The Raven Prince (9 page)

They drank the tea in a charged silence, the good doctor having apparently decided he wasn’t going to change her mind. After finishing his cup, Dr. Billings fished a small brown bottle out of his bag and gave it to Anna with instructions on how to administer the medication. Then the doctor crammed his hat on his head and wound a lavender muffler around his neck several times.

He halted by the front door as Anna was showing him out. “If you change your mind, Mrs. Wren, please call on me. I’ll find an appropriate place for the young woman.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. She closed the door after the doctor and leaned against it, her shoulders slumping.

Mother Wren entered the hall and studied Anna. “What does she have, my dear?”

“A fever and infection of the lungs.” Anna looked at her wearily. “Perhaps it would be better if you and Fanny stayed with friends until this is over.”

Mother Wren raised her brows. “Who would look after her during the day while you are at Ravenhill?”

Anna stared, suddenly stricken. “I’d forgotten that.”

Mother Wren shook her head. “Is it really necessary to stir up this amount of trouble, my dear?”

“I’m sorry.” Anna looked down and noticed a grass stain on her skirts. It wouldn’t come out—grass stains never did. “I don’t mean to drag you into my mess.”

“Then why not take the doctor’s help? It’s so much easier to simply do what people expect of you, Anna.”

“It may be easier, but it isn’t necessarily the right way, Mother. Surely you can see that?” She looked at her mother-in-law pleadingly, trying to find the words to explain. Her actions had made complete sense when she’d been staring at the woman’s sickly face in the ditch. Now, with Mother Wren waiting so patiently, it was harder to articulate her logic. “I’ve always done what was expected, haven’t I? Whether or not it was the right thing to do.”

The older woman frowned. “But you’ve never done anything wrong—”

“But that’s not the point, is it?” Anna bit her lip and found to her horror that she was close to tears. “If I’ve never stepped outside the role that’s been assigned to me since birth, I’ve never tested myself. I’ve been too afraid of others’ opinions, I think. I’ve been a coward. If that woman needs me, why not help her—for her . . . and for me?”

“All I know is that this way will lead to quite a lot of grief for you.” Mother Wren shook her head again and sighed.

Anna led the way into the kitchen, and the two women prepared a thin beef tea. Anna carried it and the little brown bottle of medicine up the stairs to her room. Quietly, she cracked the door open and peeked in. The woman stirred feebly and tried to raise herself.

Anna put down her burden and crossed the room to her. “Don’t try to move.”

At the sound of Anna’s voice, the woman’s eyes flew open and she looked around wildly. “W-w-who are—?”

“My name is Anna Wren. You’re in my home.”

Anna hurried to bring the beef tea over to the woman. She put her arm around her patient, gently helping her to sit up. The woman sipped the warm broth and swallowed with difficulty. After she had drunk half the cup, her eyes began to close again. Anna lowered her back to the bed and gathered up the cup and spoon.

The woman caught her with a shaking hand as she turned away. “My sister,” she whispered.

Anna knit her brow. “Do you wish me to notify your sister?”

The woman nodded.

“Wait,” Anna said. “Let me get a bit of paper and pencil so I may write down her address.” She hurried to her small dresser and tugged out the bottom drawer. Underneath a stack of old linens was a walnut writing case that had belonged to Peter. Anna took it out and settled on the bedside chair with the writing case on her lap. “Where shall I address a letter to your sister?”

The woman gasped out her sister’s name and place of residence, which was in London, while Anna noted the address with a pencil on a scrap of paper. Then the woman lay back, exhausted, on the pillow.

Anna hesitantly touched her hand. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Pearl,” she whispered without opening her eyes.

Anna carried the writing case from the room, shutting the door gently behind her. She ran down the stairs and went into the sitting room to compose a letter to Pearl’s sister, a Miss Coral Smythe.

