An Independent Miss

by Becca St. John

  Felicity sighed. “We are to be married, so he will learn about them soon enough.” Those ‘blasted journals’ held nearly six centuries worth of anecdotes on the sick, the dying, and those who were perfectly healthy, but thought they were dying, and were as fascinating as they were helpful.

  “If I had known it would come to this…” her mother fussed, as she broke off the stem of a perfectly healthy plant. Felicity winced. “It just isn’t done, Cis. You mustn’t tell Lord Andover, you must never let him know. When you are married, when you are in town, you will be absolutely rejected should anyone hear of this,” she gestured about her, “that you tend to others’ ills. It’s not the thing at all.”

  But it was, to her father’s people. Every other generation, one was chosen to copy the journals, word for word, drawing per drawing, preserving against the wear of time, infusing herself with all they were. An overwhelming privilege and responsibility Felicity could not abandon.

  “Mother, marrying does not mean I have to give up my healing. With Lord Andover’s support, I could do so much more.”

  “Have you told Andover this?”

  Felicity fiddled with a fern. “No, we have not spoken of such things.” Reticent by nature, she listened, he spoke, as he would speak to any young lady. Never once did he offer a discourse on aches and pains, or any number of ills of an extended family. She’d been loath to change that by sharing her passion. To be sure, enough others wanted to share in that.

  “Well, don’t speak to him of that. You will have enough adjustments to make without adding your interests to the mix.”

  Felicity blinked, not certain she’d heard correctly. “They are part of who I am.”

  “Who you are has changed,” her mother charged, as though it were as simple as changing her dress. “You must think of more than your own reputation. Look at what happened to your grandmother. Branded a witch!”

  Relieved, Felicity leaned heavily against the potting table. “That was jealousy, a woman’s jealousy. The woman would have done her best to discredit grandmama in any manner. And you know, Mama, the woman was mad. Absolutely lost.”

  “Felicity, think.” Lady Westhaven sighed and joined her. “This could affect your husband’s reputation, and would certainly bear upon your children. Jealousy or not, your father and I had a difficult time with those accusations.”

  “What I do is good, mother. I help people. Why would anyone begrudge that?”

  “Because people are motivated by fear, not right or wrong, or good or bad. Fear. Your grandmother was destroyed socially because of what she did.” Lady Westhaven tried to move through her agitation, but the small space only added to her rising ire. “And then there are the charlatans. You would be painted with the same brush. Even worse, it smacks of trade. You are limited by privilege, my love, which is not such a bad thing. There are far worse restraints to bear.”

  “So you would like me to douse the best that I am? It’s not fair or right.” She stilled her mother’s hands that had been brushing over the tops of plants. “You expect me to keep years of intense study and hard work hidden, even from my husband? And the journals? They were incredible, vastly important to the world.”

  Her mother continued, “Well… they would pass the information down through the female line. I do not know what possessed them. Men would have been held in high regard, respected.”

  Felicity snapped, “And why is that, Mother? Why is it respectful for a man, yet not for a woman?” She spun away. “That’s absolute nonsense you’re helping to propagate. Diminishing me, your own daughter!”

  “Don’t be so naive, Felicity. Really.”

  Breathing as though she’d run a race, Felicity battened down her burgeoning fury. She would not argue now, not until she’d spoken with Andover. Truth be told, if he agreed with her mama, she could not marry him. It was as simple as that. “I shan’t say anything, shall I, Mother. Not in town, anyway.”

  Lady Westhaven sank back against the plant bed, gentling her voice as Felicity had given ground. “You need to do more than hold your tongue, Felicity. It is not what you say, and it’s not just those journals. People mend around you.” Her hands fluttered, as she fought to say what must not be said. “You know…you just know. No one need tell you they aren’t well, you know they aren’t, and know what they need without so much as a word from them.”

  With a shove, Felicity moved away from the potting table, and brushed her hands. “And that is the heart of your argument, isn’t it? That people will see me as an oddity, as a…” At her mother’s look of disgust, Felicity blunted her words. “As a sorceress of some sort.” Again, she snapped at her mother, having lost her temper more in the last few moments than she had all year. “I will control myself. You know I can do that.”

