by Mary Balogh
“And what would you advise, Avery?” she asked, and he was encouraged to hear the slight edge in her voice.
He shuddered with deliberate theatricality. “My dear Anna,” he said, “if there is something I never, ever do, it is offer advice. The tedium of it! Why would it matter to me whether you turn yourself into a diamond of the first water—that ghastly cliché—or remain a happy, dowdy teacher of orphans?”
“Perhaps,” she suggested, “a dowdy teacher of orphans would offend your sense of consequence, since you have a connection to me through your stepmother.” She turned her head to look at him, and yes, she was angry. She had a bit of a stubborn jaw too.
“Ah,” he said faintly, “but I never allow anything or anyone to reduce my sense of consequence.”
“And neither,” she said, “do I.”
Their eyes met. “A knockout line,” he said. “My compliments, Anna.”
“I will change,” she told him. They had come to a stop again at a break in the trees that afforded a view across a grassy expanse to the Serpentine in the distance. “One cannot live from one day into the next without changing. It is the nature of life. Small choices are always necessary even when large ones do not loom. I will change what I choose to change and retain what I choose to retain. I will even listen to advice since it is foolish not to, provided the adviser has something of value to say. But I will not choose between Anna and Lady Anastasia, for I am both. I merely have to decide, one choice at a time, how I will somehow reconcile the two without rejecting either. “
He smiled slowly at her, and she bit her lower lip.
“I do believe, Anna,” he said, “that I may well fall in love with you. It would be a novel experience, but then, you are a novel experience. So earnest and so . . . principled. What do you choose, then, for the next moment? Shall we walk on? Or shall I kiss you?”
He said it to shock her, but he shocked himself at least equally. There were women with whom he flirted, and there were women with whom he most definitely did not. Anna fit quite firmly into the second category.
He watched shock wash over her and kept a wary eye on her right hand, assuming she was right-handed. Her nostrils flared.
“We will walk on,” she said. “If this is how a gentleman and an aristocrat speaks to a lady, Avery, then I do not think much of a gentleman’s education.”
“There are not many ladies,” he said, his expression and his voice restored to their habitual ennui, “who would be outraged by the offer of a kiss from the Duke of Netherby. How humbling your rejection would be, Anna, if I were capable of humility. We will, as you say, continue on our way, then. We must return to Westcott House soon if we do not want Lady Matilda Westcott and the new Earl of Riverdale to send out in search of you.”
Glancing around the brim of her bonnet, he could not decide if she was amused or still angry and shocked. He could usually read women like a book. She was a closed and locked volume, and perhaps that was why he liked her and found her interesting. Who could resist the lure of a lock when the key was hidden somewhere?
They walked on.
Eight
Dear Miss Ford,
By the time you receive this, I daresay you will know why I was summoned to London. I am sure Joel Cunningham will have shared my letter with you and everyone else. However, one thing has changed in just the day since I wrote that letter, and I must inform you that I will not after all be returning to Bath within the next day or two.
I wish I were. Indeed, I long to go home. Perversely, now that I have discovered that I am a lady of fortune, I want to go back to being who I was. I want my familiar life back. I want to be there with you and all my friends. I want to be teaching my dear children.
However, I have been persuaded—by others and by my own good sense—of the wisdom of remaining here, at least for a while. It would be foolish to take flight just when I have discovered what I have longed all my life to know. I must remain, I have decided, and learn just exactly who Lady Anastasia Westcott is and what her life would be if she had not been turned into Anna Snow at the age of four and left there at the orphanage. I must decide how much of her I can become without losing Anna Snow in the process. It may be conceited of me, but I am rather fond of Anna Snow.
Before I venture upon this strange voyage of discovery, however, I must resign from my teaching position. I do so with the deepest regret and something like panic in my heart, but I cannot expect you to inconvenience yourself and all the children while you wait for me to decide when I will return, if ever.
I shall be writing another letter after this one, but it seems only fair to give you advance notice that I will be trying to lure one of your girls away from you, and the one who has become your helper. It appears that Lady Anastasia Westcott, that pampered, helpless creature, cannot possibly dress herself or style her own hair or fetch hot water to her room or clean and iron her own clothes. She must have a personal maid to do those things for her.
I have been offered the temporary services of the maid of my second cousin, who is staying with me at Westcott House—which I own—but I have been warned that a maid of superior talents and experience will be chosen for me by my grandmother and my aunts. I tremble at the very thought—and I am only half joking. I picture someone stiff and humorless, who would look contemptuously along the length of her nose at poor me in my Sunday best, and me shaking with terror in my best and very sensible shoes. I would rather choose my own maid and have someone I know, someone with whom I can talk and laugh, even if she should find herself with as much to learn about her new life as I.
I am going to offer the position to Bertha Reed, since I believe the position might suit her and—more to the point—it would bring her closer to her Oliver. Oh, dear, does that make me a matchmaker? But the match has already been made, has it not? Those two have been devoted to each other since infancy.
