by Mary Balogh
Anna considered herself fortunate. She had grown up in an orphanage, it was true, with not even a full identity to call her own, since she did not know who her parents were, but in the main it was not a charity institution. Almost all her fellow orphans were supported through their growing years by someone—usually anonymous, though some knew who they were and why they were there. Usually it was because their parents had died and there was no other family member able or willing to take them in. Anna did not dwell upon the loneliness of not knowing her own story. Her material needs were taken care of. Miss Ford and her staff were generally kind. Most of the children were easy enough to get along with, and those who were not could be avoided. A few were close friends, or had been during her growing years. If there had been a lack of love in her life, or of that type of love one associated with a family, then she did not particularly miss it, having never consciously known it.
Or so she always told herself.
She was content with her life and was only occasionally restless with the feeling that surely there ought to be more, that perhaps she should be making a greater effort to live her life. She had been offered marriage by three different men—the shopkeeper where she went occasionally, when she could afford it, to buy a book; one of the governors of the orphanage, whose wife had recently died and left him with four young children; and Joel Cunningham, her lifelong best friend. She had rejected all three offers for varying reasons and wondered sometimes if it had been foolish to do so, as there were not likely to be many more offers, if any. The prospect of a continuing life of spinsterhood sometimes seemed dreary.
Joel was with her when the letter arrived.
She was tidying the schoolroom after dismissing the children for the day. The monitors for the week—John Davies and Ellen Payne—had collected the slates and chalk and the counting frames. But while John had stacked the slates neatly on the cupboard shelf allotted for them and put all the chalk away in the tin and replaced the lid, Ellen had shoved the counting frames haphazardly on top of paintbrushes and palettes on the bottom shelf instead of arranging them in their appointed place side by side on the shelf above so as not to bend the rods or damage the beads. The reason she had put them in the wrong place was obvious. The second shelf was occupied by the water pots used to swill paint brushes and an untidy heap of paint-stained cleaning rags.
“Joel,” Anna said, a note of long suffering in her voice, “could you at least try to get your pupils to put things away where they belong after an art class? And to clean the water pots first? Look! One of them even still has water in it. Very dirty water.”
Joel was sitting on the corner of the battered teacher’s desk, one booted foot braced on the floor, the other swinging free. His arms were crossed over his chest. He grinned at her.
“But the whole point of being an artist,” he said, “is to be a free spirit, to cast aside restricting rules and draw inspiration from the universe. My job is to teach my pupils to be true artists.”
She straightened up from the cupboard and directed a speaking glance his way. “What utter rot and nonsense,” she said.
He laughed outright. “Anna, Anna,” he said. “Here, let me take that pot from you before you burst with indignation or spill it down your dress.”
But before he could say anything more, the classroom door was flung open without the courtesy of a knock to admit Bertha Reed, a thin, flaxen-haired fourteen-year-old who acted as Miss Ford’s helper now that she was old enough. She was bursting with excitement and waving a folded paper in one raised hand.
“There is a letter for you, Miss Snow,” she half shrieked. “It was delivered by special messenger from London and Miss Ford would have brought it herself but Tommy is bleeding all over her sitting room and no one can find Nurse Jones. Maddie punched him in the nose.”
“It is high time someone did,” Joel said, strolling closer to Anna. “I suppose he was pulling one of her braids again.”
Anna scarcely heard. A letter? From London? By special messenger? For her?
“Whoever can it be from, Miss Snow?” Bertha screeched, apparently not particularly concerned about Tommy and his bleeding nose. “Who do you know in London? No, don’t tell me—that ought to have been whom. Whom do you know in London? I wonder what they are writing about. And it came by special messenger, all that way. It must have cost a fortune. Oh, do open it.”
Her blatant inquisitiveness might have seemed impertinent, but really, it was so rare for any of them to receive a letter that word always spread very quickly and everyone wanted to know all about it. Occasionally someone who had left both the orphanage and Bath to work elsewhere would write, and the recipient would almost invariably share the contents with everyone else. Such missives were kept as prized possessions and read over and over until they were virtually threadbare.
Anna did not recognize the handwriting, which was both bold and precise. It was a masculine hand, she felt sure. The paper felt thick and expensive. It did not look like a personal letter.
“Oliver is in London,” Bertha said wistfully. “But I don’t suppose it can be from him, can it? His writing does not look anything like that, and why would he write to you anyway? The four times he has written since he left here, it was to me. And he is not going to send any letter by special messenger, is he?”
Oliver Jamieson had been apprenticed to a bootmaker in London two years ago at the age of fourteen and had promised to send for Bertha and marry her as soon as he got on his feet. Twice each year since then he had faithfully written a five- or six-line letter in large, careful handwriting. Bertha had shared his sparse news on each occasion and wept over the letters until it was a wonder they were still legible. There were three years left in his apprenticeship before he could hope to be on his feet and able to support a wife. They were both very young, but the separation did seem cruel. Anna always found herself hoping that Oliver would remain faithful to his childhood sweetheart.
