We.To Anne’s surprise, tears filled her eyes.
His own eyes widened in dismay. “I am sorry. I had no intention of causing you distress. You are certainly under no obligation to accompany me. I just thought, now you are no longer needed at Painswick Court...”
“I am not distressed. Not in the way you mean. Those are exactly the kinds of things I’d love to be involved in and would find very satisfying.”
“Then why are you crying?”
“Because I can’t. My father will be here to collect me any minute. I’m leaving today.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize you meant to leave so soon.”
“Nor did I, but he wrote back directly saying he was eager to see me again.”
“That’s good. How ... nice.”
“Yes. Very nice.” But still the tears flowed.
“You will come back, won’t you? Tell me you will come back.”
“I ... hope so.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Well. Good-bye for now, Anne Loveday.”
She nodded, but did not trust her voice to reply.
27
It was difficult to carry on a serious conversation over the road noise and all the jostling of Father’s poorly sprung gig, but when they returned to Churchdown, he insisted they take tea alone in his study and catch up before his “beloved brood” descended on her.
Before they could make good their retreat, however, little Matty met them at the door, threw her arms around Anne’s knees, and demanded she read a story. Nancy appeared—baby Emma in the crook of her arm, stained apron over enlarged abdomen, and as lovely as ever—and took Matty by the hand. After welcoming Anne home, she left them alone in the study, gently closing the door partway, and shepherded Matty to another room.
Father and daughter sat talking for some time. Anne explained about Lady Celia and how she had gone from resenting the snappish woman to caring about her, and how sorry she was to lose another patient under her care, especially after failing her mother.
“What about your mother?” he asked, looking confused.
“You must know I have felt guilty about her death all these years.”
“Have you? I am sorry to hear that. Surprised as well. For I have blamed myself, and assumed you blamed me too. A supposed healer who couldn’t heal his own wife? And then to leave you like that. Not that I think you failed to do anything I prescribed. I know you to be diligent. But that I left her final hours on your young shoulders ...?” He shook his head. “It was not your fault. I was to blame.”
“Perhaps neither of us was to blame,” Anne said, relief washing over her. “I described the various treatments we tried to a physician I became acquainted with in Painswick—”
“Not Marsland, I take it?”
“No. A younger man. And he told me that even today, there is nothing more we could have done for her.”
“That is good to hear. And who is this young physician-friend of yours?”
As a magpie to something shiny, Anne’s stepmother again appeared in the doorway, eyes bright and voice eager. “Young physician, you say? How well acquainted? I do hope he is single?”
Anne laughed. “You are such a romantic, Nancy! But I appreciate your care and interest.”
Nancy Loveday stilled at the words—perhaps the first kind words Anne had spoken to her in far too long. Anne was surprised and chagrined to see tears well in the woman’s eyes.
With a watery smile, Nancy said, “I suppose I am. And coming from you, my girl, that is quite a compliment.”
Little Emma started fussing. Her stepmother patted Anne’s shoulder rather awkwardly and turned to go and tend to the child.
A swirl of emotions made Anne dizzy. Feeling almost disloyal to her own dear mamma while regretting that she had held herself distant from her father’s beloved wife for so long.
