by Jaima Fixsen
“Neither,” she lied. “My mother thinks I will be cheered by doing good works, but I’m afraid the prospect of them only makes me gloomy.” That explained her simple dress.
“It doesn’t cheer you?”
“Not at all. I’m entirely selfish, though it is a worthy endeavor.”
“What are you doing? Sewing for the poor?”
“Not today.” She made a face. “Collecting for the Aldgate dispensary.”
Aldgate was as a particularly insalubrious part of town, but he hadn’t heard of a dispensary there. A wagon rumbled by, stirring up a cloud of dust. He nudged her clear of it, raising his hand to shield her face.
“No grazes,” she said, looking at his fingers. “No bruises either. Remarkable, given the turn up I saw the other day.”
“I’m a swift healer,” he grinned. “But I have a few marks left. Just not where you can see.”
She stiffened and withdrew her hand from his arm. “I don’t know what you think you will gain by approaching me. I’m not interested in casual amours, and have no intention of inspecting your bruises.”
“I didn’t invite you to look,” he countered.
“Didn’t you?” she asked.
“No. I was only stating that they were there.” But he shouldn’t have mentioned them, not to a respectable lady he’d already offended. Usually he was more adroit.
Her stride quickened. “Don’t be obtuse. I understand you perfectly well, but since I prefer plain speaking, I will tell you this: I am not to be imposed upon. Not by you, or anyone else. I won’t fall for flattering smiles and pretty compliments.”
“Have I given you any?”
She ignored him. “It doesn’t need to be in what you say—”
“Mrs. Morris,” he interrupted, reining in his temper. “You are a beautiful lady. I won’t deny that. But there’s a difference between admiring a painting and wanting to buy it. You assume too much.”
Her lips pinched together and her chest rose, but he wasn’t done saying his piece. “I made a mistake and am honor bound to correct it. You said Tom Bagshot could have helped you. I wanted to find out why, because perhaps I might be able to assist you. I was rather an ass that evening, after all. That’s all. No more. Finis.”
“You’ve made yourself perfectly clear,” she said, with a brittle smile. “So will I. I don’t need your help.”
“Just mine? Or have circumstances changed? Do you not need help at all?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t turn to you,” she said, stopping in front of the church on the street corner. “My mother is inside. Thank you for your escort. I wish you a good day.” Without waiting for him to bow, she spun away and stalked off.
*****
Anna hastened over the flagstone path, her eyes fixed on the heavy chapel doors, her feelings as jumbled as her own bureau drawers. If she picked through the tangle she might find a reason to make sense of it all, but she doubted it. They were a magpie hoard: everything soiled, broken and cheap.
He had guessed the truth about her, right from the first. If she wasn’t so angry, she’d be terrified. Instead of listening to his apologies she should have congratulated him on his perception. And if Captain Beaumaris could sense her secret in a three minute conversation at a masquerade, her problems were bigger than she thought. She’d never get Henry back.
She shivered, despite the sun pressing hot against her shoulders. Ignoring the greasy feeling in her middle that always accompanied these reflections, she ducked into the shadowy church without even glancing at the rose windows. Her face wore a trained smile, but she didn’t trust it for more than an exchange of nods with the soberly dressed crowd inside. Her mother sat at a table, recording the names in a book in her precise hand. As she passed, Anna picked up one of the pamphlets stacked to the side.
“Ah-ah,” her mother said, and Anna’s hand halted in midair.
“This isn’t included in my five pounds?” Giving her mother a look (which she ignored, naturally), Anna dug a shilling out of her purse. “I’ll take three of them,” she said.
Clutching her handful of papers, she found a seat on the far side of the room.
Today they were listening to Dr. Henry Clutterbuck, one of the physicians working at the Aldgate dispensary. Anna had nothing against the poor—her visits to the dispensary had shocked her more than she could say—but it depressed her that she was blue as megrim, when thousands of souls faced privation, disease and ignorance. Real problems. What was the matter with her?
