An Independent Miss

by Becca St. John

  “Yes,” Upton nodded. “Bets—Lady Sutton—had a Nanny, Gretchen. Just the kind of woman who makes a child feel comforted. Big gal, buxom and warm-hearted, but she was always gathering leaves and bark and such from the woods. Betsy thought she could do it, too, but she didn’t have the eye for it, or never learned properly. By that time, Nanny Gretchen had moved on, to care for other children, when Betsy and her siblings grew beyond needing a nursemaid.”

  Felicity nodded, caught up in her thoughts.

  “His mother is in a state Andover blames on the tonics and brews her doctors are prescribing. It’s not good.”

  She looked up, urged Upton on. “And the younger brother? You spoke of Andover’s younger brother.”

  “Ah, well, little Tommy had fevers that left him screaming. Lady Andover was beside herself. Everyone was, you could hear him out on the grounds.” Upton looked away, as though viewing a memory more painful than he could bear. “In that case, the doctor bled him, over and over again, as well as pouring potions down his throat.” Upton shook his head. “Sad day when Tommy died. So very sad.”

  “I abhor bloodletting.” Felicity offered.

  “Well, there is that, then.” Upton looked back at the stillroom. “But there’s an awful lot in there for Andover to accept. Has he seen your workroom?”

  Felicity shifted, reached back and closed the door. “No, not yet.”

  “Please,” Upton begged, “Don’t ever show him that room, or create one at Montfort Abbey.”

  “It’s what I do.”

  “Then stop what you do.”

  Thomas jerked. “You can’t be serious?”

  “Of course I am,” Upton strode toward Thomas. “You knew, you knew all along it would come to this. That’s why you fought him, that’s why you bungled the announcement.”

  “Let them work it out. And by that I don’t mean that Felicity does all the giving-in. Andover has to learn to accept it.”

  “Impossible!” Upton shouted. Thomas hadn’t expected him to be so angry. “It’s impossible.” He calmed, a visible struggle. “He’s been through too much. He will never accept her pastime.”

  “Oh, Cis, this is horrible.” Bea started to weep, Felicity comforted her, as she handed her a handkerchief. “Don’t Bea, don’t.”

  In three strides, Upton was there, his arm around Bea. “Even without all of this…this…hobby, Felicity will have a full life,” Upton offered.

  “She won’t be who she is!” Bea snapped.

  “Wait,” Felicity urged. “Wait, let’s just find out what was going on, then we can talk about what will be, and what will not be.”

  “Oh Felicity, how can you be so calm? This is horrible, terrible.” Bea slumped down on the stone bench.

  “No, we don’t know it is horrible until I speak with Andover.”

  Felicity’s abigail could be heard calling. Time had run out.

  Thomas reminded her. “Sorry, Cis. I did tell you Mother is looking for you.”

  “Oh, dear.” Felicity sighed. “You did, I just…oh…this is not a good time. She wants to take measurements for my trousseau. How awkward.”

  “Felicity!” Bea argued. “This is tragic, but surely not that drastic.”

  “They will marry.” Like a judge’s sentence, Upton continued. “But it is hopeless. The worst of matches.”

  “Whether he can accept me, as I am or not,” Felicity stated, “his mother has been given tonics that steal her mind, her will. I can help, but he will never let me, will he?”

  “No,” Upton shook his head. “With all the deaths, with his mother’s fragile state of mind, he will never let you do anything.”

  “Then we will have to see her helped without his knowledge.”

  “He’ll never forgive you,” Upton insured.

  “So be it,” she declared. “So be it.”

  She never should have sent her letter.

  ****

  Newspaper pushed aside, tea grown cold, the remains of eggs and kippers lay congealed on the plate he’d abandoned. Andover toyed with Felicity’s letter. A missive written, no doubt, on the heels of his abandoning her.

  Lord Andover,

  I fear matters arose which needs be discussed. Differences between us. Insurmountable differences, as they stand. Or not? Could we not find a place somewhere in the middle? Should we not have all discussions completed, decisions made, before we reach town and all is made public? Mama is more than willing to accompany me to your home, if you would be so kind as to give your blessing.

