair. She stumbled toward the kitchen and fled out the back door, hot tears burning her eyes.
Chapter 4
Anne stepped onto the flagstones of the kitchen garden still warm from the afternoon sun, crushing stray mint and chamomile leaves. Their familiar and comforting scent floated up and surrounded her, filling her senses with warm memories of childhood when she would select fresh herbs for her mother.
“Mama? What should I do?” Anne whispered as she sank onto the small wooden bench in the midst of the garden, her skirts brushing the lavender, so abundant among her mother’s herbs.
Abelard, her father’s aged tabby, rose from his spot on the warm stones, stretched, and padded over to Anne, rubbing her ankles and emitting a sympathetic meow. The cat’s golden eyes gazed up at his mistress. It blinked twice and swished its tail. Anne scooped up the feline. For a brief moment, Anne was once more an innocent child with few cares and loving parents to protect her.
She spoke out loud. “One week!”
She hugged the cat close. “But why me? I do not even know him.”
Abelard tilted his head, but did not answer. Of course, Anne knew Lord Westmeare, although they had never formally met. She had seen him in church, in the village, but never had they actually spoken. She was merely one among the crowd who bowed or curtsied as his carriage raced by.
To her, he was a remote stranger. And he was so much older than she. He must be forty. She was but twenty-two. They had so little in common. So why did he want her for his bride? She had neither money nor standing in society. And how did he know so much about her family’s circumstances?
Angry tears flowed down her cheeks as she considered these questions. Anne mentally brushed them away furious with herself and this dilemma. She gripped her mother’s gold cross and prayed for an answer.
The setting sun illuminated the rear of the vicarage through a row of birch trees that marked the edge of the lawn, casting thin shadows along the bricks. Anne cringed. The shadows reminded her of iron bars. After only a few minutes, she heard footsteps approaching. Abelard looked up with interest.
Lloyd.
Anne knew it was he. She saw the expression of anguish in her friend’s pale eyes. Anne looked at the shy, young fishmonger poised in front of her with his earnest face and fish-stained hands. Abelard jumped off her lap and approached this most appealing human.
“Anne. Anne, please. I have long desired to ask for your hand. I thought my desires were obvious to you. I should have done so sooner, but my father would not consent.” He paused and took a breath. “You are the prettiest girl in Abbey Mead, surely in all of Surrey, but you are also poor. My father wishes me to make a better match. A union with another fishmonger company would be best. But I care for you, Anne. Truly I do. Please . . .”
Lloyd reached out to touch her, but snatched back his hand. “You are young and healthy. Even my father will have to admit that you would provide him with many grandsons.”
“Is that what you truly desire in a wife, Lloyd? Or is that what your father requires?”
“Well, any man would wish to wed a woman like you, Anne, money or no.” Lloyd allowed his gaze to drift from Anne’s face to her figure. And then slide back again. Anne did not miss Lloyd’s appraisal. She accepted his compliment with a sad smile.
“Do you think that is what the viscount wants?”
“Of course! He is also in need of an heir to his title or it may go extinct. There are no other male relatives in his father’s line. His father, the old earl, is retired to Italy and is rumored to be sickly and close to death. The Viscount’s elder brother died childless. And Lady Beatrice, his own first and now deceased wife, did not provide an heir.”
Lloyd paused to take a breath. “The old Earl had a younger brother, but he is also deceased. So it is certain that our Lord Westmeare seeks you as a possible wife and hopefully mother to his children.”
“And the wealthy viscount will not care that I am so poor? Is that correct, Lloyd? And what about the earl? What will he think?”
“Well, the earl is desperate for a male heir. And the viscount may not be so wealthy himself, Anne. There are rumors that the earl has severely reduced his son’s income until he produces said heir. The Viscount Westmeare may be feeling a bit of a financial pinch right now.”
Lloyd bent his tall frame awkwardly on one knee. “Please, Anne, I will ask my father to reconsider. Then I can properly propose to you and make you my wife.”
“You are a bit late. And what will the viscount say, Lloyd, when he has just so formally and officially asked my brother for my hand?”
“Anne!” Randall burst into the garden. “Anne, please. There is more to tell. Please come back to the dining room.” Noticing Lloyd, he asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Proposing,” Anne replied, her own voice sounding strange and discordant.