Dr. Clutterbuck and the vicar were moving among the attendees—there were a good number gathered today. Her mother would be pleased. Knowing it would be some time before both the earnest and skeptical found their seats and the vicar and Dr. Clutterbuck began speaking, Anna glanced down at her pamphlets. She stopped after the first paragraph. Vaccination again. She was already convinced of the advantages conferred by the procedure, and though it seemed miraculous, she’d heard it discussed so often the topic was now only mildly interesting. Last month the pamphlets had been about phlebotomy. Anna was ashamed to admit it, but she’d read them over twice with ghoulish satisfaction. She’d been bled only a few times in her life, but it had been hard to muster the correct look of suffering, when all she wanted to do was watch and prod the creature on her arm. The fact that he—there must be female leeches of course, but Anna felt the male pronoun was more accurate—was disgusting did not make the animal any less interesting.
She turned the pamphlet over on her lap and glanced out the wavy glass of the arching windows. She ought to be cheered by the sunshine but all she could think of was how hot the sitting room at home would be by the time they returned. She would stay with her mother as long as possible. The old stone church never warmed much.
If Captain Beaumaris could peg her correctly after a single dance—she could ignore whatever had happened since to change his mind—her brother-in-law probably knew Henry was a cuckoo’s egg. Her husband had known, she’d made sure of that. Even if Anthony hadn’t confided in his brother, a man didn’t usually go to the devil without a reason. Frederick had to suspect. He wasn’t stupid. Sometimes she’d considered telling him the truth, but she knew it would make no difference. He hated her already and nothing would make him give up Henry. Not while he had all that money. She’d miscalculated terribly.
Anna clasped her hands tighter and firmed her lips against the sudden desire to cry. Someone tapped on her shoulder and she managed to compose her expression enough to greet Mrs. Longswill, who’d just taken the place on the pew beside her.
“How are you, my dear?”
“Well. How kind of you to ask.” Only half attending, Anna brought out the required questions, learning that Mr. Longswill was again feeling poorly, that Mrs. Longswill had been terrified to vaccinate her family, but had trusted Edward Jenner, even with half the doctors in London calling him a fool. And now, years later, Dr. Clutterbuck said the same things, and wasn’t she glad—so glad—she’d had it done to all of them.
“A great thing, my dear. A great thing, if we can get a lancet on every one of the poor. Of course so many resist the idea,” said Mrs. Longswill. The plume of her bonnet was askew, swaying lopsidedly as she nodded.
“I don’t think many of them can read the pamphlets,” Anna said, looking down at the stack on Mrs. Longswill’s lap.
“But they can listen. Hear the testimony of their betters. What more can they need?”
“Nothing, I’m sure. Will you assist with recruitment at the dispensary?”
Mrs. Longswill turned even more solemn. “My dear, I really think I must.”
Much longer of this and she would crack. Mrs. Longswill was a good woman, a worthy soul, and all Anna could feel was a curdling self-pity. It blanketed her like a dark cloud, never mind the sun filling the windows.
“How is your boy?” Mrs. Longswill asked.
Anna nearly closed her eyes, but saved herself at the last moment. “Full of frisk. I took him to the park the other day and
nearly toppled over from fatigue by the end of it.”
The happy light in Mrs. Longswill’s eyes would kill her if she didn’t look away. “I think we should encourage them to get started, don’t you?” Anna said and set her face to the front of the room, saying nothing until the vicar took his place.
She’d always liked the vicar’s gravelly voice and the way his white wig and clerical collar stood stark against his dark robes, but try as she would, she couldn’t hold on to his words today. They slipped by her ears like pebbles through water, splashing and rippling, nothing more. Anna shifted on the hard bench, reflecting that at least the note writer had turned out to be him—the man from the park and the masquerade, who’d told her his name was Jasper Rushford. She liked Beaumaris better.
Her first thought on seeing that unfamiliar name, scrolling across his neat pasteboard card, had been much worse. She’d been reckless in choosing her lovers, very reckless, and it would be no more than she deserved if some man exposed her. Never mind that it was long ago. You couldn’t wash that off with a splash of soap and water. Captain Beaumaris was insulting and a nuisance—luckily the nursemaid was blaming Henry’s foul language on the footmen—but he wasn’t dangerous to her.
