Beginning, Previous Section, Section III
Part 35 Posted on Friday, 19 November 1999
Anne was miserable. It had been three days since she had left Charell, and she was feeling homesick for the place. As she played with Stacy in the parlor at Blakeney Hall, she noticed how much her daughter's face resembled her husband's, albeit more feminine. Perhaps she should have let John explain, listened to him. But what could he possibly say? That excuse he had given about the song had sounded plain stupid. How was she supposed to react?
Blast it all, why did her mother have to be right? However rare those occasions were, she always hated it when her mother was proven right. But what good would come out of anything, even if she was granted a divorce, which was not at all likely? John would get Stacy, and she would be sent back to Rosings. Back to Lady Catherine. Anne shuddered at the thought.
All this reasoning could not convince Anne that her love for John had abated. She tried to force the love out of herself, but to no avail. She loved him as much as she had the day he asked for her hand.
But why had he asked? That was a question that bothered her night and day. She could not deny that she had often wished to get married, so she could be able to rid herself of her mother. But to know that had actually been the basis for the proposal in the first place was not what she had in mind. She had dreamed, like any girl, of the dashing husband who would sweep her off her feet, and carry her off into the sunset, not sparing any clichés. Who had she married? Sir John Preston, the most boring person in all of England. He even ate his porridge straight! But his boringness did not make Anne love him less. When contrasted with someone like ... oh, say ... Mr. Blakeney, she infinitely preferred John. He was stable. He was sensible. And she knew that, whatever John did, he would never leave her alone when she was expecting.
Good Lord! There was now a niggling voice in the back of her mind saying something rather startling: there was no way John would ever leave her, period. There was no way John would even consider.... Oh, she was so stupid! Why had she believed her mother? Lady Catherine de Bourgh was never right!
"Anne, are you all right?" asked Georgiana, noticing the horrified look on her cousin's face.
"Y...yes, I am perfect f...fine," Anne stammered. She stood up and said, "Excuse me, I need to get some fresh air." She grabbed her cloak, and ran outside just in time to see a carriage pull into the drive. Two peasants, a young girl, and a large man who looked somewhat familiar jumped out, and one of the peasants shouted to her,
"Oh, Lady Preston! How are you? If you don't mind, we must dispense with formalities for now. Would you please go find Lady Blakeney? We need her assistance at once!"
"Sir Percy?" said Anne, even more horrified.
"The one and only. Please, girl, do not dawdle."
Anne saw it was urgent, and ignoring his momentary lapse of manners, ran inside at once.
"Lady Blakeney!" she cried. "You must come outside at once! Sir Percy is dressed like a peasant!"
All three Blakeney women stood up at once, and made their way - some more slowly than others - to the front door. Marguerite rushed down the stairs, and spying her son in the carriage, gave a cry. She immediately fell to helping her husband move Christopher onto a stretcher.
"Mrs. Blakeney," said Sir Andrew Ffoulkes gently, "if you would kindly step out of the way." Georgiana stood horrified just outside the door.
"Come, Georgiana," said Josee. "I do not think you should see this."
"He is my husband!" she hissed vehemently, and jerked her arm out of Josee's grasp. "What is the matter?" she asked Percy's back as he and Andrew carried Christopher up the stairs. "What happened? Why is he not awake? Christopher, wake up. Darling... Christopher!" she cried, and she sank down on the steps, sobbing.
Anne and Josee rushed to comfort her, but she could not and would not hear them. Marguerite came down some moments later, and seeing her daughter-in-law thus, put her arms around her gently and said,
"There, there. Everything will be all right. He is home now. You mustn't carry on so; it is not good for the baby."
Georgiana made a valiant effort to stop, for her baby's sake, but could not.
"But he is so... And I was so... Oh, Lady Blakeney, I was terrible to him!"
"Georgiana," said Marguerite, stroking her hair soothingly, "this is not your fault."
"But all the time I was here feeling sorry for myself, and he was in London, possibly dying..."
"Hush. He is not dying."
"If I hadn't made him choose... Why did I do that to him?" She lifted her eyes in entreaty to the lady she looked up to as a mother. "It's all my fault. He said it was dangerous. I told him a week. He probably tried to hurry it for my sake, and rushed in head first, without thinking. How could he be so stupid! Oh, Mother, I was out of my senses with worry. I hadn't seen him for a month. I didn't know what I was saying!" She buried her face in her hands. "He was so pale! And he did not move at all... and he was so thin! Oh, Christopher, I'm so sorry!"
Marguerite saw she was hysterical, and with Anne and Josee's help, led Georgiana to her own room, where she cried herself to sleep.
