An Independent Miss (5 page)

CHAPTER 5 ~ ONE IN
EVERY FAMILY

Felicity and the physician, Samuel
Henry, looked back at the journal sitting on the table in the stillroom. “You
think the mixture will help Mrs. Smith?” he asked.

“Yes, I do, though it must be
administered with care.” Felicity remembered the strict instructions she’d
given Maddie. “She took the first dose of it this afternoon. I’m afraid it will
be a good week before we see results. She’s in a very bad way, but these things
must not be rushed.”

“You really believe it’s something
inside, an illness, and not just…weakness of the mind.”

Men
.
“Samuel, you have seen this before in perfectly fit and mentally strong,
capable women. There is something inside that disrupts their humors after they
give birth. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t believe it has anything to do
with their minds. Nothing at all.”

“I will see that she takes it.”

“Thank you. It will ease my mind
when we are in London. I do worry so.”

He looked back down at the thick
oversized journal. “Don’t suppose I could borrow this? It is the most thorough
book on case studies I have ever seen.”

Felicity ran a loving hand over the
page of her own transcriptions. “I take them with me, wherever we go. Mother
swears I prefer books to gowns. I’m afraid she is right.”

“Don’t blame you.” He looked
longingly at the journal. “Beautiful drawings. You did them yourself?”

“Copied from copies of copies.” Old
drawings that still held true. “Actually, if you are ever so careful, I could
let you take Grandmother’s journal… This was copied from that. It just
doesn’t hold my notes.”

“I will treat it as the rare jewel
that it is.”

“Fine, I will have them wrapped and
delivered to you before I leave.”

“Splendid!” He gathered his hat
from a hook by the door. “I’d best be off. Please send my regrets to your
mother.”

“Oh dear!”

“What?”

“I forgot all about dinner. Mother
won’t be pleased, what with a house full of guests.” Felicity shut her journal,
carried it over to a wall of shelved journals. “Especially as she knows where I
am, letting her down again, preferring the stillroom to dinner parties.”

“But this time you have a gentleman
waiting for you, as well.”

Yes,
she did
, she thought, as she showed Samuel out the door.

He hesitated, before climbing up
into his gig. “Do you think he will accommodate your interests, Lady Felicity?”

“But of course he will,” she lied,
remembering their walk that afternoon to the Smiths’.
You are good to sit with your tenants when they are ill,
he’d said.

But she didn’t just sit with them.

“You are lucky, then. Most men are
not so understanding.”

****

For the second time that day,
Felicity stopped just shy of a doorway to gather courage and settle the
butterflies swirling inside.

Once inside that room, her father
would announce the betrothal.

She shook out her skirts, patted
her hair and took a deep breath—for calm—and sneezed.

Oh,
dear.

Of course. She should have known.

The
carriage with the golden curlicues and tall plumes in the porte-cochère that
afternoon, the one she couldn’t place. Who else would commission such a
conveyance?

Aunt Vi, and her wake of perfume,
deigned to visit. Felicity closed her eyes, sent a quick prayer to the heavens.
Not that it would help. Aunt Vi couldn’t help but be her exhausting self.

It was futile to wish for any
difference.

Vi was Vi and nothing could change
that. Felicity sighed. She really didn’t want to be the center of attention,
truly she didn’t. To be fussed over, winked at, hugged by a house full of
guests. She squashed any foolishness of the sort and stepped into the room.

Andover stood with their neighbor,
Sir Bertram, his split lip no better and his poor aristocratic nose, not so
aristocratic anymore. He should have used the salve she sent up and kept ice on
it rather than gallivanting off to the Smiths with her, but he refused to even
discuss it.

She would have to nip that
avoidance, if they were to have a happy marriage.

Thomas, her other patient, leaned
against the mantle, looking into his drink. The skin around his eye a puff of
deep purple and red, with the merest slit to spy through. No doubt he refused
the walking stick, as not manly enough, which was why the mantle held him in
place.

Quick to flare, sulking was not his
normal behavior. But he was most certainly sulking now and the look he sent,
with his one good eye, toward Andover reeked with satisfied fury. Somehow he
had won a round in whatever battle they waged.