“Come, Anne.” Randall frowned at Lloyd. Then placing his arm around Anne’s shoulders in a guarded gesture, he drew her up from the bench. Anne laid her head on her brother’s shoulder. Neither spoke. After a few moments, he led her back into the house. “We will work this out together.”
Head drooping,
Lloyd rose and followed them inside. Abelard sank back down on the warm stones, licked his paws, and yawned.
~ ~ ~
In the dining room, Penelope poured Anne another glass of wine. “Am I to have any say in this matter?” Anne, with her spine straight and her shoulders squared, spoke directly to Randall.
“Lord Westmeare said he would return tomorrow evening for your answer. He will speak privately and only with you, Anne. He will lay out his proposal in detail then.”
“But, is Lord Westmeare truly sincere?”
“Yes. Anne. His proposal is an honorable one.”
“Anne, you will be a viscountess.” Lydia Satterfield spoke in a choked whisper. “And ultimately, a countess.” Her pale thin arms rose up and her fingers quivered. Then they dropped onto her lap like a dying bird.
“But that is an honor I never dreamed of,” Anne protested.
“Sister, does this mean you will be a Lady?” Edwina asked. “Shall I practice curtsying to you?” Edwina spread out her skirts and dipped her knee to her sister. Anne’s lips parted in a slight smile.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Anne reached out to embrace her youngest sibling.
Richard rose from his chair and made his way to Anne’s side. “Will this make you happy, sister?” He spoke with a tremor in his voice as he made her a deep bow.
Watching her closely, Randall asked, “What will your answer be, Anne?”
Closing her eyes, Anne grasped a hand of each brother. The answer to both was a poignant, “I do not know.”
Chapter 5
After Lloyd and Lydia departed and the family retired for the night, Anne lay awake, staring into the gloom. Lord Westmeare’s unexpected proposal haunted her thoughts. She rose and paced the small confines of her bedroom. Finally, she threw a shawl over her shoulders and crept downstairs, treading softly on the uneven steps.
In the kitchen, she helped herself to a cup of milk and curled up on the oaken settle adjacent to the fireplace where by habit she felt drawn to reflection. She would have preferred something stronger to drink, but she knew she must remain as clearheaded as possible. The decision she made would concern them all.
But what would be the best decision for her family? For herself? Of course, this offer could assist her siblings and secure their welfare. But might the obvious choice have unintended consequences in the years to come? There were no guarantees in life.
Only questions. No answers. What should she do?
Anne rose and carried her drink through the hall to her mother’s rocking chair in the parlor and sat down. The light from a waning moon penetrated the dimity curtains, illuminating this cherished place in the house.
The dwelling creaked around her as old boards settled in for the night. She felt the noises the ancient house made. She had grown up with the comforting sounds of rasping hinges and loose floorboards and the wind sighing in the eaves.
A deep ache burrowed into her heart as she heard the echo of childish laughter, footsteps in the hall, and her mother’s soft welcome, “Edmund.” When her father stepped through the door, wearing that special smile reserved only for his wife.
How he would tenderly touch her face and caress her cheek, his eyes held fast by hers broken only by the cheery chorus of “Welcome home, Father,” from their children as they rushed to greet him.
Anne suppressed a deep sigh. If only such a loving union were in her future with a man who would revere and cherish her. Anne rose to her feet and moved about the room.
Her father’s pipe, smelling still of cherry tobacco. Her mother’s twin Worchester vases, gracing the mantel. Her parents’ framed silhouettes, smiling at each other on the wall. Everything reminded Anne of her parents, her siblings, and their blessed childhood in Abbey Mead.
Sitting on the bench at the pianoforte, her fingertips hovered over the cold keys, as she silently played those most treasured folk songs from her youth as well as her favorite hymns. A few small tears dropped onto the ivory keyboard. The vicarage was the only home she had ever known. One way or the other, Anne would be forced to leave.
Wiping her eyes with the shawl, she continued to wander through the room. Gravitating to the comfort of the rocking chair, Anne resumed her seat there. At times, her rocking was agitated. At times, serene.