Part 36 Posted on Monday, 22 November 1999
Michael Lancaster, Marquess of Montgomery, paced the hall nervously for nearly three hours, waiting for news from the doctor who had been awakened from a deep sleep to come to Blakeney Hall in the middle of the night. He started muttering to himself to keep himself awake.
"Why bring a doctor? I paid five doctors to come to my flat, and none of them even made a confident diagnosis. The doctor won't do any good. Such nonsense!" He looked up suddenly when he heard soft footsteps behind him. Turning, he was surprised to see his distant and beautiful cousin, Georgiana.
"Mrs. Mor ... Blakeney!" he cried. "What are you doing out of bed?"
"Has there been any change?" she asked, her voice hollow. When he answered that he did not know, she looked longingly toward the door behind which the doctor had disappeared several hours ago. He shifted his weight awkwardly when he realized she was crying.
"Uh ... Georgiana?" he said tentatively. "I'm sorry."
She nodded, and wrapped her shawl around her tightly. She was shivering. The doctor came out of the room, looking grave. Anne heard the door open, and peeked out of her room, where she was hiding with Stacy. Georgiana went up to him boldly, nearly colliding with him, and said,
"Will he be all right?"
He shook his head helplessly.
"I don't know, Mrs. Blakeney. I'm sorry."
"What is wrong?" asked Michael. The doctor shrugged.
"I have never seen anything like it. It is very close to malaria, but ... different, somehow. It is my belief that, through some foreign means, some poison was introduced to his bloodstream. If you like, I could bleed him..."
"No!" said Anne suddenly, still in her door, "No bleedings."
"Poison?" said Georgiana, horrified. The doctor nodded, and continued.
"If I knew what poison was used, I might be able to find an antitoxin, but as it is... I am truly very sorry." He shook his head again at the pity of the situation, and turned to leave.
"Wait!" said Michael. "Just a moment. If I knew somebody who could provide you with information about what poison was used, would you be able to save him?"
"I don't know for certain, but the odds would definitely be improved."
"Wait right here," said Michael, and hurried off. A few minutes later, he came back, with Anala in tow. "Anala," he said, "Dr. Barnes thinks Mrs. Blakeney was poisoned. Can you tell us how?"
Anala told all.
"Darts?" said Georgiana. Anala nodded.
"The poison comes from frogs and mosquitoes."
"Is there a way to counteract the effects, in case somebody is accidentally infected?" asked the doctor.
Anala shrugged helplessly.
"I've been tryin' ta remember, but accidents never 'appened with 'em before. Only ever purposely. If there is a cure, I don't know where it would be."
"Do you have any ideas?" asked Michael. Anala nodded.
"I do. But I'll need 'elp. I can't get there by m'self, an' it'll take longer if I walk." She saw Georgiana's distressed countenance. "I think 'e's doin' admirably, ma'am," she said, trying to comfort her. "It usually doesn't take this long for it ta work."
"I'll take you where you need to go," said Michael. "Hurry. Let's go." He dragged her off. The doctor looked pityingly at Georgiana, who was wiping her eyes determinedly, and left. Anne would have liked to comfort her cousin, but could think of nothing to say. She stood awkwardly in her doorway for a few minutes, before she heard Stacy crying, and took it as an excuse to leave.
As soon as she was alone, Georgiana squared her shoulders and entered the room where her husband lay unconscious.
The room was dark, except for the light of one candle on the nightstand. It smelled like a hospital; she knew Christopher would not like it, if he knew.
"Christopher?" she said timidly, and crept closer to the bed. The doctor had cleaned him up considerably, but she still would not have recognized him from two weeks ago. She reached out and felt his forehead. It was cool from perspiration. She carefully smoothed his hair back, so it would not stick to his face, and pressed her fingers to her own lips, then to his, as a silent kiss. Taking his hand in hers, she brought it to her abdomen, where she was beginning to show signs of her pregnancy.
"Christopher," she called softly. "You have to wake up. You have to get well again. You will get well, whether you like it or not," she said half-jokingly, remembering his intense dislike of sentimentality. He shivered suddenly, and she wrapped the blanket more securely around his thin body.
"Your mother told me something interesting yesterday, about your father..." she tried to make small talk, but she thought she heard him mumble something. "What? What did you say?" she asked, leaning forward.
"Can't breathe," he whispered. "Too hot."
"Too hot? But I just..."
"Hot. Can't breathe," he repeated, trying to wriggle out of the blanket.
"It's cold in here, Christopher. Keep the blanket on."