“Are you going to turn it over and over in your hands and hope it will divulge its secrets without your having to break the seal?” Joel asked.
Stupidly, Anna’s hands were trembling. “Perhaps there is some mistake,” she said. “Perhaps it is not for me.”
He came up behind her and looked over her shoulder. “Miss Anna Snow,” he said. “It certainly sounds like you. I do not know any other Anna Snows. Do you, Bertha?”
“I do not, Mr. Cunningham,” she said after pausing to think. “But whatever can it be about?”
Anna slid her thumb beneath the seal and broke it. And yes, indeed, the paper was a thick, costly vellum. It was not a long letter. It was from Somebody Brumford—she could not read the first name, though it began with a J. He was a solicitor. She read through the letter once, swallowed, and then read it again more slowly.
“The day after tomorrow,” she murmured.
“In a private chaise,” Joel added. He had been reading over her shoulder.
“What is the day after tomorrow?” Bertha demanded, her voice an agony of suspense. “What chaise?”
Anna looked at her blankly. “I am being summoned to London to discuss my future,” she said. There was a faint buzzing in her ears.
“Oh! By who?” Bertha asked, her eyes as wide as saucers. “By whom, I mean.”
“Mr. J. Brumford, a solicitor,” Anna said.
“Josiah, I think that says,” Joel said. “Josiah Brumford. He is sending a private chaise to fetch you, and you are to pack a bag for at least a few days.”
“To London?” Bertha’s voice was breathless with awe.
“Whatever am I to do?” Anna’s mind seemed to have stopped working. Or, rather, it was working, but it was whirring out of control, like the innards of a broken clock.
“What you are to do, Anna,” Joel said, pushing a chair up behind her knees and setting his hands on her shoulders to press her gently down onto it, “is pack a bag fo
r a few days and then go to London to discuss your future.”
“But what future?” she asked.
“That is what is to be discussed,” he pointed out.
The buzzing in her ears grew louder.
Read on for an excerpt from the next book in Mary Balogh’s Westcott series,
Someone Perfect
Coming in Fall 2021
England was not renowned for long runs of perfect summer days. This year so far even brief runs had been in lamentably short supply. It seemed something of a miracle, then, when the morning had dawned with the promise of being yet another lovely day. The second in a row.
By the middle of the afternoon, the sky was a deep indigo blue and cloudless. The air was hot without being oppressive—the merest hint of a breeze saw to that. It also caused the leaves to flutter on the trees and the water to ripple on the river. The grass on both sides of the river was green and lush after all the rain, and liberally strewn with daisies, buttercups, and clover. Birds trilled from among the thick foliage of the trees, though it was not always easy to see them. Unseen insects whirred and chirped in the grass.
So much life. So much beauty.
Lady Estelle Lamarr had been walking along the riverbank, but she stopped in order to fill all her senses with the perfection of the moment, wild nature at its most profuse and benign. Even the old single-arched stone bridge farther along seemed to be an integral part of the scene rather than a man-made intrusion upon it, just as a bird’s nest or an anthill or a beaver dam would be. There surely could not possibly be anything to surpass the loveliness of the English countryside on a summer day. How very privileged she was to live here.
Yesterday she had fretted a little at being kept at home on a similar day by the impending departure of her uncle and aunt and cousin, who had all been staying at Elm Court for the past three weeks. Although Aunt Jane had talked of leaving early, by eight o’clock at the latest, it was actually after three in the afternoon by the time their carriage rolled out of sight down the drive and the chance to enjoy the outdoors had been virtually at an end.
First Uncle Charles had lingered over breakfast as though he had all day, deep in conversation with Bertrand, Estelle’s twin brother. Then Ellen, their cousin, had decided she really ought to send a quick note to her fiancé to explain that their return home would be delayed because her mama had decided they must call upon friends who lived not far off their intended route, and those friends were bound to invite them to stay for a few days. The conversation finally at an end and Ellen’s letter written, Aunt Jane was hopeful of a midmorning start. But that hope was dashed when the vicar arrived from the village and had been positively delighted to find that he had come in time to send the travelers on their way with a blessing.
The Reverend John Mott, a deeply pious man, was a longtime acquaintance of Aunt Jane’s and a great favorite of hers. At her urging, the blessing had developed into extended prayers and scripture readings in the sitting room and had been succeeded by a lengthy discussion, initiated by Aunt Jane, about the deteriorating moral fiber of the nation, especially its heedless youth. And since by then noon was fast approaching, Estelle had invited the vicar to join them all for a light luncheon that she had guessed—correctly—their cook was already preparing with feverish haste for six people instead of the two she had been planning for.