Abelard leapt onto her lap. The cat appeared perplexed to find a human up in the middle of the night. Anne smoothed the cat’s ears and rubbed its back. His soft purring calmed her aching heart.
When he eventually abandoned his perch, Anne drew her feet up and hugged her knees tight against her chest. She closed her eyes and uttered a soft moan.
Anne whispered to her mother for guidance. She prayed for courage and wisdom. She knew she must be pragmatic. She did not love Lord Westmeare. She did not even know him. He was so much older than she. To her, he was a cold, dark stranger.
Why did he choose me? Why?
Mama, what should I do? If I do not accept his proposal, what will happen to our family? I know that many couples marry for convenience and later find love, but I had hoped to find a man I could love and admire. And what if some day, I should meet such a man? My champion? My companion?
For hours she rocked, her mind agitated. Toward morning, exhaustion pulled her toward sleep. In her dreams, she heard the strong, reassuring voice of her papa, calling her.
She saw herself as a little girl, gliding down the aisle of the ancient church in Abbey Mead. Her minuscule steps echo off the stone benches built into the walls. Sunlight slants through the glass windows, staining the oak pews and flagstones with bright hues of crimson and azure and emerald. The Reverend Tuttle is praying at the altar. Hearing her small footsteps resonate on the hard surface, he pauses to look at his eldest daughter.
“Anne, please do not worry. In the end, all will be well. Come here, child.” Her beloved papa extends his hand and smiles at her. “Remember, Anne, God will always watch over you.”
Anne looks into her father’s kind eyes and kneels beside him at the altar. “When you need guidance, my child, pour out your heart to God. Remember the twenty-third Psalm?” Anne nods. “Let us recite it together.”
Anne folds her tiny hands as her small thin voice echoes the deep clear tones of her father:
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul:
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me;
Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
When the morning sun crept over the window ledge, Anne awoke. She felt strangely comforted. She touched her mother’s cross and drew on an inner strength. Yes. Needs must! Somehow she would find the courage to do this. She prayed that it was the best choice.
For everyone.
Chapter 6
June 1812
The Vicarage
Abbey Mead
On her way to the altar, Anne stepped out through the arched doorway of the vicarage and descended the worn brick steps into the sunshine of her mother’s garden. Gone were the daffodils and lilacs of spring. Salmon colored phlox, pale blue spiderwort, and purple columbine now swayed in the gentle breeze of an early summer morning. Burgundy and white peonies sweetened the edges of the stone walkways.
Edwina skipped ahead of Anne along the path,
her flaxen curls dancing on her shoulders, her pastel blue gown swirling at her ankles. Anne smiled to see her little sister so happy.
Pausing in the middle of the garden, Anne clutched her mother’s prayer book with pale fingers. It was wrapped in an embroidered white linen handkerchief. Anne carried no flowers except for a few sprays of sweet rosemary tucked within the pages of the cherished book.
A beaming Penelope clung to the arm of her husband so handsome in his new infantry uniform while her brothers, Randall and Richard, waited gravely at the garden gate to escort Anne to the church, their dark heads almost touching as they whispered together. They both looked up as she approached. Randall forced a smile and said, “You look beautiful, Anne.” Richard nodded somberly and offered her his arm. Anne gazed up at him in surprise and paused to consider when he had grown so tall.
At the end of the walkway, pink roses arched over a trellis. Under the cover of their fragrant scent, Anne lingered to inhale their sweetness one last time. Visions of her childhood, girlish laughter, her mother’s smile, her father’s voice fortified her spirit. Yet her heart grieved.
Anne knew her parents enjoyed a happy union, their deep love for each other imbued their family life with a special joy and strength. She had hoped for the same. She embraced no genuine idea of what to expect from the future as the wife of the Viscount Albert Grenville, Lord Westmeare.
Her brief interview with him in the vicarage library the day after his meeting with Randall left Anne with more questions than answers.
“I am offering you security and a place in society, Mistress Tuttle.” His lordship had stood by the fireplace, continuously swirling the thumb of his right hand over gloved fingers. Anne, seated in her father’s chair, studied the viscount as he spoke. He was close to forty, of medium height with black hair touched with gray at the temples. His features were not disagreeable, but he never smiled and a nervous tic frequently touched his left cheek.
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