But he kicked it off anyway. His head turned in her direction, and she knew he was delirious. She immediately dipped a cloth in the basin that was standing by, and put it on his forehead. He closed his fingers over her wrist with a surprisingly strong grip, and looked up at her.
"Where is she?" he said. Georgiana stared at him wordlessly. He grew agitated. "Where..." he started again, and began coughing. She lifted him to a sitting position and patted his back for him. When he laid back down, he said, "Cherie?"
Her eyes welled up when she saw the effort it took him to say those two syllables. He was asking for her, but could not say her name. She clenched her eyes shut, willing herself not to cry, and answered,
"I am right here, darling. You are home."
He seemed to hear her, and smiled sardonically.
"Home," he repeated, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked directly at her. This time she saw recognition in his blue eyes.
"Georgie," he whispered. She clasped his hand tightly.
"Yes, Christopher. I'm here."
"I'm .. sorry," he said quickly, with tears in his own eyes.
"No," she said. "Oh, no, darling, don't upset yourself." It was as if he had carefully stored all the energy he had to say those two words, for he was silent a long time afterward. All the same, he did not take his eyes off her.
"I have been thinking about what we shall name our child, if it is a boy," she said in a rushed manner, trying to lighten the atmosphere. He winced, and turned his head away. She pressed his hand to her abdomen once more. His eyes widened when the baby kicked, and lifted to hers. She grinned, and kissed his hand.
"Our child is lively," she whispered. His eyes clouded over again. He looked as if he desperately wanted to say something. She waited patiently, until he said,
"Dying."
"What?!" she reacted strongly. "No, Christopher, you are not dying! How can you say such a thing? It cannot be so. You and I shall grow old together, and have other children besides this precious one. You will see. Everybody thinks they are dying when they are sick."
He did not have the strength to grin, but she could see his eyes smile. She colored, and sat down again.
"No pity," he said with a sigh, almost mockingly. He drew a ragged breath. "Angels don't lie..." he said slowly, and held up a finger to signal she was to wait for him to continue. "I'll get well again."
"See if you don't!" she exclaimed. "If you die, I shall have to die, too, and I shall look for you in Heaven and give you a terrible scolding. So you see, you are under orders to recover."
He took on an air of humble obedience, and closed his eyes to go to sleep. She stayed by his side all night.
Part 37 Posted on Wednesday, 24 November 1999
Sir John paced the gallery restlessly, occasionally lifting the bottle in his hands to his lips. As he looked at the portraits of his ancestors, he thought of the portrait that should be there, but was not - Anne's. She would outshine all his grandmothers and great-grandmothers, etc., he thought bitterly. But how could he bring her back, if she would not see him?
"It's hopeless," he muttered, taking another drink. "She wouldn't listen to me. She was all too ready to believe that story about me and ... Julia." He shook his head in disgust and raised the bottle again. It was empty. Frustrated, John threw it across the room. Shards scattered all over the floor, and he winced at the noise of the breaking glass.
"So this is how you spend your time," said a disapproving voice from the doorway. John jumped, and spun around. Lady Catherine had invited herself in. He drew himself up angrily, and stalked over to the cupboard to get another bottle of brandy.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"I came to see my granddaughter," she said. "Where is she?"
"I believe Stacy is with Anne at the moment."
"And where would that be?" asked Lady Catherine impatiently.
"I don't know. I had assumed she was at Rosings."
"Why would she be at Rosings? You keep her away from me."
"Believe me," John snorted, "I don't keep Anne anywhere she does not wish to be. I couldn't even keep her here. It is you she believes, and will believe as long as she lives, although why I can't imagine."
"Why should she not believe me? I am her mother."
He snorted again.
"I wonder how Anne managed all those years. It is a miracle she has as much sense as she does, although you have a tendency to void any sense she does have. You, Lady Catherine," he said contemptuously, "are nothing but a self-centered, self-righteous, hypocritical toad. If you were my mother, I would have killed myself. An unimportant woman who tries to make herself important by meddling in other people's business. Who do you think you are, to tell my wife I took a mistress? And where did you get such an idea? And of all women, you chose Lady Cavendar to sully. Hateful, proud, obnoxious woman! Does your hate extend so far as to make up rumors about a perfectly respectable woman, who cannot help how she was born, but this world thanks God every day that she was? But while we are thankful for women such as Anne, or Lady Cavendar, we curse the day people such as you were born. You make me sick!"
He stopped now, out of breath, and lost his train of thought. He blinked several times, then turned away. He did not notice Lady Catherine's jaw sagging. He sat down on the floor, staring up at the portrait of his mother. Lady Catherine made her way nearly to the door, then stopped, clutching her chest. When she collapsed, Sir John Preston was too drunk to notice the loud noise she made. A half hour later, he was still sitting in that same position.
