“Yes, yes, I am sure that is it,” she said quickly. “Certainly, I have misunderstood him. You know what sisters are like, cousin — always matchmaking for our male relations. No doubt I have misread him in my eagerness. How mortified he will be when he hears what I have done, and your husband so recently departed this world!”
“There is no need to mention it to him, is there?” Annie said eagerly. “I shall say nothing, you may be sure. I would not for the world have him embarrassed by your little mistake.”
“How good you are! Yes, that would be for the best. Dear me, how foolish I am become, to imagine such a thing when you were until very recently a happy wife, and now a grieving widow. Can you ever forgive me?”
Annie said all that was proper, and swiftly turned the conversation into happier channels, but she was shocked, all the same, and puzzled, for how could Adam’s sister so thoroughly misunderstand her brother’s sentiments? The problem nagged at her all evening, and was still in her mind when she went to bed.
The heavy summer heat had been replaced with a sullen dampness, but Annie was still glad to be able to leave the window of her bedchamber open at night, and the bed hangings undrawn. She felt a twinge of guilt to be disobeying her husband’s orders, but her pleasure in feeling more comfortable far outweighed it, for she always slept better with fresh air in the room.
Tonight, however, she was restless, for Cousin Cecilia’s distressing misapprehension kept her awake long into the night. That anyone, even a sister with a romantic streak, could imagine her brother to have a partiality for a woman only recently married was shocking indeed. Even if it were true, it showed a sad want of propriety to mention it when Annie had not yet been widowed a fortnight.
She sat by the window, gazing out into the blackness beyond. There was no moon tonight, no stars, not the least glimmer of light to illumine the darkness. It was the dead hour when nothing stirred, although the hoots of owls and the occasional bark of a dog in the distance told of life still going on amongst the wild creatures. Not men, though. They were all abed, as they should be. Perhaps the man who had stood out there in the shrubbery had gone away altogether, his business concluded now that Rupert was dead.
With a sigh, she was about to return to bed when something caught her eye, some movement out in the darkness. A flash of light, perhaps a lantern, quickly covered, then all was still again. But someone was out there, that much was certain.
15: Of Love And Marriage
Annie was alone in the hunting room the next morning when Adam was shown in.
“All alone, cousin?” he said, almost before he had risen from his bow. “Is there no one who will bear you company?”
“I have chosen to be alone for now,” she said, rising from her seat behind the desk to greet him. “I have neglected my correspondence, and must pay the penance for it by replying to several letters before breakfast. I must write again to Lavinia, too,” she added in an undertone. “She has not yet replied to my last, and I fear it must have gone astray. You are abroad early today, cousin. Is there news? Has Sir Leonard apprehended the murderer yet?”
“Nothing of that sort, unfortunately. I am come on a different matter entirely, to apologise for my foolish sister,” he said, with a rueful smile. “I could scarce believe my ears when she confessed the subject of your discourse together last night. What must you think of her?”
She thought Cousin Cecilia altogether a most indiscreet person, for had they not agreed to say nothing of the conversation to Adam? She was sure they had. But she said only, “She made a little mistake, to be sure. I do not regard it.”
“You are altogether generous! Such a thing to say to so recent a widow! If you had forbidden us all the house, it would scarce have been too strong a response. But my sister is forever seeing matches. In reading my words of approbation of you when I wrote to her, she has immediately jumped to the most extreme interpretation. I confess, too, that I expressed myself rather strongly on the subject of your husband and the confining way he treated you. It is natural, perhaps, to combine those two elements into… something different.”
“It is as I suspected,” Annie said. “A misreading of some innocuous words, or one phrase given more weight than it deserved. Her deep interest in your wellbeing, as her brother, might also lead her to suspect an attachment on your part where none exists.”
“Ah yes! Poor Cecilia! She would love to see me settled as happily as she is herself and can never meet me without looking for signs of it. Nor can she see a widow without looking about her for a new husband for the lady, and sees no harm in the practice, but in this case she has stepped quite outside the pale. Such a suggestion must be deeply offensive to you.”