  “Oh, my dearest, I know how hard it is to fight your own desires, but it is very wise.” Her mother’s arms wrapped around her, threatening the stoic stance Felicity fought so hard to cling to. “You will come to be thankful.”

  Lady Westhaven leaned back, and brushed Felicity’s hair from her brow. “No matter the sacrifice, you are fortunate in your station in life. And now, with Lord Andover, you will have a family to ease any loss.”

  Felicity blew at a wayward strand of hair, and swiped a bead of perspiration from her brow. The still, heavy air clung, as she and her mother moved down an aisle thick with growth, their argument dropped, as always. Other conversations prodded, just as important, and not much time to have them.

  The cusp of the season loomed. As tradition demanded, the Redmond household would be full of guests breaking their trip to town. Even as a child, Felicity enjoyed the comings and goings. This year, she rather longed for the quiet. There would be few moments like this, alone with her mother.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked. “Why didn’t you tell me that Lord Andover was seeking my hand?”

  Her mother looked up sharply, then away, as though fascinated by the plant before her.

  “It’s a spring green, Mother. It doesn’t offer a pretty bloom. I doubt it is really of much interest to you.”

  “No, it does not.” She let go of the leaf, looked around the conservatory, before finally facing Felicity. “Is it really so bad that we didn’t say anything?”

  “So bad?” She missed her one and only courtship, something she had dreamt about, longed for, and she missed it. “I should have known, had the chance to enjoy his attentions instead of fretting about never seeing him again.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic.” Lady Westhaven rolled her eyes as if she didn’t live on the edge of theatrical. “Of course you would have seen him again.”

  “Not if he was married to someone else.”

  “Oh, Cis…” Her mother looked at her. “He didn’t want your brother or Lord Upton knowing, or the children, for that matter. He thought they might intrude and tease you if they knew his intentions.”

  True enough, her suspicion of a prank was well grounded. Thomas was a ruthless jokester.

  “Oh, look at them.” Her mother watched the young men outside in the south garden, fencing. It was an aggressive match. Although the windows were dulled with condensation, Felicity could tell the opponents; Thomas and Andover. Upton stood to the side.

  She swiped a swath of window clean with one of her work cloths. Thomas, impulsive and reckless, next to Andover’s graceful force. Tall and flexible, Andover moved like a dancer, no hesitation, his lunges quick, sharp. The sight alone touched her, a tuning fork tapped.

  She stepped away from the temptation to gawk.

  “I’m very good at keeping secrets,” she told her mother, crossing to another bench, away from the lure of the window.

  “Yes, you are,” her mother admitted. “Much better than the rest of us except, perhaps, your father, who can keep a secret better than a papist priest. But in this instance, you could not have. It would have been in your eyes.” Her mother stilled Felicity’s hands. “Do you really mind? Are you sorry for this time, for the
opportunity to be friends with Andover, to enjoy his company with no more expectation than that?”

  Felicity looked down at her mother’s hand on hers. They were an affectionate family. She wondered if Andover was as well, and blushed as she recalled his finger against her cheek.

  Her mother was right. If she had known he was courting her, she would have been torn between adoration and terror. He was too much for her. She wasn’t certain why she had accepted him so quickly.

  “Mother,” she finally asked. “What made you choose Father over all your other suitors?” When she didn’t answer, Felicity turned to her. “Mother?”

  Agitated, Lady Westhaven pulled away from Felicity, inspected strawberries on a hanging basket. “What makes you think I had a choice of suitors?”

  Felicity snorted, her mother frowned, not at the reaction but the unladylike sound of it. The reaction was to be expected. Volatile and striking, with her dark auburn hair and light green eyes, Lady Westhaven was a faerie grown tall, a lithe, agile figure even after birthing over a half-dozen children. Men watched her walk down a street. She could have any of them with a finger snap, despite being old enough to have children of marriageable age.

  “You could have refused.”