When the sun began to set, and the room became too dark for him to see the portraits clearly, he stood up slowly, and began to make his way to his room. When he passed Lady Catherine's inert body, he started and stared, blinking hard.
"Lady Catherine?" he said softly. He approached her. "I say, I didn't mean to..." he said, thinking she was giving him some odd sort of punishment. He took his bottle and poked her shoulder.
"Lady Catherine?" Realization hit him and he staggered at the blow. "Oh, my God," he said, bringing a hand to his forehead. "I've killed the witch." He gave a short laugh, and raised his bottle for a toast. After he swallowed, he too collapsed, next to his mother-in-law's body.
"We got it!" somebody screamed from outside Blakeney Hall. The door was flung open, and Lady Blakeney ran down the stairs toward the newcomers.
Anala flew in, shouting,
"We got the antitoxin! He's not dead, is 'e? I found it! Dr. Barnes! Dr. Barnes!"
Michael followed wearily, but happily. Marguerite followed them as they burst into the sick room, where Christopher was deliriously tossing in the bed. Dr. Barnes and Georgiana were trying to hold him down to no avail.
"We got it!" Anala exclaimed happily. Michael told her to be quiet; the noise was upsetting Mr. Blakeney. Georgiana looked at her, puzzled.
"What did you get?" she asked. Her knuckles were turning white as she grasped her husband's arm.
"We got the antitoxin," Michael whispered. Dr. Barnes grabbed the little bag from Anala and took the vial out. With Anala's help, he measured out the correct amount, and held the spoon to Christopher's mouth, who turned away. The doctor was exasperated.
"Mrs. Blakeney, can you hold him, please?" he said. Georgiana climbed on the bed and held him still as the drug was administered.
"It's a good thing we came when we did," said Anala. "From the way 'e was tossin', I could tell it was about ta work. Anyone else woulda died last night."
"Even if he did," said the doctor, morbidly cheerful as he forced the stuff down his patient's throat, "it would have said something remarkable for him, to have lasted this long. How long has he been sick? One week? Two weeks?" After it had been swallowed, Christopher's whole body tensed, as if he were in pain, then Georgiana felt him go limp.
"Aye," said Anala. "It usually only takes three days."
Georgiana stared at her husband in terror.
"Dr. Barnes?" she said haltingly. "H-he ... it hurt him."
"Yes," said Michael soothingly. "It usually does, but only for a few minutes. It is part of the cure. Isn't that right, Anala?"
"Aye," Anala nodded. "If it didn't hurt 'im, jus' a little bit, it would mean 'e was past 'ope. It's a good thing. Just wait."
"Come," said Michael. "You need your rest." They led a reluctant Georgiana out of the room.
"It shouldn't be too long now," said Anala.
Part 38 Posted on Sunday, 28 November 1999
Everybody crowded into the sick room to wait for Christopher to wake up. Anne had put Stacy down for her nap early, so she could have the afternoon to herself. Michael and Anala stood shyly next to the door. Lady Blakeney and Georgiana sat on opposite sides of the bed. Sir Percy stood behind Lady Blakeney. The only one not present was Josee - as soon as the excitement had died down, and it was clear her brother would live, she had taken to her bed, thoroughly exhausted.
The ticking of the clock on the wall corresponded annoyingly with the clicking of Lady Blakeney's knitting needles, keeping all of their nerves on edge. Lady Blakeney, in particular, had been suffering dreadfully the last week. Everybody simply assumed it was because of her son's condition. Georgiana's fingernails were nonexistent.
Finally, Christopher opened his eyes. He opened them wider when he saw the crowd that had accumulated, and his cheeks reddened with embarrassment. He slowly pulled the blanket to his chin, and said,
"Am I dead?"
"No, you are not dead, beautiful boy," said Marguerite, kissing his face. "You are a living miracle."
"I am, am I? You will excuse me if I do not greet you all properly, but you see, I am seriously considering hiding under the blankets until... well, not to be rude, but ... this is my room."
Percy laughed outright.
"Very well, you have made your point. Ladies and gentleman, the show is over. If you will kindly return to your own business...."
"I resent being called a show," said Christopher. Everybody laughed, and made to quit the room. Percy put a hand on Georgiana's shoulder before she stood, and said,
"You stay. You two have a lot to say to each other." He closed the door securely behind him.
Georgiana looked at Christopher, who was playing nervously with a loose thread on the blanket. She smiled, realizing he must think she was still angry with him. She allowed him to think that for a few more minutes, which to Christopher seemed like an eternity, then said suddenly,
"Matthew."