  But I am remiss. Even more important than us, your mama. How does she fair? And your travels, were they smooth or terribly dull?

  You have made it abundantly clear your mama’s health is fragile and guests are terribly taxing. Mama and I promise not to burden Lady Stanton’s reserves, but merely give her a chance to acknowledge my presence and— God willing—to receive her blessing.

  I await your consent.

  Felicity

  She must not come. There would be time in London for them to come to some understanding of what marriage would mean to them. Then he would bring her to Montfort Abbey, in its summer glory, flowers in bloom, dark farm rows turned green and ripe. He wanted her to fall in love with her new home.

  Not meet the Montfort Abbey lost to the brutal memory of death.

  He’d woken this morning, dreaming of Felicity, his Felicity, floating toward him on a warm breeze, all sweet innocence except for a wisp of fabric the current of air forced against her body. It clung, revealed a cameo of rich ripeness. He ached for her, flooded with lust, as she curled around him, all comforting soft velvet and enticing plush curves. Her dark husky whisper implored him, “Take this, know me, and then you can have me, all of me.”

  The hard, hot edge of a foaming goblet pressed against his lips, as her eyes glowed fire red. He woke, hard, horrified. He would not take her brew. He would never take a witch’s brew.

  Oh God, he wanted her, wanted all the sweet promise of her, even when dreams twisted hope into agony. He needed to get away from Montfort Abbey, go to London.

  The estate was well in hand. His father and their steward set a competent working schedule. Accounts in order, tasks set in motion, he could leave, confident that everything would be looked after in his absence.

  Except his mother. He would not leave her behind, had already surmised that his absence made matters worse.

  There was only one path, to break her free of the doctors and the medicines and those blasted tonics that stole her from herself. He would free her. Someone had to. He refused to shy away from it.

  He rang for Barton, ordered the destruction of all medicines, forbade any doctor to cross the threshold. He would guide his mother back to her old self. Within a week, without the apothecary’s brews, his mother would be fit and fine and ready to walk down Bond Street, her mind full of frocks and ribbons and meeting old friends.

  All she needed was firm guidance and assurance that he was there for her, with her.

  He would see to it.

  ****

  The letters to be posted sat on a silver salver on the table in the front entrance. Felicity lifted the pile of correspondence, shuffled through until she found the one addressed to the Times. It was very wrong, terribly wrong, to intercept a personal correspondence.

  Except this wasn’t personal to the sender, it was personal to her.

  She looked about, up three tiers of balconies that circled above the entrance. No one in sight.

  Her father would notice when the announcement was never posted.

  Her mother would notice when callers failed to mention the betrothal.

  They would all notice when people continued to shun Felicity.

  Taking the letter didn’t, necessarily, change anything.

  A witch’s play. Upton confirmed what she feared. Andover would see her life’s work as a dangerous hobby, worse than the professional quacks.

  He’d faced too many disasters to accept what she planned. She wou
ld do it anyway, risk getting caught in flagrant disregard of his explicit request. Risk destroying trust.

  Trust.

  No turning back once the letter reached the Times.

  Felicity slipped the notice of her engagement into the basket of flowers hanging on her arm, reminded of Lady Veri, her ancestor who nearly burned at the stake for witchery, who’d started the journals centuries ago. She faced censure and lived to pass on her knowledge. Felicity would survive society’s shunning.

  She could live alone, in a small cottage. Distance herself from her family, her friends, rather than taint them with her sins.

  She put the missive back on the silver salver, though she did not let go, bowed her head. She would lose everyone.

  Her grandmother left society and was not sorry for the distance.

  Another glance ensured no one watched.

  Her grandmother did not have to give up her family.

  Quickly, she slid the announcement back in the basket.

  “Oh, there you are.” Lord Westhaven came from the hall.

  “Papa?” Felicity shot around, tucking the letter deeper in the basket.