“And to you also,” Annie said. “It supposes that you harboured feelings of the most inappropriate nature towards a married woman. She wrongs you greatly in imagining you capable of such a wicked act, for what man of honour could do so?”
To her surprise, his face lit up in a smile. “Oh, but she understands human nature very well. Men of honour are just as susceptible to the pangs of love as any other, and none of us may choose where affection may grow. It is something which strikes quite without warning, and with utter disregard for the bonds of matrimony or any other constraint. Just as one cannot fall in love merely because society expects it or the object is a worthy person, so one cannot prevent oneself from falling in love, no matter how unattainable the object. A man displays his honour in the matter, however, by ensuring that the world knows nothing of it, and in particular the recipient of his unwanted affection.”
Annie said nothing to this, for it seemed to imply that he saw nothing amiss in a man falling in love with a married woman, so long as he kept his feelings to himself, and with that she could not quite agree.
Fortunately, Adam seemed to expect no reply for he went on, “I am relieved that Cecilia is forgiven her foolishness, and that you harbour no resentment at the insult. And now, it remains only for me to thank you again for the charming evening we spent with you all yesterday. Cecilia is wild to invite you to the Manor in response, but shall you feel able to accept such an invitation? It would be only those members of your immediate family as were present last night, but if it is too soon to be thought of—”
“No, I should like that,” Annie said. “I never once dined out while Mr Huntly was alive, and I regretted it very much. I cannot go amongst mere acquaintances, not yet, but so long as there is only family—”
“Yes, yes! Only ourselves, and if we can persuade Mr and Mrs Perkins to delay their departure until Tuesday, then we may fix on Monday as the very day and we shall have everyone together again, just as we were last night, and just think how delightful it will be! That would be acceptable to all, would it not?”
Annie agreed to it, and he prepared to leave, with many apologies for keeping her from her letters, and his hopes that there would soon be good news from Sir Leonard, which reminded her of something.
“Have you told him about the man I saw in the grounds?”
“Ah… no, I have not. I have made some enquiries, as I said I would, if you remember, and it is as I thought — a romantic case, not in the least sinister. I feel it best not to go into the particulars, for it is a private matter, but you may be sure that no one you see in the grounds, day or night, intends harm to you or anyone at Willow Place.”
There was some consciousness in his manner which puzzled Annie very much. There was so much she liked about Adam, and his kindness in bringing her family to her, and sending his own carriage and servants, too, was by no means the least of it. Some part of her longed to place all her trust in him, to relax into the comfort of those words — ‘no one intends to harm you’. How easy it would be! And yet, he was holding something back from her, and such reticence made her uncomfortable. She was starkly aware of her own misjudgement in marrying Mr Huntly. She could not take the risk of trusting Adam and later finding out that he had murdered Rupert, or perhaps knew the murderer and was shieldin
g him.
She smiled, therefore, and thanked him for the reassurance with what she hoped was sincerity, and as soon as he had gone, she wrote to Sir Leonard and told him everything she could remember of the intruder.
Breakfast was livelier than it had ever been. All three of Judith’s daughters were now to join them for breakfast every day, and with Annie’s mother, aunt and uncle present, there was almost an air of normality about the meal. Only the black gowns of the ladies and her uncle’s black armband were reminders of the recent demise. When Judith had taken her daughters back to the nursery, and Uncle Tom and Aunt Hester had gone off to view the gardens, Annie was left with her mother. How comfortable that was, to have one last sliver of toast and gooseberry preserve and another cup of tea, and sit companionably together as they had done so many times at the parsonage.
“You are bearing your loss with great dignity,” Mrs Dresden said. “Your dear papa would have been so proud to see with what fortitude you face the future. He would have been so grieved to know of your great tragedy. So proud to see you married so well, so shocked to see you widowed so terribly, terribly young.” Her voice wavered, and she set her tea cup down rather abruptly and fumbled for her handkerchief.