He was startled, and glanced at her face. Fully expecting a reprimand, he braced himself and said,
"What?"
"No, I wasn't talking to you," she laughed. "I think that is what we should name our child, if it is a boy."
"Oh," he said softly, looking momentarily at her abdomen. She moved her chair closer to the bed, and once again placed his hand on her stomach. He grinned lopsidedly.
"Matthew," he repeated. "After me?"
"Yes, of course after you."
"Then, you are not angry with me?"
"No," she sighed. "I was, but I couldn't scold you when you were sick, and now it is too late and I have forgotten what I was going to say, anyway, so..." she shrugged. "You have escaped. For now," she finished with narrowed eyes. He smiled in relief, and held up a hand.
"I, Christopher Blakeney, do solemnly swear never to leave my lovely wife again, particularly when she is about to have my child."
"That is better. Do you know, Christopher, that your mother told me something very interesting about your father a few days ago..."
"Is that so?" he asked coolly. She nodded, ignoring his tone, or rather, taking note of it, but pretending not to notice.
"I had no idea your family had such a romantic history."
"Romantic? Yes, I suppose it was, though I have heard very little of it."
"Haven't you?" She stood, and scooted into bed next to him. "You should ask your mother, she'll tell you all about it. But I cannot believe you really have not heard of it. Lady Blakeney told me that you knew of it. A little, at least."
"A little is enough for me."
She was silent for a few minutes, then said,
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"About what?"
"Why did you ... what caused you to leave home?"
"I had to finish my work in London," he said, purposely misunderstanding her. She smacked his arm. He laughed, and covered his head with his arms to ward off the blows. She switched from hitting to tickling, which she knew he did not like. He peeled her fingers away from his ribs, and grasping one tiny wrist in each of his hands, pinned her to the bed.
"Why, Mr. Blakeney," she said, breathlessly, "I had no idea you disliked tickling so much." She looked up at him in comically false innocence.
"An obvious lie," he said, and kissed her. She held her breath as he moved down her neck.
"You can tell me," she said softly. He raised himself up on his hands and stared into her face. Shaking his head, he sighed and leaned back into the pillows.
"I'm not very proud of it, Georgie. I'd rather not talk about it just now."
She nodded, and putting his arm around her own shoulders, she snuggled into him comfortably.
"I can wait. But if the Scarlet Pimpernel had such an effect on you, I hope you won't repeat the process with our little Matthew."
He frowned slightly.
"Matthew already? What if it's a girl?"
She grinned, reading his mind.
"Not Georgiana. It is too difficult. I was six years old before I could pronounce my own name. But does this feel like a little girl to you?" She put his hand again on her stomach.
"Lud love me, cherie, I cannot tell. It could be a girl. What is your middle name?"
"Margaret."
"Wonderful!" he exclaimed sincerely. "So many possibilities. Margaret. Marguerite. Maggie. Meg. Gretel. Margo... The possibilities are endless..." He nearly fell off the bed when his hand located a tiny foot. "What was that?" She laughed.
"That is our child, of course. Don't you remember?"
"Remember what?" he asked innocently. She huffed.
"You don't remember anything from the night they brought you here?"
"Well," he offered, "I had dreams. Loads of dreams, in which I... Well, they were not very pleasant. But I did have one dream of a beautiful angel who held my hand..."
"You rogue!" she cried, smacking his hand playfully. "You remembered every bit of it! Oh, you insufferable scoundrel! Stop grinning so!"
He laughed outright, and she was forced to wipe the grin off his face with a kiss.
Part 39 Posted on Tuesday, 30 November 1999
Dr. Barnes was packing up his things to leave, when Lady Blakeney accosted him and asked him to examine her. He agreed, and after the examination, told Sir Percy his wife would like a word with him.
Sir Percy knew Marguerite had been feeling poorly lately, and it was with a worried expression that he entered her room. She was sitting on the bed, looking rather dazed, with a peculiar smile on her lips.
"Margot?" he asked. "What is wrong?"
She laughed hysterically.
"I'm going to have a baby, Percy," she said. "Can you believe it? At my age! What are we to do with another baby? I'm about to be a grandmother!"
"A baby?" he choked, wondering what reaction his wife was expecting. He tried a tentative smile, but it did not work. "But..."
"I know!" she exclaimed, and began pacing the room. "I am nearly fifty-years-old... well, forty-seven, but still! I cannot be a mother again. We were so close to having the house to ourselves ... Christopher is married, Josee very soon will be.... Good Lord! My grandchild will be older than his uncle or aunt!"