Had he told her his Christian name? No, but it was written on his card. She cast her mind back. Alistair Beaumaris. He’d signed his letters in that style, closing with ‘Yr obedient servant.’ Well, she got the joke there now. The man was none of the three: not hers, not obedient, and certainly no one’s servant. It hardly mattered. She wouldn’t see him again. There would be no more elliptical notes to terrify her.
Anna paused, her eyes tracing the edge of a leafy shadow moving across the whitewashed north wall. Lovers didn’t feel like the right word for those men. They might have used it for her, but she’d viewed them more as stud horses, chosen for convenience and a single purpose. She’d been all kinds of a fool, but she really should have taken better note of who they were—then she wouldn’t have panicked upon receiving Beaumaris’s card. Of course, at the time, she’d been so wild with rage at her husband, she hadn’t really cared who she bedded—she only wanted them for the child they could give her, a child she could flaunt in Anthony’s face.
That fit of temper should have cured her of all others, the same way a blistered chest drew phlegm from the lungs. There’d been a good pamphlet about that once.
She couldn’t call those men lovers—not when she could hardly remember their faces. She hadn’t needed that many. Four had been enough. They’d all been rather the same, save for the footman. Despite his lustiness, he had been sweet, smoothing her hair back from her face and looking at her with a steadiness that threatened to make her cry. Certainly he was the handsomest of the lot. Also the most tender, but in theory, as dangerous as the others. No lawyer in his right mind would represent her claim if the truth got out.
When she’d spied Captain Beaumaris’s dark silhouette in the street today, fear had turned her innards to water and stolen the air from her chest. Relief followed once she saw his face, but he could have been one of the four. The footman, James, was still employed by Frederick. He’d never told, but who knew what the others might do if they ever turned up? Hopefully they’d forgotten, but she could never be sure. Thankfully, it had only been Beaumaris and his misplaced apologies this time. She couldn’t afford any trouble.
If only she had resigned herself to her lot, accepted imprisonment in the country and behaved herself. She would have no secrets to hide then, only the continual shame of her husband’s disgust. Of course, she never would have had Henry. She couldn’t regret him. Even if she never got him back, she would still have those early moments—the elbows and knees jabbing from inside her swollen belly, a tight purple face and a feeble first cry. Warm milky skin and fuzzy down hair and a pulse beating on the soft crown of his head that she watched carefully, afraid his soul might spill out. Before tears could roll past her lashes, Anna sniffed, blinked and focused on the earnest face of Dr. Clutterbuck. No help there. Her eyes followed the arched roof heavenwards, tempting her with thoughts of lifted burdens and soaring wings, but the memory of her sins kept her mired to the earth. She was failing. She’d lost her son, and he was her heart—or what was left of it. She felt like she’d been bleeding since watching him skip up the stairs of her brother-in-law’s house.
No doubt she deserved it.
Chapter Six
A Sad Tangle
Alistair was not used to being dismissed by women, particularly when he was exerting himself. Despite his recent failure with Sophy, he should have managed better with this one. Something was wrong with Mrs. Morris—his behavior at the masquerade and the park couldn’t explain all of hers. No reason she should be afraid of him, and she’d looked terrified at first.
Ignoring the temptation to linger in the churchyard and confront her when she came out, he walked back to Mayfair, coating his boots with dust. Lacking a better plan, he decided to visit his aunt.
“My uncle in?” Alistair asked the butler, late in remembering that he owed an apology to Lord Fairchild. Admitting his mistake would be awkward and embarrassing, but his uncle would be relieved to know there was nothing untoward between Tom Bagshot and Anna Morris—so relieved, he probably wouldn’t give Alistair the roasting he deserved.
Alistair could supply the taunts he’d earned himself.
Jenkins shook his head. “But Lady Fairchild is at home.”
“Any other callers?” Alistair asked, glancing to the mirror as he removed his hat.
“Just yourself, sir.”
That was bad. If his Aunt Georgiana was still being scorned by the ladies of London, it would be a long time before they cleared this cloud of scandal.