  “Writing another letter to Lord Andover?” He smiled.

  “No,” she answered, heading for the stairs. “Seeing these reminded me that I should finish the one I started.”

  “Ah, I see.” Lord Westhaven said, making her wonder if he’d seen her purloin his letter. “I saw he wrote to you.”

  A short missive, telling her not to join him at Montfort Abbey, referring to it as her future home. He would resent her if she came to Montfort Abbey, practicing that which he abhorred.

  That which encompassed all that she was.

  She rearranged the flowers, the better to hide what she needed to hide. She did this for him, for her. Another announcement could be written, sent, another day, if it came to that. Which, for all involved, it shouldn’t.

  For now, she would complain of a chill, despite the warmth of the afternoon. Feign illness, catarrh, or the like. She would have a small blaze lit in her rooms.

  Nothing drastic, just enough to burn a purloined letter she prayed her father failed to notice was missing.

  “Did you need anything else, Papa?” she asked, as he shuffled the papers on the salver.

  “No, Felicity,” he shook his head, without looking up. “I believe you’ve answered my questions.”

  Which did not answer hers.

  ****

  “She won’t have you?” Lady Jane’s eyes opened wide.

  True to his word, Lord Upton arrived on Andover’s doorstep with his sister, Lady Jane. Andover shifted in his seat. “It was very shocking for her.”

  The only lady in the room, Jane poured tea, blithely unaware of any discomfort. “Foolish of her, quite foolish. After all, her whole future is in the balance here.” She hesitated, turning to practical matters. “Sugar, Lord Andover?”

  “No, thank you.

  “Cream?”

  “Please.”

  She poured a dollop of cream in his cup. “One would think a woman who is to be a marchioness would have more respect for society. After all, your name and title are ancient. They garner respect and demand that those who are under that protection be respectful.” She passed the cup and looked to her brother.

  “Tea, Rupert?’

  “Of course I want tea. It’s tea time, isn’t it?”

  “Of course.” She smiled, as only a sister can smile at a brother. “As I was saying, you may be better off without her.”

  “There is no thought of that.” Andover snapped.

  Lady Jane studied him then, in the covert way young ladies were known to do. “You are so very noble, my lord.”

  With a clink, he put his cup down and rose, crossing to the empty fireplace. “The question is not one of reneging from the marriage, but of how to ease her mind to accepting me.”

  “Have you thought of buying her a gift? Some jewelry, perhaps?”

  “Yes, but I concluded that wouldn’t work. She would see it as a bribe.”

  “Really? How…” At his look, she stopped. “…unusual.”

  “She’s a most unusual woman.”

  Lady Jane smoothed her skirts. “You may over estimate her dislike for a ‘bribe,’ as you call it. She does so love jewels.”

  That interested him. “Does she?”

  “Yes.” Jane looked up at him. “She is an artist, is she not?”

  “She paints most admirably.”

  “See!” Jane exclaimed. “I daresay it’s the sparkle and color of jewels that attract her. The more extravagant, the more she will admire it. Have you ever seen her paintings of diamonds and emeralds and pearls?”

  “Paintings of stones?”

  “Yes, in settings of her own design. She has a little folder and she keeps them in a particular order. We were all quite fascinated, wondered why she was so adamant they not be rearranged.”

  “Peculiar, if you ask me,” Rupert murmured.

  Andover was more thoughtful. “She is a very orderly woman.”

  “Ah, yes,” Jane tapped her nose. “According to some, she was thinking ahead. Those pictures were in the order she wished to commission them.” She picked up her cup and sipped. “But you know how young girls are. Maybe she said that, maybe she didn’t?”

  “You are funning us, aren’t you, Jane?” Rupert scratched his head. “Lady Felicity’s not that grasping.”

  “Rupert! You are the one who told me not to trust a charming gentleman until you, yourself, have had an opportunity to check him out. Men see a side to each other that we women will never see. It is no different for young ladies. We see sides of each other that one doesn’t see in other arenas.”