She collapsed on her bed and began to cry. Percy sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. She sat up and cried into his shoulder. He patted her head soothingly.
"I'm scared," she whimpered. "I'm too old to have a baby. It was hard enough with Christopher, and I was only twenty-five then."
"Courage, Marguerite," he said, pushing her away and lifting her chin to meet his eyes with one finger. "Yes, it was hard before, but you came through it just fine. And you are a splendid mother to the two we already have. There is no reason why we should not have another."
"But Percy..."
"Shhhhh. You are strong and healthy. I see no reason why you shouldn't pull through this."
"You wouldn't," she said, then put a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, Percy."
He nodded.
"Don't worry. You will come through this."
"What if I don't?"
"You will," he said determinedly. She sat up and dried her eyes, then had another frightening thought.
"Oh, no! What will Christopher and Josee say?"
"Josee will be excited - you know how she loves to be excited. Christopher will be shocked, I think. But what is the worst they could say?"
"My son's child will be older than mine," she murmured, shaking her head. "He will realize that."
"True," said Percy jokingly. "The shock could make him relapse again. He might faint."
"I hope not!" Marguerite exclaimed. Percy kissed her quickly, before she could break down in sobs again.
Christopher did not faint. His reaction was actually less of an explosion than his parents had thought it would be. He thought he should be amused, but when he could not make himself laugh, or even giggle, he shrugged his shoulders and went to sleep.
Percy and Marguerite announced the news to the entire family later that night. Josee was, of course, very enthusiastic in her joy, and clapped her hands every so often in glee for the rest of the night. When Anala heard the news, however, she immediately ran out of the house. Concerned, Michael followed.
"Anala?" he found her leaning against the wall in the front of the house. "Are you all right?"
"No," she stated bluntly, her voice faltering tellingly.
"What is the matter, then?"
"Their baby's gonna 'ave everything," she sniffed. "An' mine'll get nothin'."
"What are you saying?" asked Michael suspiciously. It sounded to him as if she were feeling sorry for herself because her children would not be so well-provided for as the Blakeneys. He was not in the mood for a guilt trip inducing him to matrimony. Her answer completely surprised him.
"I'm gonna 'ave a baby."
"What?" he blanched, then cleared his throat awkwardly. "Is it mine?"
"Of course," she looked at him, affronted.
"I can't marry you, if that's what you want."
"Oh, I know. You gotta marry a sickly heiress, what'll give ye sickly sons, who'll make sickly dukes."
"I'd like to marry you, Anala."
"If you really wanted to, you'd find a way. But ye care more for yer dukedom than ye do fer me. I was jus' a girl what struck yer fancy."
He winced at her words, and tried to change the subject slightly.
"So, what are you going to do? Does your father know yet?"
"Yes," she nodded miserably. "I told 'im last week."
"Last week! How long have you known?"
"Almost a month."
"Then, you knew ... on the boat?"
She nodded again.
"Anala! You could have been killed! Even if you had only been injured, the baby could have died! That is our baby!"
"I know. That's what I was tryin' ta do. I always jumped fer the biggest one. But they never killed me. 'Ow come nobody never does what I want 'em ta do?"
This confession disturbed Michael greatly. He did not want Anala to die.
"What did your father say?"
"Oh, 'e was angry, ta be sure. But 'e'll get ever it. 'E wants me ta get married, so 'e's lookin' among my cousins fer a 'usband. I think Cappi'll be the one."
"Cappi?"
"My mother's nephew. 'E's the son of the priest. 'E's richer than most of my people. 'E's very good, too. So different from you."
"Thanks," he said sarcastically.
"But I want ye ta know somethin', Michael," she said, standing up. Her eyes glowered dangerously as she looked up at him. "If this child's a boy, an' your heiress gives you nothin' but girls, I want ye ta know, there ain't no way you'll get my boy from me. This baby is mine, and if you don't want me, you can't 'ave 'im, neither."
She walked slowly away from the large house, head bowed dejectedly. Michael watched her go, completely dumbfounded. There was no way, he thought, that he could marry Anala and not be disinherited by his father. But he wanted her. He needed her. And whether he liked it or not, he loved her. But he had made his choice. He would be a duke someday. And though he hated to think about it, Anala would marry Cappi.
Part 40 Posted on Wednesday, 1 December 1999
Sir John blinked his eyes quickly, trying to bring them into focus. Why was he in the gallery? Was he dead? Was this a dream? He sat up. No, he was not dead. He knew that for certain when his head started to pound. He stood up slowly, dusting himself off. That is when he saw Lady Catherine.