After the dishes had been cleared from the table and their second cup of coffee had been poured, the conversation had turned to a discussion of the uncertain future of the monarchy, since King George IV was in perennial ill health and the only heir closely related to him was a young girl, Victoria, daughter of the Duke of Kent. The other royal dukes had been prolific in the production of children, it was true, but not, unfortunately, of the legitimate variety. It was all quite scandalous, in Aunt Jane’s opinion.
The carriage had been outside the door at three o’clock, had been fully loaded with its three passengers by quarter past, and had finally rolled on its way at half past, all the last-minute thanks and well wishes and reminders to do this and be sure to avoid doing that having been called out the window. By Aunt Jane, of course.
“So much for a perfect summer day,” Estelle had said, turning to her brother—but with a twinkle in her eye. For of course she was exceedingly fond of her relatives and had actually enjoyed the day as it unfolded.
“All in a good cause,” Bertrand had said. “We will miss them. There will be other lovely days to spend outdoors.”
And sure enough, along had come the unexpected gift of today.
When she left the house earlier, Estelle had intended on walking all the way to Prospect Hall to call upon Maria Wiley. The heat was giving her second thoughts by now, however. The hall was a mile or so beyond the bridge, on the other side of the river, and she had already walked more than a mile. She looked down at the wildflowers at her feet and stooped to rub a hand over the grass. It was dry. And blessedly cool to the touch. She changed her mind about going farther and sat down close to the river’s edge. She arranged her skirts neatly about her legs and clasped her arms around her raised knees.
Aunt Jane would be horrified at such unladylike behavior, especially in a public place where anyone might come along at any moment and see her. Estelle smiled fondly at the thought. Aunt Jane and Uncle Charles had raised Bertrand and her. Their mother had died in a horrible accident before they were even a year old, and their father, overcome with grief and guilt over his conviction that he had caused their mother’s death, had effectively disappeared from their lives except for brief, unsatisfactory visits twice a year or so. He had acquired an unsavory reputation as a rake, though they did not know that, of course, until much later.
He was back in their lives now and had been for the past eight years. Estelle loved him dearly, but that did not change the fact that their formative years, from one to seventeen, had been spent in the care of Aunt Jane, their mother’s elder sister, and Uncle Charles. And in the company of Oliver and Ellen, their cousins, both older than they.
It had been a strict upbringing, with much emphasis upon duty and moral rectitude and self-discipline and piety. They had also been loved, though. But there had always been a gaping hole in their lives, partly because their mother was dead, though mainly because their father was not. They had longed and yearned for him, watched for him from the attic room of Elm Court, where they had lived through most of those years and lived again now. Yet whenever he had come, they had held themselves aloof from him, waiting and waiting for him to . . . to open his arms and his heart to them. Or give some other sign. Make the first move. Stay.
After he left, usually sooner than he had intended, they had hated him and wept for him—yes, Bertrand had wept too—and resolved to forget all about him, to cut him from their lives. Until, that was, they had found themselves in the attic again, watching for his return. Yearning for him.
Ah. Estelle shook her head. She had not intended to sink into those memories today of all days. Today was for simple enjoyment. Tomorrow there might be clouds and blustery winds and chill temperatures and rain again. Three days in a row was too much to hope for with any confidence this year. Today she was free to do whatever she wished. Much as she had loved having her aunt and uncle and Ellen to stay, she had, as always, felt constrained by their presence. As though she needed to be on her very best behavior every single moment. And to listen meekly to almost daily harangues—though no, that was unfair. Harangues was a negative word. Aunt Jane loved her and wanted the best for her—and of her. She gave suggestions now, and they were often sound advice.
Her aunt did not approve of Estelle’s living at Elm Court alone, though Bertrand lived there too and they had always been extraordinarily close despite the fact that they were not, of course, identical twins. Estelle, in Aunt Jane’s opinion, really ought to have a female companion living with her—just as Lady Maria Wiley of Prospect Hall did, and very proper too, though one co
uld wish that her companion was a decade or so older than she was. It was bordering upon scandalous that Estelle did not have one at all. Aunt Jane could not understand why the marchioness did not insist upon it. The marchioness was Estelle’s stepmother of eight years, her father’s second wife. He was the Marquess of Dorchester.
Estelle did not want a companion. Not a female one, anyway. She had Bertrand, and he was enough for her. For a few years, just before their father’s marriage to Viola Kingsley and then afterward, they had lived at Redcliffe Court in Northamptonshire, where they had been taken after their father inherited the title and property. Two years ago, however, they had come back to Elm Court, just the two of them, having found themselves overwhelmed by the life of the ton into which they had been thrust—with great success, incidentally, and even some enjoyment, until suddenly it had been enjoyable no longer.
They had been in their twenties when it happened, an age at which Estelle at least ought to have been married, according to conventional wisdom. She had never really been tempted, however, though she liked a number of the eligible men she had met. Instead, she had wanted to . . . to find herself, for want of a clearer way to describe how she had felt. And of course it was how Bertrand had felt too. They so often thought alike about the important things.