  Good humor gone, Lady Westhaven studied her daughter before turning back to watch the scene unfolding outside. “No, Felicity, I could not say ‘no’ nor do I wish I had.” As though she had not shocked, she continued. “What matters now is why you have said yes. You have the freedom to make a choice, Cissy. You were not plagued with debt, or scandal, or any other nasty business that would keep you from marrying whomever you wanted to marry. So just what are you trying to say, child?”

  But Felicity was stuck on the word ‘no.’ Her mother had not been given a say in the matter of who she married. Her mother had to marry her father, because of debt or scandal or some other nasty business. Caught on what she had just learned, Felicity jumped when her mother shouted.

  “Good grief, they are fighting! I will kill your brother! I swear, that boy cannot keep his temper to himself!”

  CHAPTER 3 ~ A LADY’S SECRET

  One moment they were in the throes of battle, the next, Thomas was gone. Andover swiped at his lip, and came away with blood. Wary, he looked for the next blow and realized Upton held a struggling Thomas, whose eye was worse than Andover’s lip.

  “Stop it! Both of you!” Upton commanded. “The women have seen and are coming.”

  Not the auspicious start Andover anticipated for his betrothal.

  Andover gingerly touched his lip again, sniffed at a leaking nose, and realized that was bloody as well. His handkerchief was in his coat pocket, feet away, and, as Upton had warned, Lady Westhaven and Felicity hurried down the slope he had just traversed with such happiness.

  Desperately, he tried for a semblance of order, ran fingers through his hair, attempted to straighten his soiled cravat. It was undone, his pin—the one his father had given him—gone. He looked to the ground, amazed that tears had come to his eyes.

  Mourning the loss of a loved one held no clock, no sense of propriety. It hit when it chose to hit and damned be the man who scorned it. A sparkle of blue caught his eye. He reached to retrieve the sapphire and was laid flat, tackled. Young Edward caught him off guard, sat atop him and pummeled with surprising force. Cries and shouts of the other children rang out, as Andover managed to push Edward off, held him to the ground.

  “You beat up my brother!” The boy strained to get free, as a dainty foot collided with the small of Andover’s back. Over his shoulder, he saw little Annabel, all of eight years, unrepentant and ready to give him another kick. Her twin, Charles, behind her, mulish and restless, restrained himself, most likely by fairness, one against one and all. One opening and he’d be in the fray like a shot.

  “Whoa!” Upton declared, “Your brother hit first.” He pulled a squirming Annabel back.

  “I don’t care!” Edward seethed, but Andover eased his hold, as the fight left the boy with Upton’s information.

  Thomas was no help, standing aside, laughing.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Lady Westhaven pulled Edward to his feet. “Where is your tutor?” She spotted the beleaguered man, running to the scene, the children’s governess hurrying along at his side. “Mr. Pipping, Miss Mary, would you please take these children inside and see that they are not allowed outside again today.”

  “But, Mama…” Little Beth argued. “I was good.”

  “You watched a brawl, which is not what young ladies do.”

  “But I’m not a young lady, I’m just a little girl.” Beth stomped her foot, arms crossed firmly across her chest.

  Exasperated, Lady Westhaven sternly eyed the caregivers, who rounded up the children.

  “Are you hurt?” Felicity put a hand on Andover’s arm. Embarrassed, he turned away, his sapphire pin clasped in one hand. “Here.” She handed him a sturdy handkerchief.

  “Look at the two of you.” Lady Westhaven fussed over Thomas, whose eye had already gotten worse, his sleeve torn from the shirt. “What sort of example did you intend to set?”

  Andover staunched his bleeding, stood still as Felicity looked at his lip, surprised by his fierce possessiveness. The raw, unfamiliar sensation raged with the sure knowledge that Felicity did not go to her brother, though Andover was certain Thomas looked worse than he did, nor did she stay safely with her mother. She had come to him.

  He fought to calm the brutishness of it, put it down to base humors raised by a fight.

  Upton, always one to deflect trouble, muttered, “men are but boys.”

  “Forever.” Lady Westhaven snapped. “Come, you two. We’ll see if Lucy has time to tend to your wounds.”

