Anne nodded.
“And has she written this supposed new will?”
Anne shrugged. “I don’t know.Thatisn’t any of my business. Nor yours.”
He raised his chin. “Have I not the right to know?”
“Your aunt does not think so.”
“Probably only threatened to revise it to keep me in line,” he said, crossing his arms. “Yanking the purse strings has always been one of her favorite tactics.”
“That reminds me,” Anne said. “She told me she did not forbid you to marry Fanny—never even heard you mention her. And she certainly did not threaten to disinherit you over it.”
“Well, she’s threatening to disinherit me now.”
“And I would not blame her.”
“I would.” His green eyes held hers with a malevolent glint. “Take my advice, Miss Loveday, and keep your nose and your goose feather out of things that don’t concern you.”
17
Anne had received no reply to her last letter to Fanny, yet she felt duty bound to write now that the situation had changed and she’d learned Mr. Dalby had lied to her sister. So the next day she again sat down at Lady Celia’s desk with pen, ink, and paper.
Dear Fanny,
I thought I ought to let you know that since my last letter, Mr. Dalby has moved back to Painswick Court. His wife died last year, I recently learned.
I feel I should also share the—I hope not too distressing—discovery that Lady Celia did not forbid him to marry you. I confronted her about it, and she was clearly ignorant of the entire affair. Said he apparently fabricated her objections as an excuse to break things off with you while placing the blame at his aunt’s door.
Lady Celia allowed that his intentions might originally have been honorable, until he realized your dowry was insufficient to provide the style of living he had become accustomed to. She asserts that had you marriedhim, you would have been poor and miserable and you are better off without him.
Having lately met another young woman he took advantage of and abandoned, and then learning his former brother-in-law (Albert Palling, whom you may remember) blames him for infidelity and even his wife’s death, I have to agree with Lady Celia’s assessment.
I don’t relay all this in a spirit of “I told you so,” but rather in the hope that learning his true nature, you will finally be able to lay aside those past regrets and what-might-have-beens and begin appreciating the life and husband you have.
I truly hope all is well with you and Stephen.
Yours sincerely,
Anne
After attending church on Sunday, Anne spent another pleasant afternoon at Yew Cottage with Miss Lotty. This time Ursula didn’t join them, having been invited to dine with an elderly relative. Anne was grateful for the opportunity to share a simple meal and a heart-to-heart talk with her mother’s dear friend and hers as well.
Raising a topic that had been on her mind, Anne began, “You mentioned that after your father died, you nursed your mother through her final illness.”
“That’s right. Mamma took turns at Father’s bedside with me, but I was on my own when she fell ill. Well, except for Richard and kind neighbors like Ursula. Those were difficult days but precious too.”
“How so?”
“Much of it was unpleasant, I won’t pretend otherwise, but before she passed we shared many hours in sweet communion.Toward the end, her agitation lessened, and she grew peaceful. I don’t know if she could still hear me or not, but I read from the Psalms to her, and sang, and prayed. As she breathed her last, a single tear escaped from her eye. I like to think she was seeing her Savior, though of course I can’t say for sure. Either way, I know she is in heaven now. And that gives me hope and comfort.”
“Did you ever ... feel guilty?” Anne asked. “Wondered if you neglected to do something that might have extended her life?”
Lotty’s eyes widened. “No, my dear. I have regrets, of course. We all do. I’m sure I could have been a better daughter. More caring and attentive before she grew ill. I regret some sharp words during my younger years, and kind deeds left undone. But no, at the end, I did not feel guilty. I did all I could to ease her suffering, but it was beyond my power to save her. God alone held her life in His hands.”
Lotty studied Anne’s face, compassion in her gaze. “You once wrote that you were alone with your mother when she passed, and you feared you should have done more for her. Do you still have doubts about that? Surely your father never blamed you.”
Over a knot of pain in her chest, Anne admitted, “When he returned and learned she’d died, he said, ‘I shouldn’t have let you talk me out of trying those other treatments. And I should never have left her alone with you.’”