Peter’s writing case was a flat rectangular box. The writer could place it on his or her lap and use it as a portable desk. On top was a hinged half lid that opened to reveal a smaller box for quills, a bottle of ink that fit next to it, and papers and other miscellaneous things used for correspondence. Anna hesitated. The writing case was a handsome thing, but she’d not touched it since Peter’s death. While Peter lived, it had been his private possession. She felt almost a trespasser using it, especially as they had not been close toward the end of his life. She shook her head and opened the case.

Anna wrote carefully, but it still took several drafts to compose a letter. Finally, she had a missive she was satisfied with, and she put it aside to take to the Little Battleford Coach Inn tomorrow. She was putting the quill box back into the walnut writing case when she realized that something was jammed in the back. The quill box would not fit in. She opened the half lid all the way and shook out the shallow case. Then she felt with her hand at the back. There was something round and cool there. Anna gave a tug and the object came loose. When she withdrew her hand, a little gold locket nestled in her palm. The lid was prettily chased with curlicues, and on the back was a pin so a lady could wear it as a brooch. Anna pressed the thin wafer of gold at the seam. The locket popped apart.

It was empty.

Anna snapped the two halves back together. She rubbed her thumb thoughtfully over the engraving. The locket was not hers. In fact, she had never seen it before. She had a sudden urge to fling it across the room. How dare he? Even after his death, to torment her in this way? Hadn’t she put up with enough when he lived? And now she found this little wretched thing lying in wait all these years later.

Anna raised her arm, the locket clenched in her fist. Tears blurred her vision.

Then she took a breath. Peter had been in his grave over six years. She was alive, and he had long ago turned to dust. She inhaled again and unfolded her fingers. The locket gleamed in her palm innocently.

Carefully, Anna placed it in her pocket.

T
HE NEXT DAY
was Sunday.

The Little Battleford church was a small building of gray stone with a leaning steeple. Built sometime in the Middle Ages, it was terribly drafty and cold in the winter months. Anna had spent many a Sunday hoping the homily would end before the hot brick brought from home lost its heat and her toes froze completely.

There was a sudden hush when the Wren women entered the church. Several swiftly averted eyes confirmed Anna’s suspicion that she was the topic of discussion, but Anna greeted her neighbors without any indication that she knew she was the center of attention. Rebecca waved from a front pew. She sat beside her husband, James, a big blond man with a rather stout middle. Mother Wren and Anna scrunched in beside them on the bench.

“You certainly have been leading an exciting life lately,” Rebecca whispered.

“Really?” Anna busied herself with her gloves and bible.

“Mmm-hmm,” Rebecca murmured. “I had no idea you were considering the world’s oldest profession.”

That got Anna’s attention. “What?”

“They haven’t actually accused you of it yet, but some are coming close.” Rebecca smiled at the lady behind them who had leaned forward.

The woman drew back sharply and sniffed.

Her friend continued, “The town gossips haven’t had this much fun since the miller’s wife had her baby ten months after he died.”

The vicar entered and the congregation quieted as the service began. Predictably, the homily was on the sins of Jezebel, although poor Vicar Jones did not look like he enjoyed delivering it. Anna had only to glance at the ramrod-straight back of Mrs. Jones sitting in the front pew to guess who had decided on the subject matter. At last the service came to a dreary close, and they stood to exit the church.

“Don’t know why they left her palms and feet,” James said as the congregation began rising.

Rebecca looked up at her husband with fond exasperation. “What are you blathering about, darling?”

“Jezebel,” James muttered. “Dogs didn’t eat her palms and the soles of her feet. Why? Hounds not usually that particular about their victuals, in my experience.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes and patted her husband’s arm. “Don’t worry about it, darling. Perhaps they had different dogs back then.”

James didn’t look very satisfied with this explanation, but he responded to his wife’s gentle nudge toward the door. Anna was touched to note that Mother Wren and Rebecca arranged themselves on either side of her with James guarding her rear.

As it turned out, however, she did not need such a loyal barricade. For while she received several censorious looks and one cut direct, not all the ladies of Little Battleford were disapproving. In fact, many of the younger ladies were so envious of Anna’s new position as secretary to Lord Swartingham that it seemed to transcend her problematic championship of a prostitute in their eyes.