“Do not distress yourself so, Mama,” Annie said hastily. “If all goes well, my future involves motherhood, and that is a great comfort, is it not?”
“Oh, yes, dear one, so it is, but a husband… every woman needs a husband. It is her best and only shield against the world. Ah, Annie! We were all so happy for you, and now… now… How you must feel it! But you were ever a quiet little creature, not one to make a vulgar show of your feelings to the world, and in ordinary cases that is as it should be. But your husband! Dear, dear Mr Huntly! You must be quite distraught, to lose the object of all your tenderest affections so soon.”
That was too much for Annie. “Mama, I was not in love with Mr Huntly. I held him in the greatest respect, but it was not a love match, not on my side. Not like you and Papa.”
Her mother’s eyes widened. “Oh, no! No, indeed, your papa and I… oh no, it was not a love match, dear one, not at first. It was arranged by our parents. That was how it was done in those days, for one’s parents always know best, do they not? A sensible match, that was what was aimed for, with no great disparity of temperament or social position, and enough money to live upon without difficulty. And so it would have been, if only your papa had obtained the preferment he had expected… But there, refining upon such things does no good, and it was such a great many years ago.”
“I had no idea,” Annie said. “You were always so contented, both of you, and your affection so clearly seen, that I assumed it had always been so. I wished… I always wished that I might meet a man, one day, who engendered in me just that kind of deep attachment, strong enough to carry us through a lifetime together. I thought… I hoped that Mr Huntly would be the one, that I would grow to love him as much as he seemed to love me.”
“Naturally you could not at first feel for him all that he felt for you, for that would have been forward indeed. The first warmth of attachment must come from the gentleman, which would have excited only gratitude and obligation in your breast. But once you were married, his tenderness and gentle care for your happiness would have engendered every proper feeling and you would have quickly come to feel just as deep a devotion to your husband as he felt for you. It is ever so, dear one, and although you are outwardly composed, you must be devastated within.”
Annie could not remember much gentle care for her happiness. She licked her lips and considered her answer carefully. “Marriage… was not quite what I expected, Mama. Mr Huntly liked to… to keep me close to him at all times. I found it… a trifle constraining.”
Her mother chuckled. “He was so in love with you, dear one! So devoted!” She sighed with sentimental fervour. “Naturally he wished to spend as much time as possible with you. I daresay you found such passionate attachment overwhelming just at first, and you have always had a very pleasing modesty, dear one, such that you would have felt quite unworthy of the attentions of such a man. Just remember that he chose you to be his companion for life, so that compliment alone should serve to arouse your own devotion.”
“Indeed, and I do not mean to complain,” Annie said hastily. “It was only that… I sometimes wished he would allow me a little more time to myself, that is all. He did not like me to do anything without him.”
Her mother laughed. “And if he had not, you would have complained of his neglect, I daresay. The transition from maid to wife is a momentous one, and not easy to adjust to just at first. You would have grown accustomed… if only you had had a little longer together! My poor dear girl — such a tragedy!”
The handkerchief was deployed again, and Annie gave it up. Her mother had too rosy a view of matrimony to see any imperfection in Mr Huntly, and she could not adequately convey the constricting nature of his hold over her. Only Adam and Judith, who had observed it at first hand, could fully appreciate it.
They had just risen from the table when the door opened.
“Lord and Lady—” Sheffield managed before Lavinia burst into the room with a squeal of “Annie! Oh, Annie!” and hurled herself upon Annie’s bosom in a paroxysm of weeping.
It was some time before Lavinia could be induced to lift her head and observe that Annie herself was not quite so stricken with grief as might be expected of a newly-wrought widow.
“Do sit down and have some tea,” Annie said. “Sheffield, a fresh pot, if you will. My lord, pray be seated.”