"What have I done?" he said to himself, and tried desperately to remember what had occurred. He saw no injuries on her person, so he came to the conclusion that he had not murdered her, although he could very well have caused her to go into apoplexy. His first thought was of Anne. What would she say? He knew one thing, and that was that this incident would not strengthen his cause with her. If only he knew where she had gone.
He quietly left the gallery, taking care not to call attention to himself or the room. While he was changing his clothes, the butler told him that Lady Cavendar was here to see him.
"Very well," he said, looking for a jacket, "ah, I'll be right down. Tell her to make herself comfortable." The butler nodded, and before he left John added, "Don't put her in the gallery."
"Yes, sir."
A few minutes later, a still-disheveled-looking Sir John Preston found Julia Fitzwilliam waiting for him in the drawing room.
"Lady Cavendar," he said unenthusiastically. "How nice to see you."
She nodded in reply, and peered at him.
"Are you ill, Sir John? You look a little pale."
"I am well," he replied. He noticed she was wringing her handkerchief distractedly.
"I have come to discuss a serious matter with you," she said. The usual sparkle in her eyes was suspiciously gone. She, too, looked rather pale. "A rumour has been spread which involves you." She cleared her throat. "And me."
He nodded.
"I believe I have heard that rumour."
"So has David," she said meaningfully. "Oh, he does not believe it," she added hastily. "But he does not like being laughed at."
"I can imagine," he said unhelpfully. She whimpered softly, and began pacing.
"I don't know what to do. Who could even think these things?"
"It does not help that you came to visit me when Lady Preston was away."
She looked stricken and sank into a chair.
"I was not meant to be a countess," she moaned. "What if those society hens were right? Was it so wrong of me to fall in love with David?"
"Of course not. You and Cavendar were meant for each other, that much is obvious. Do not pay any attention to those .. society hens." He smiled kindly.
"Thank you," she murmured, then began gathering her things to leave. "I only hope Anne does not have to hear it."
"She has heard it," he muttered.
"What? Who could be so cruel as to tell her?"
"Her mother."
"Lady Catherine is the worst of the bunch," she said disgustedly. "If I had been Anne, I should have disowned her."
"Is it possible to disown your mother?"
"I would not let her wreak havoc in my life, that is for certain. But Anne did not believe it, did she?"
He looked at his toes.
"She did?! I cannot believe it! I would have credited her with more sense than that."
"She has been brought up to believe Lady Catherine," he said softly, not wishing to blame Anne. Julia's face softened in pity as she looked at him.
"Where has she gone?" she asked. "Perhaps you could find her and tell her the truth. Or if you like, I could talk to her."
"No, thank you. As much as I appreciate the offer, I don't think she could countenance a visit from you at this time. Do you think Cavendar would like to hear an explanation from me, if he had believed it?"
"No, you are right. Go to her," she said. "She will listen."
"I don't know where she is," he said pathetically.
"You could try Pemberley. She might have gone to visit her mother, so you could try Rosings, too. Or Blakeney Hall. She is very close to her cousin, Mrs. Blakeney."
Why had he not thought of that?
"Thank you, Lady Cavendar," he smiled, showing her to the door. "I will do my best."
After he showed her to the door, he turned around and found himself face to face with Lady Catherine.
"Lady Catherine!" he exclaimed. "You're alive!?"
"No thanks to you," she said. "Where is Anne? Where is my granddaughter?"
Well, that eliminated Rosings.
"I don't know, but I intend to find out," he said, starting up the stairs.
"I will find her," she said. "You cannot keep her from me."
She started after him, and swayed when she reached the bottom of the stairs. He put out a hand to catch her.
"Are you all right, Lady Catherine?" he asked. "Would you like Thornton to help you to your room?"
"No, no, no!" she said, slapping at him. "Leave me alone. I do not want any help from you, nor do I need it. I am perfectly capable of walking by myself."
"No, you are not. You are dizzy. Did you bump your head when you fell?"
"I did not!" she said indignantly. She started up the stairs yet again, very slowly.
"Well, I cannot stand behind you to keep you from falling," he muttered. "I'm in a hurry."
"What on earth could you be in such a hurry over?" she demanded.
"I have to find Anne."
"So do I."
"Well, she is not here."
"Then I will find her," she said, and started back down the stairs.
"That is better," he nodded approvingly, and turned away. As he told Thornton to have the carriage ready for him and Lady Catherine, he heard a loud crash. Rushing back to the staircase, he saw Lady Catherine lying at the bottom of it. Apparently, not trusting his repeated statements that Anne was not at home, she had turned back upwards as soon as he had left.