Anna was almost through the gauntlet of villagers outside the church and was beginning to relax when she heard an overly sweet voice at her shoulder. “Mrs. Wren, I do want you to know how very brave I think you are.”

Felicity Clearwater carelessly held her small cape in one hand, the better to show off her fashionable frock. Orange and blue nosegays tumbled over a background of primrose yellow. The skirt parted in front to reveal a blue brocade underskirt, and the whole concoction draped over wide panniers.

For a moment, Anna thought wistfully of how nice it would be to wear a gown as fine as Felicity’s; then Mother Wren bridled beside her. “Anna had not a thought for herself when she brought that poor woman home.”

Felicity’s eyes widened. “Oh, obviously. Why, to endure the displeasure of the entire village, not to mention the scolding from the pulpit she just received, Anna must not have had a thought at all.”

“I don’t think I shall take the lessons of Jezebel too seriously,” Anna said lightly. “After all, they might apply to other women in this village, too.”

For some reason, this rather weak rejoinder made the other woman stiffen. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.” Felicity’s fingers ran blindly across her hair like spiders. “Unlike you, no one could fault me for the company I keep.” Smiling tightly, Felicity swept off before Anna could think of a suitable riposte.

“Cat.” Rebecca’s own eyes narrowed rather like a feline.

Back at the cottage, Anna spent the rest of the day darning stockings, a talent that she’d by necessity become expert at. After her own supper, she crept up to Pearl’s room and found the woman much better. Anna helped her sit up and eat some porridge thinned with milk. Pearl was quite a pretty woman, if worn looking.

Pearl fidgeted with a lock of her pale hair for several minutes before finally bursting out, “Why’d you take me in, then?”

Anna was startled. “You were lying by the side of the road. I couldn’t leave you there.”

“You know what kind of a girl I am, don’t you?”

“Well—”

“I’m a trollop.” Pearl said the last word with a defiant twist to her mouth.

“We thought you might be,” Anna replied.

“Well, now you know.”

“But I don’t see that it makes any difference.”

Pearl appeared stunned. Anna took the opportunity to spoon some more gruel into her open mouth.

“Here now. You aren’t one of them religious types, are you?” Pearl’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Anna paused with the spoon in midair. “What?”

Pearl agitatedly twisted the sheet covering her knees. “One of them religious ladies that grab girls like me to reform them. I heard that they feeds them nothing but bread and water and makes them do needlework till their fingers bleed and they repent.”

Anna looked at the milky gruel in the bowl. “This isn’t bread and water, is it?”

Pearl flushed. “No, ma’am, I suppose it isn’t.”

“We’ll feed you more substantial fare when you are up to it, I assure you.”

Pearl still looked uncertain, so Anna added, “You may go any time you like. I sent a letter to your sister. Perhaps she’ll arrive soon.”

“That’s right.” Pearl seemed relieved. “I remember giving you her direction.”

Anna stood. “Try not to worry; just sleep well.”

“Aye.” Pearl’s brow was still wrinkled.

Anna sighed. “Good night.”

“’Night, ma’am.”

Anna carried the bowl of gruel and the spoon back down the stairs and rinsed them out. It was quite dark by the time she retired to a small pallet made up in her mother-in-law’s room.

She slept dreamlessly and didn’t wake until Mother Wren gently shook her shoulder. “Anna. You had better get up, dear, if you’re to get to Ravenhill on time.”

Only then did it occur to Anna to wonder what the earl would think of her patient.

M
ONDAY MORNING,
A
NNA
entered the Abbey library warily. She’d walked all the way from her cottage dreading the confrontation with Lord Swartingham, hoping against hope that he’d be more reasonable than the doctor had. However, the earl seemed just as usual—rumpled and grumpy with his hair and neckcloth askew. He greeted her by growling that he had found an error on one of the pages she had transcribed the day before. Anna breathed a grateful sigh of relief and settled down to work.