The viscount stood wringing his hands, watching his wife with concern. Annie noticed that he seemed rather rumpled, almost as if he had slept in his clothes.
“Have you anything… um, more fortifying than tea?” he asked Sheffield.
“Claret, my lord?” the imperturbable footman said. “Brandy?”
Lord Dillington’s face brightened. “Just the thing. Brandy.”
“At once, my lord,” Sheffield said, clearly recognising a man in extreme need.
“Oh dear,” Annie said. “Have you had a very difficult journey from Pollard End?”
“Would that we had stayed at Pollard End,” he said glumly, collapsing into a chair and reaching absently for a Bath bun.
“Your letter chased us all over the country,” Lavinia said, her sobs having abated somewhat. “It finally reached us at Drummoor, and naturally I could not rest until I saw you.”
“Where is Drummoor?” Annie said, trying in vain to recall a member of the viscount’s family, or Lavinia’s, with an estate of that name.
“Yorkshire,” said Lord Dillington, wryly. “And we have driven without rest since the moment we left there.”
“Through the night?” Annie said, horrified.
“Day and night,” he said, yawning copiously. “I beg your pardon, Mrs Huntly, Mrs Dresden, but I am…” Another huge yawn. “…rather tired. Ah, my brandy. You are a splendid fellow — thank you, but you may leave the bottle just here.”
Sheffield set a glass and bottle in front of the viscount, who poured himself a large measure, and then a little more, lifting the glass to his lips with a sigh of satisfaction.
“Poor Will!” Lavinia said. “I am such a trial to him. All he asks is a quiet life, and I dragged him all the way to Yorkshire and then all the way back here. We had only been there two days, barely unpacked and there we were packing up again. But the marchioness was so kind, and sends you every good wish.”
“Marchioness?” Annie said in astonished tones.
“The Marchioness of Carrbridge, dear one,” said her mother, who was an avid reader of the London newspapers and especially the society columns. “Drummoor is the home of the Marquess and Marchioness of Carrbridge.”
Annie’s eyes widened. “Goodness, how grand you are these days, Lavinia, but there was no need to flee the home of a marchioness on my account.”
“There was every need,” the viscount said firmly. “We were engaged the
re for two weeks and I was never so thankful for an excuse to leave a place in my life. I was raised to an existence as a humble attorney, and mingling with marquesses and earls and who knows what is a bit much. There was even a duke there… a duke!” He drained his glass and refilled it even more generously.
“They were rather grand,” Lavinia admitted. “Not the marchioness — she is delightful, not at all high in the instep, and some of the younger ones are quite fun, but my goodness, I have never seen so many members of the nobility gathered in one place. I thought we must have wandered into Carlton House by mistake. And eccentric! Do you know that Drummoor dinners are served on two different sets of china, as if they had not sufficient quantity of plates, and bought a second set of a quite different design to make up the numbers? It is a family tradition, apparently. Two aunts each bought a set for the wedding of some ancestor or other, and to avoid offending either, the two sets were always used together. Is that not peculiar? And we were always late for dinner because we got lost in the house. So many odd wings and stairs and passageways. It was all too confusing for words. Fortunately there were footmen stationed by every staircase to escort wandering guests to safety. Of course, it was vastly flattering to be invited but we felt rather uncomfortable there and were very relieved when your letter caught up with us. Oh, Annie! And I had thought you to be so comfortably settled and now—!”
She began to weep again, so Annie, who had had quite enough weeping already from her mother, said briskly, “Come, now, Lavinia, do not distress yourself. There is good news, too.”
Lavinia’s head shot up. “Do you mean—? Oh, Annie! Annie!” More squeals, more tight hugs that filled Annie’s face with the several curled feathers adorning her friend’s hat, which made her want to sneeze.
And that led naturally to much discussion of babies and nurseries and the awkwardness of deciding whether to engage a wet nurse or not.
The Apothecary (Silver Linings Mysteries Book 3) Page 15