I may deprive you of more of the older boys and girls too. This house of mine is vast. Indeed, I am inclined to call it a mansion. I have not yet been subjected to the terror of a meeting with my housekeeper—that is set for tomorrow morning—but I have learned that we are short staffed, as several of the servants went with my half sisters and their mother into the country this morning before I arrived here. My guess is that they will not be returning—or remaining there for long. They do not like the new order of things, and I cannot say I blame them. I am going to find out from the housekeeper what servants are needed and inform her that I will fill any suitable positions with candidates of my own choosing. I am thinking in particular of John Davies, who is a tall, strapping boy even though he is not quite fifteen, and he is always very neat and tidy, in both appearance and habits. I know you have tried to find an apprenticeship for him, but I know too that his dream is to be a doorman or a porter at one of the smarter hotels in Bath, someone who wears a uniform and looks strikingly handsome (John has never said that last, of course—he is far too modest). I shall see what Lady Anastasia Westcott can do for him. She must surely have some power.
This was intended to be a very brief note, but instead I have run on. Do please forgive me. And please give my love to all the children and assure them that I will always, always think of them. Wish me joy of my new identity, which is not new, of course, as I have always been Lady Anastasia Westcott without knowing it. I do intend, though, always to remain
Your grateful friend,
Anna Snow
Anna and Elizabeth finished their letter writing at almost the same moment a short time later and smiled at each other.
“I do apologize,” Anna said, “for writing letters during the first evening you are here to keep me company, but I did want to write to the matron of the orphanage without delay and to two of my friends.” She had written a letter to Joel too and a brief note to Bertha.
“No apology is necessary,” Elizabeth assured her. “I had some of my own to write. You must miss
your friends.”
She was not to go back to the Pulteney Hotel, Anna had learned on her return from the walk with the Duke of Netherby. Everyone had left the house except the duchess, Aunt Louise, and Lady Overfield, Cousin Elizabeth. Her belongings had already been fetched from the hotel, and Elizabeth’s had been on the way. Tomorrow Anna would meet Mrs. Eddy, her housekeeper, before the arrival of the hairdresser and the modiste. Her aunt was to arrange those appointments.
“You must not fear that it will be impossible to be brought up to snuff, Anastasia,” she had assured Anna. “You have a face and figure that can be made presentable enough with a little work. It was decided while you were gone that it will be best if you do not wear mourning for your father. It would not be to your advantage to be wearing black when you are introduced to the ton. With the help of some tutors you will learn enough of the essentials of polite behavior not to disgrace either yourself or your family. And all except the highest sticklers will make allowances for any minor slips. Indeed, there will be some who will be charmed by them.”
At that point, Anna had glanced at the duke, who had stayed to escort his stepmother home, but he had merely looked bored. Just as though he had not tried to shock her earlier by telling her he might well fall in love with her. Just as though he had not then gone on to give her a choice—Shall we walk on? Or shall I kiss you?
The man gave her the shudders. No, to be honest it would be more accurate to say he gave her the shivers, for despite all his affectations, all the strange things he said, all the glittering splendor of his person, she had been well nigh suffocated all the time they had been in the park by the aura of power and sheer masculinity he seemed to exude. Having to take his arm—she had never taken anyone’s arm before, not even Joel’s—and walk close to his side had been one of the severest trials of her life.
And the worst—oh, the very worst—moment of that walk had come when he had given her the choice of being kissed or walking on, and her body had reacted quite independently of her mind. She had never come so close to losing control over the feminine needs she had been aware of since she was fourteen or fifteen but firmly quelled. She had wondered during that glance at him when they were back at the house what would have happened if she had chosen the kiss. Would he not have been shocked! She was quite, quite sure, though, that he would have kissed her—and her knees had felt wobbly at the very thought.
“We will all return here tomorrow,” her aunt had gone on to say. “In the meantime, you will have Elizabeth for company and conversation. Listen to her, Anastasia. You can learn much from her.”
But instead of spending the evening in conversation, Anna had excused herself to write letters, and Elizabeth had written some of her own.
You must miss your friends, Elizabeth had just said.
“I hope,” Anna said, “I will have a new friend in you.” Elizabeth had explained that she was a widow and lived with her mother and brother, Cousin Alexander, the new Earl of Riverdale.
“Oh, you will,” Elizabeth assured her. “Poor Anastasia. How very bewildering all this must be for you. Even your name has changed. Would you prefer that I call you Anna?”
“If you please,” Anna said. “I know I am Anastasia, but I do not feel like her. You see? I even think of her and talk of her in the third person.”
They both laughed. It was surely the first time she had laughed since before she left Bath, Anna thought.
“Then perhaps,” Elizabeth said, “you will call me Lizzie, as my close family members and friends do.”
“I will.” Anna smiled at her.
