1
Gloucestershire,1821
Miss Anne Loveday sat in the parlour with the widower Mr. Shufflebottom—that truly was his name—while he droned on about his eight adult children, and how much they all still missed their mother, who’d died many years ago giving birth to a ninth. He described in tedious detail his fine house filled with said adult children and several grandchildren besides.
Anne wasn’t really listening.
Instead she was somewhere more pleasant in her mind. She was revisiting a lovely summer picnic with her parents, sister, and a few friends, celebrating her grandparents’ anniversary. Grandpa and Grandmamma sat on a blanket beneath the entwined boughs of the wedding tree in the Painswick churchyard, the cheerful courtship song of goldcrests high in the branches. Mamma, healthy and vibrant, bustled about passing plates of cold chicken and slices of beef and Stilton pie and refilling cups of lemonade.
All of Anne’s loved ones together and happy, the future stretching brightly before them.
She had asked her grandfather, “I love a picnic, but why under this tree? I thought yew trees were a symbol of death?”
“They are indeed, my poppet. Yet death is a part of life. A yew will grow a thousand years. See how the branches bend to the ground? They’ll take root there and new growth will begin. That’s why the yew also symbolizes rebirth and eternal life. The trees are useful as well, providing shelter for woodland creatures.”
“You’re such a romantic, Tom,” Grandmamma chided teasingly. “I thought we celebrated here because this is where you asked me to marry you.”
“I was getting to that, impatient woman,” he said, a warm twinkle in his eyes as he gazed upon his wife of many decades.
“But aren’t yew trees poisonous?” Anne persisted.
“Deadly so, poppet. And never forget it... .”
Anne was jerked back to the present when she realized the widower was staring agog at her, a ginger biscuit halfway to his lips. “Poisonous?”
“Oh! Not those.” She chuckled weakly. “I was thinking of something else.”
“Ah, your mother mention—”
“Stepmother.”
“Yes, she mentioned your unusual predilection for herbs and medicines. Don’t worry, marriage will smooth out those undesirable qualities. You’ll be too busy managing a house and children to dwell on ... less traditional pursuits.”
Anne rose abruptly. “Do excuse me.”
On the pretense of needing to use the privy—it was indiscreet to say the words aloud, but she did so anyway—Anne slipped from the room and tiptoed to her favorite hiding place. With a sigh of relief, she tucked herself behind the draperies of the window seat in her father’s study and resumed reading her prized medical book, hidden from herwould-be suitor, stepmother, and half siblings, and dreaming of a different life.
She’d barely finished one page when familiar footsteps strode into the study. Her father threw back the drapes, exposing Anne’s sanctuary, which he alone knew about.
“Mrs. Barker is in labor,” he began. “Her eldest just came to alert me. Remind me. Did we use the forceps or vectis last time?”
“Neither one! Time and patience were all that was required, and a little gentle encouragement.” Anne rose. “I’ll come with you. Her last delivery was difficult indeed.”
“No need. They are summoning a midwife as well this time, and you know Nancy does not want—”
“What’s this?” Her stepmother’s shrill voice rang out from behind him. A moment later, she appeared at her husband’s elbow. “Is this where you’ve been hiding?” Displeasure pinched Nancy’s pale face. “Oh no, no, no. Anne willnotbe going with you. She is going to apologize to the gentleman caller she rudely abandoned. Besides, she is not a midwife. Nor your orderly.”
“Of course not,” her father began. “I only—”
Nancy threw up her hands. “You want a better life for her, do you not? Her own home, her own family?”
“Well, of course, in time, but—”
“ButIdon’t want that,” Anne interjected. “Marriage leads to unhappiness, babies, and death.” She knew she was overstating the matter, but several womenhaddied in childbirth during the years she’d helped her father.
“Marriages are not always unhappy,” Nancy retorted.
“No?” Anne raised her brows. “What about Fanny?”