  “Lucy?” Thomas snarled. Lady Westhaven shot him a hard glance. Still, Thomas continued. “What about Felicity?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. That would be absolutely unsuitable.”

  “Unsuitable?” Thomas looked at his sister, a sinister hint to his smile, up to one of his games. “If you ignore Mother and help us, Cis, you could send for Samuel Henry.”

  “There is no need for Samuel.” Felicity took Andover’s arm. He covered her hand with his own and held it there with a desperate firmness that surprised him.

  Redmond was a threat, with everything still too new between Felicity and himself. He did not want intrusion, and he did not like the way Thomas limped to her other side.

  “But we all know how much you like to visit with Dr. Henry,” her brother teased. It was not a friendly jest.

  “Ignore him,” Felicity ordered. “Samuel Henry is a physician. He is not a surgeon. He does not tend to the injuries of schoolboy antics.”

  “For you, I do believe he would lower himself to a surgeon’s job.”

  “Stop it, Thomas,” Felicity warned, too late for Andover. Thomas succeeded with words what he’d failed to do with fists.

  Another man held Felicity’s interest. To what extent, he couldn’t guess, or why she accepted his and not the other man’s suit.

  Of course other men courted her. She was sweet, and kind and, well…he looked down at her, stunned. Good God, was he that numb, that he failed to look at her, his future wife?

  He stepped back, wanting to see her in a way he’d not before, in the way he had always viewed women.

  Thomas tugged her forward, unaware he’d played into Andover’s need. Felicity, her arm firmly held by Thomas, turned sideways, to see what held Andover.

  “What?” she asked, all concerned.

  His eyes snapped to hers, no doubt guilt-ridden and wide, having just traversed her form from head to toe. Thomas urged her forward again.

  Good God.

  He was repeating himself, to himself, but couldn’t help it.

  The curves of a pagan goddess, her bodice filled to brimming, the length of her skirt, loose and empty midpoint, going taut with the spread of her hips. He swallowed, remembering those warm brown eyes he’d found so calming, inspired
now to the dark welcome of unawakened sensuality.

  The power of her earthy beauty stirred him from a trance of mourning, beckoned him to life, thoughts of virility, and lust. By God, he’d never once thought of a wife in the context of desire, something a man felt for an entirely different breed of female. Had mourning so unmanned him?

  Thomas glanced back and scowled. Andover schooled his expression, strode forward, linked arms with Felicity. Her gentle hold, an artless tease, adding to his disquiet. Her brother sneered and moved ahead, sullen and grim.

  “What is wrong with him?” Felicity asked no one, as Upton took Thomas’s place beside her.

  “We’ve had a gentleman’s disagreement.” Andover said, startled by Felicity’s unladylike snort. For Thomas, he hoped, and not himself.

  He catalogued his injuries, grateful for their insistent aches. A much needed diversion to his wayward thoughts.

  Lady Westhaven stopped on the top terrace. “Cis,” she called back. “Someone has just arrived. I’d better see to them.” She looked at the three, heading up to her. “Please don’t forget our conversation when you settle the men with Lucy. She’s been trained by an expert and is more than capable of dealing with this sort of problem.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Felicity responded, though Andover sensed a sigh.

  Andover stopped her. “There is nothing that needs doing that I cannot do for myself.”

  Despite the nasal drone of his voice, swell of his nose, prompting the idea it was broken, he’d had his fill of charlatan medics and those who considered themselves physicians. He’d not turn to a one. Damn the lot of them.

  She looked up, scanned his wounded face, before she met his eyes. “She will need to use comfrey on that lip.”

  “Comfrey?” He asked.

  “Yes, I have heard something of its nature. It will ease the pain and aid the healing. Or so I have heard.”

  “Ah, well.” Upton tried to pipe in, but Andover doubted Felicity would understand Upton’s deflection. She couldn’t know of Andover’s abhorrence of herbs and spices, or healing concoctions. He had not brought himself to speak of it, though he knew he must. Soon. Once they were married.