Felicity headed toward her mother,
as a billow of perfume forewarned she’d be stalled. Aunt Vi glided near enough
to wrap her in an embrace, all arms and bosom and overly sweet scent. It was
not enough to disguise the sour smell of an overworked liver.

“Cis!” Vivian cried, for she never
spoke below an exclamation.

“Aunt Vi.” Felicity pulled free,
scanned her aunt’s face. A yellow cast dulled the whites of her eyes. Her use
of powder failed to hide the sallow tint of her complexion. “I didn’t know you
were expected.”

“I wasn’t,” Vi chuckled, “but tales
are being told, and I wanted to find out for myself.”

“Tales?” Felicity asked, but her
father had spotted her and she could see Andover making his way through the guests
to reach her. A twinge of satisfaction, that she was the one he sought, chosen,
echoed through her.

“There she is,” Lord Westhaven, her
father, arrived first, gesturing with his glass. “The one child who is happy to
visit me in the library, debate the arcane books we read, share a quiet look
when the family explodes with drama.” He winked at his wife who had joined
them, a positive crowd of family. “Our little Jenny Wren.”

She ignored her father’s pet name,
more concerned with the thousand butterflies that filled her. Vi might
overshadow a little Jenny Wren, but this was a moment she’d dreamed of, the
announcement of her betrothal.

Thomas limped away from the mantle,
a snide smile on his lips. She caught his eye, he saluted her, blew her a kiss.

Andover reached her, no smile on
his lips. In fact, he looked decidedly grim, as he bowed to both her and her
Aunt.

“Felicity. Lady Stanfield.” The
starkness in his eyes softened when he leaned toward her and whispered. “Jenny
Wren?”

An awful nickname, made worse once
Lady Jane unearthed it for the whole school. Somehow, the way it slipped off
Andover’s tongue slid straight to her heart.

They both jumped when a closed fan
thumped his arm. “Surely you see what a little wren our Felicity is?” Vi
snipped. Andover shot her aunt a glance that made Thomas’s fury look like a
toddler’s grimace.

Vi ignored it. “Andover, we are
parched. Please do get us a sherry.”

Sherry,
not champagne?

Eyes narrowed, he gave a curt nod.
“Of course. I’ve been remiss. My pleasure.” He turned to Felicity and asked,
“Will you come with me to fetch the drinks? There is something I would like to
discuss with you.”

Her intelligence fluttered away as
she stared at him, ready to say,
yes,
please,
and
I would go anywhere with
you.

Vi saved her from gawking. “Now
Andover, do let me have a moment.”

“No, Vivian.” Lord Westhaven said.

Felicity blinked, realizing her
parents did not look ready to make any sort of announcement. Her father’s blue
eyes lacked their normal sparkle and her mother…well, her mother often looked
like a boiling pot with its lid on when Vi was present. She was not concerned
about the expression her mother wore, but the dark expressions of the two men
worried her.

“What?” she asked, prepared for the
worst.

****

They were not going to announce the
engagement.

Foolish fantasy.

Numb, Felicity sat between their
neighbors, Sir Bertram and Mr. Andrews. At least Andover didn’t look pleased,
which went a small way toward consoling her.

Neither did her parents.

“Such sad news,” Mr. Andrews was
saying.

Yes, it was sad. Felicity sighed,
caught in her own thoughts, oblivious to whatever Mr. Andrews referenced. She
wrinkled her brow, careless of her mother’s warnings about lines in the skin,
and then thought to send her brother a glare. He winked. She sighed again, with
a bit more relish.

Thomas had convinced their father
to give Felicity more time to adjust to the betrothal before making it public.
A sound idea, if she weren’t so contrary.

She wanted this marriage but knew,
in all honesty, she must introduce her work. If he loved her, that would be
enough.

If he loved her.

He proposed without one opportunity
to learn how she spent her days. Thomas had a lengthy list of activities to
keep his friends occupied during the day. In the evenings, she’d remained
quiet, a listener. He’d need to speak of sorrow and loss, newfound
responsibility, common to his father and brother, but not him. His life had
changed, his path readjusted. He was a man in transition. He spoke, she
listened, and when the words ran dry they sat in silence, allowing thoughts to
settle.