“I’ll announce myself,” Alistair said, heading for the stairs.
Before he reached the drawing room door, Lady Fairchild stepped into the hallway.
“William? Oh, Alistair. It’s you.” Her smile was too slippery to stay on her face. “Not too wretched, I hope?”
To anyone else, he would have given a light reply, something to do with the virtues of fortitude. It was a profound relief to give a weak smile instead. “I’m not faring too badly. It’s been days since I’ve read the papers.”
“I as well.”
“I hope you don’t mind me intruding today.”
“Not at all. I’m more likely to fall upon your neck with gratitude. Too much of my own company.” She reached out and took his hand. “I was afraid you wouldn’t want to see us anymore.”
“I’m here for a few days yet,” he said. “You won’t be able to avoid me.”
Her eyes sharpened. “Just a few days? Have you been recalled to the peninsula?”
“It isn’t so bad.” This was a patent lie, and one his aunt didn’t believe for a moment. She just waited in the way that adults do for children to confess the truth.
“How can you tell?” he asked. He’d said nothing to her—or to anyone—of his reluctance to return to his regiment.
“I’m sure you acquit yourself honorably, but I never thought the army a good choice for you.” Warned by footsteps coming from the other end of the hallway, she motioned him into the drawing room. “Come inside. The maids don’t need to hear.”
Alistair walked to the far wall, pretending to study the portrait of his cousin Henrietta. The artist hadn’t flattered her—Henrietta didn’t need it. But the painting couldn’t turn his mind from his aunt’s words. “You don’t think I’m fit for it?”
“Of course I do!” she protested, realizing she had stung him. “You’re much too fine for it. I wouldn’t want a son of mine in such danger.”
“You weren’t blessed with a superfluity of them,” he said, turning. She’d arranged herself neatly on the sofa, but he didn’t sit down.
“You mustn’t feel that way,” she said. “We can think of something. Charlotte Grayson isn’t engaged yet. Or Eliza Wrexham.”
“I wish you wouldn’t. One foray is enough for me this ye
ar. I’m not desperate,” he said.
She considered this. “Too much speed would look ill, but you’re running out of time. And who knows if next year you’ll be given leave?”
Or be alive to take it? But it didn’t help to think along those lines. “I expect I shall be leaving London within a fortnight. Won’t be so bad,” he said. “I won’t have to avoid looking in the newspapers.” It took three weeks or more for London news to reach Spain.
“When were you recalled?” Aunt Georgiana asked, a crease between her brows.
Alistair reached into his pocket, drawing out the letter from his Colonel—it was marking his place in Horace. He passed it to his aunt. She scanned it, returning it to him with a steady enough hand, but pained eyes.
“I don’t know this surgeon. Thought I’d see him tomorrow,” Alistair said. “No point in putting the thing off.”
“Will he say you are fit?”
“I don’t see why not.” The lingering weakness in his shoulder he could blame on the fistfight with Jasper. “I’ll be fine,” he said, for the benefit of his aunt, who scowled at a flower that had fallen from the vase and lay browning on the table. She pinched it up and rolled it between her fingers.
“Is that why you came? To tell me?”
“Actually, I was hoping to ply you with questions. May I?” Anna Morris was something of a riddle. If he wanted answers, he must lose no more time.
“What about?”
“Oh, scandal, of course,” he said, pleased to see her expression going from grave to interested. “I think it’s high time we started talking about other people’s instead of our own.”
She nodded assent and though she was plainly curious, she didn’t let him begin straight off, ringing for tea first and motioning him to take a seat beside her on the sofa. While he settled himself she arranged her hands prettily in her lap, tilting her head to a confiding angle. He could almost see the girl she had once been, sitting down to whisper over the failings of others—a wickedly enjoyable pastime for the young and blameless, and a comforting respite, even for them. They waited for the tray to come up, talking nothing but nothings as Aunt Georgiana poured out the tea and offered him a dish of confits that she herself ignored, since it was fashionable for ladies to content themselves with bread and butter. He only took one raisin tart, knowing his stomach had a limited tolerance for things composed primarily of butter, sugar and cream.