“My cousins—your grandmother and your aunts—can be a trifle overbearing,” Elizabeth said. “I do not believe you will allow yourself to be overborne—I sense that you are of firm character—but they will try very hard to change everything about you until they have fashioned you into the person they believe Lady Anastasia Westcott ought to be. Bear with them if you can, Anna. They mean well, and you must remember that you are as new to them as they are to you. Until yesterday they had no inkling that you even existed. I believe your grandmama in particular is determined to love you.”
Anna watched Elizabeth cross the drawing room. “Oh, Lizzie,” she said, “you can have no idea what it feels like to have a grandmother and other relatives.”
“Forgive me for taking liberties in your house,” Elizabeth said, pulling on the bell rope beside the hearth, “but I think we are both ready for a cup of tea and some light supper.”
“This is your house too,” Anna said. “You have left your mother and brother to come and stay here with me for a while. I am very grateful. I would hate to be alone.”
“Alex really feels for you,” Elizabeth told her. “He too has been thrust into an unfamiliar role he did not expect and has never coveted. But he has always had a strong sense of duty. He will shoulder all the responsibilities of the earldom along with the title. Poor Alex. The burden will be a heavy one.”
Anna wondered in what way it would be heavy. “Are you hinting that I too should shoulder the burden of my duty?” she asked.
But Elizabeth merely laughed. “Oh, goodness me, no,” she said. “I have come here to offer you companionship and even cousinly affection, Anna. I will help you all I can to feel more comfortable in your new identity. I will even offer opinions when you solicit them. But I will not preach at you. That is not what friends do.”
“Thank you,” Anna said.
But the tea tray arrived at that moment together with plates of thinly sliced bread and butter and cheese and currant cakes.
“I wonder,” Anna said as they ate, “if the Duke of Netherby has found my brother yet.”
“If he has not,” Elizabeth said, “he surely will, and he will take care of him. I know Avery likes to give the impression that he is the ultimate in affected, indolent dandyism. Alex takes the outer appearance for reality and considers him irresponsible and heartily disapproves of him. But there is something about Avery—I believe it is in his eyes—that would make me turn to him with the utmost confidence if I ever found myself in difficulties and Alex was not at hand. He has kept Harry on the loosest of reins, I have heard, but nevertheless the reins have been there.”
“I do hope you are right,” Anna said. “I cannot forget that when that young man first knew I was his sister, he looked pleased and eager to know me.”
“Have you been told what happened between Camille and her fiancé yesterday afternoon?” Elizabeth asked.
“No.” Anna set down her cup in its saucer.
“They were betrothed at Christmastime,” Elizabeth told her, “but the death of the old earl forced them to postpone their wedding from this spring until next year. He was to call upon her here yesterday afternoon, and she very much expected that with her decision to leave off her mourning he would be happy to set the wedding for this year after all. But when he came and learned what had happened at Archer House during the morning, he left with what must have seemed indecent haste before any plans could be made. An hour later, poor Camille received a letter from him, suggesting that she be the one to send a notice to the papers announcing the ending of their betrothal, since it might be considered ungentlemanly if he did it himself.”
“Oh, Lizzie.” Anna set down her cup and saucer and gazed at Elizabeth in horror.
“Camille sent the notice,” Elizabeth said. “I daresay it will appear in tomorrow morning’s papers.”
“But why?” Anna’s eyes widened.
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth said, “because it will seem less humiliating to have the ton believe she was the one to sever the connection.”
“And that is how gentlemen behave?” Anna said. “This is the world in which I am expected to learn to live?”
“At least give the man credit for not publicly shaming his betrothed,” Elizabeth said, but before Anna could express her outrage, she held up one hand. “But I
still think he ought to be boiled in oil—at the very least.”
Anna leaned back in her chair. “Poor, poor Camille,” she said. “She is my sister, Lizzie. I offered to share everything, but my brother ran away and my sisters fled to the country with their mother.”
“Give them time,” Elizabeth said. “And give yourself time, Anna. I could have chosen a better moment to tell you than bedtime, could I not? I am sorry. But it is too late now for me to decide that it would have made better breakfast conversation.”
Anna sighed as they both got to their feet. Five minutes later she was alone in her vast bedchamber, having refused the offer of the services of Elizabeth’s maid. She and her little bag had this room as well as a dressing room larger than her room in Bath and a private sitting room in which to move about. And, unlike the rooms at the hotel, these belonged to her, as did the entire house.
But there was an emptiness inside that was vaster than her whole body. She longed suddenly for the dear solidity of Joel. If he were here now and offered her marriage again, she would accept before the proposal was fully out of his mouth. Perhaps it was as well he was not here. Poor Joel. He deserved better.
I do believe, Anna, that I may well fall in love with you.
What would it be like to fall in love?
What would it be like to be kissed?
And, oh dear, what was it going to be like to be Lady Anastasia Westcott?
Was it too late to go back, simply to forget the events of the past few days? Her letters had not yet been sent. But yes, it was too late. Her leaving now would not solve anything for her brother and sisters and their mother. They could not simply forget the last few days and return to their lives the way they had been.