She offered him the opportunity to
sort it all out in his own mind, with his own words.

This afternoon, he revealed his
mother’s melancholia. Not surprising, with the loss of a husband, son, daughter-in-law,
and expected grandchild. Of course she suffered. And Andover as well. He was
only just coming out of mourning.

Was that all he sought? A soothing
listener? Surely there was more to it than that.

She’d accepted readily enough. Why?
What did she really know of this man?

Ashamedly, she agreed to marry him
because of her body.

She’d lean toward him the way the
tired lean toward a bed, the thirsty follow the scent of water. Her breath
hitched with no more encouragement than a simple gesture of fingers running
through his hair, or the change in the timbre of his voice as he spoke.
Shocking and oh, so, earthy, she agreed to marry him for that.

Sealed by one kiss, to her wrist.

One kiss.

She frowned, remembered his lips,
so close, when they stood alone when Maddy and Jimmy had moved well ahead on
the path. She’d yearned for the touch of his flesh against hers.

He’d stepped back.

“This war has taken too many of our
young,” Sir Bertram said.

Thomas had meant well, she was
certain of it except…her thoughts stumbled. What had her dinner partner just
said? Taken too many of our young?

“I’m sorry, Sir Bertram, but who
are you referring to?”

Both of her dinner partners looked
at her. Mr. Andrews, on her left, patted her hand. “Jack Marshall.”

Jack Marshall? The loveable, funny,
sweet young man her sister would marry? Not that any knew of their growing
love. She was too young to do more than whisper to Felicity, but Felicity knew
of the plans. When Jack returned, when Caro turned down all suitors in London,
the two would marry.

Fanciful, on the surface, but not
to Felicity who witnessed the depth of their interest. She was their one ally
in this secret love. She didn’t doubt they would play out the waiting game and
make it to the altar.

If he survived.

Caro hadn’t received a response to
her letters in weeks. She thought they’d been lost in the chaos of war.

“He’s still with us, Lady Felicity. But
he is wounded.”

“Badly,” Sir Bertram added, shaking
his head.

“Where? When?” She would have to
write Caro.

“The Marshalls just heard this
afternoon,” Mr. Andrews was saying, as Felicity looked down the table,
realizing that the Marshalls weren’t there. She had failed to notice that as
well.

“Oh, dear.” Poor Caro. “Was the notice
dated? How long was it in coming?” It had been ages since she’d visited with
the Marshalls.

Sir Bertram shook his head again,
his lips pressed tight. Mr. Andrews filled in. “They’ve sent Robert to fetch
him back to England so he can get proper care. No telling what goes on at those
camp hospitals.”

Robbie would want to go, do
something, rather than wait for news of his brother.

“Is that possible?” Felicity asked. “To
bring him back?”

“Yes,” Sir Bertram supported. “He
will get better care over here.”

“If it’s not too late.” Mr. Andrews
stared into his plate.

Felicity put her hand on his. “It
will not be too late. I know Jack, he’s the scrappiest fighter I’ve ever seen
and that’s saying quite a bit coming from my family.”

Lost in the worry, he looked toward
her, not directly at her. Evidence she should have noted sooner if she hadn’t
been so caught up in her own foolish concerns.

“I believe you are right, Lady
Felicity. I only wish he had you near his side. You could cure the dead and
have them walking the land once again.”

“Mr. Andrews,” Sir Bertram warned,
“don’t encourage such a thing. Lady Felicity will have to put all that behind
her.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Andrews argued.
“She has a talent, and she should put it to good use.” He addressed Felicity.
“You’re to go to London soon, aren’t you, Lady Felicity? For the end of the
season?”

“Mr. Andrews,” Sir Bertram began to
argue, but Felicity cut in. “Thank you for the kind words. Yes, at the end of
the week, for the season.”

Sir Bertram was not to be
distracted. “It’s not on, Andrews. If anyone were to find out about her…well,
her hobbies…” He looked guilty, and so he should. Hobbies indeed. Felicity
tended his gout on more than one occasion, and successfully at that.

He droned on. “…Lady Felicity would
be cut by the ton. Can’t have that. It’s time she let go of girlish interests,
to see about finding a husband, having children.”