  Andover sat again, leaned in toward Lady Jane. “What else did you learn about her, then?”

  Smiling, she shifted closer to him and told her tales.

  CHAPTER 13 ~ HAUNTED

  Andover ignored the scratching at his door, burying his head under the pillow.

  His mother had exhausted him. They had walked, talked, argued. He arranged for her to be bathed in warm, calming water three times in one day. There had been heated milk, soothing soups, anything to tame her discomfort, subdue her first day without the quack’s medicine.

  She fought it all.

  He needed sleep. Had arranged for Nellie and Mary to watch over his mother in the night. They knew what worked and what didn’t. They were strong, capable farm lasses, not prone to hysterics. His course of action would not be easy, but no doubt, she would be better in the morning.

  The scratch turned to a knock.

  “Is the abbey on fire?” he barked, voice thick with sleep.

  “Please, my lord!”

  Sleep retreated. He lifted up. “What the devil is it?”

  “Lord Andover…” In nightshirt and wrap, candle flame flickering, stoic, sturdy Barton trembled.

  Andover sat up higher, ran his fingers through his hair. “What is it, Barton?”

  “Your mother, sir.”

  “Yes, Barton. We discussed this, anticipated it would be a restless night.”

  “She is rather more than unsettled, sir.”

  “Have either Nellie or Mary tried singing to her? She calms with singing.”

  “I don’t believe that is possible, sir.”

  “Last I saw her, she promised to sleep.”

  “The situation has escalated.”

  Andover threw off the covers, as Jones came through from the dressing room, robe in hand. “It is not a comfortable thing, sir,” Jones offered.

  “What, what is happening?” he asked over his shoulder, as Jones helped him with his robe.

  “I think you’d best see for yourself, sir.”

  “Right.” He strode from the room, flipping the ties of his robe into a knot, as ire climbed his gullet. He had arranged for others to watch over his mother for a few hours, no more. Just a few hours, until daylight. Surely one of them could calm her for that long.

&nb
sp; Sleep would be impossible after the hike to her rooms, at the opposite end of separate wings. He had an army of servants. This was not an intellectual pursuit. Damn it.

  A wail stalled him. He tilted his head, turned it. Montfort Abbey was centuries old, with as many stories of ghosts and hauntings as any other building of that age.

  He didn’t believe in hocus-pocus.

  Wind down a chimney—that was the noise.

  He started up again as another eerie cry sent shivers down his back, the soaring high-pitched cry of a wild, deranged animal.

  “It isn’t good, my lord,” Barton whispered from behind him.

  Horror stole his words as he spun to see Barton, cheeks lined with tears.

  He spun back, realizing what his mind refused to believe and ran, hell on his heels, to the only family member he had left. To the mother who had been unfashionably attentive and caring by society’s standards. To the woman who deserved better than a life of grief and sorrow and pain.

  A life full of despair with no hope.

  The keening wail rose to a crescendo as he burst into his mother’s rooms. Two maids held her down, but they had not restrained her fast enough. Fingers bright with blood, her face, arms, legs ravaged by her own hands.

  “Stop them!” she howled. “Stop them from crawling all over me!” She writhed as her scream tore through him, shattered his heart. He fell to the floor, grabbed her into his arms, pinned her down in his hold.

  “Find some tonic, anything,” he cried. “Find whatever you need to ease her pain.”

  Like a tiny child, she curled into a ball on his lap. A mere slip of a woman, no more than a thinly veiled skeleton, whose body had shed its mass while her mind slipped from reality. He bent over her, surrounded her, a sorrow-filled shield.

  He meant to free her, not cast her into the abyss.

  Oh God, what was he to do? How was he to save her? Was he selfish to want to keep her in his life? Would she be better served following her sons, her husband, to the grave?

  “Lord, please help us,” he begged, believing there was no help, no happily-ever-after, only misery.

  ****

  “Shhhhh,” Felicity warned Bea. “We mustn’t be heard.”