Of course, he had thought she was dead before, too. How could he be certain?
Thornton came up behind him and said,
"Shall I send for the undertaker, sir?"
"Is she dead?" asked Sir John.
"I believe so, sir," said the butler as if it were rather obvious. Sir John closed his eyes.
"Do whatever needs to be done, Thornton. I must tell Lady Preston."
"Yes, sir."
Part 41 Posted on Friday, 3 December 1999
Michael Lancaster walked down the muddy streets of the small military town. His sister's husband was stationed here; perhaps he should call on her. His real intention in coming here had been to talk to Anala, for he had heard this was where her father's band had camped recently. However, every time he went near the gypsy encampment, his courage failed him. How could he see her now? He had behaved abominably, and now Anala was being forced into a loveless marriage with her cousin because of him.
Instead, he went to his sister's house. He knocked on the door, and Laura answered it, with a towel in one hand and an apron tied snugly around her neck.
"Michael!" she said, and lifted a cheek for him to kiss. She smiled brightly, and stepped aside. "Come in!"
He did so, not without staring at her.
"Laura?" he said. "Lady Laura Lancaster? You're washing the dishes?"
"Somebody has to," she laughed. "And it is Lady Laura Fitzwilliam now, remember? Cook went on holiday; her sister is having a baby. The kitchen was a mess, and Andrea was sleeping, so I decided I'd rather have a clean kitchen."
"I should think your husband could afford a larger house for his family."
"Oh, Michael, you are such a snob. We do not need a large house; we are only three people, after all."
"How can you be content like this? I remember when you cried all day because you could not have your pink ball gown with ribbons."
"Well, it was a very pretty gown, and I was only nineteen at the time, and a very silly girl I was, too. But Richard cannot afford to have a large house with servants everywhere he goes. But enough, I do not have to defend my husband to you. You are not even married yet, little brother. When will you find your duchess?"
"I don't want a duchess," he said somewhat poutingly.
"No? You surprise me. I always thought you were in a great rush to find the `perfect woman.' What has changed your mind?"
"I met a girl," he said.
"And?"
"She'll never be a duchess."
"Why not?"
"She's a Gypsy."
"So?"
Michael let his head fall on the table with a loud thunk.
"You are not helping, Laura."
"Help how? I do not see why you cannot marry her, simply because she is a Gypsy." She pulled his head up by the hair. "If you thought so lowly of her race, why were you associating with them to begin with? Not only are you a snob, you are a hypocrite, too." She dropped his head back on the table.
"But Laura..."
"No," she said firmly. "If you love her, why can you not marry her?"
"She's getting married. She might already be married; I don't know."
"You fell in love with an engaged woman?"
"No, she only recently became engaged. Her father is forcing her to marry her cousin."
"Why?"
Michael blushed.
"Michael, you did not!" He smiled sheepishly at her. She threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. "Michael Anthony William Francis Gregory Charles Thomas Lancaster! If that is not the most stupid thing I ever heard of! And now you come crying to me? Ugh!" She stamped her feet in disgust.
"Laura, please. I feel bad enough already."
"You should!"
She turned abruptly back to her dishes, completely ignoring him. He sighed and left, resuming his walk down the streets. Presently, he found himself outside Anala's father's encampment.
He leaned against a tree, trying to collect his thoughts. There was a wagon hiding him from the view of the gypsies, and vice versa. When the wagon moved, he saw Anala pinning up laundry. He could tell she was nearing her time. She did not look happy, nor did she see him. He had stood there watching her for some time when he heard a gruff voice behind him.
"What're you doin' 'ere!"
He turned and saw Anala's father, Kerey, scowling up at him.
"Cappi!" he called. "Come an' see who dared ta show 'is face 'ere!"
Cappi lumbered over. He was an average-looking man, Michael thought. He smiled pleasantly.
"Hello, Lancaster," he said.
"Get outta 'ere," said Kerey. "None of us wants ta see ye. You've caused enough trouble already. Now get out before I gotta throw ye out."
"Da?" said Anala inquiringly. Kerey stepped aside and looked down at his daughter. She looked at Michael.
"Michael?" she said.
"Hello, Anala," he said, relief written on his face.
"Papa," said Anala slowly, "I'd like ta talk ta Michael alone."
"But..."
"Please," she added, still not taking her eyes off of Michael. Kerey and Cappi left. "What're ye doin' 'ere?" she hissed.
"I wanted to see you. How are you doing?"
"I'm miserable," she said hotly. "My feet hurt, my back hurts, I'm always hungry, and I gotta marry my cousin. And it's all thanks ta you."
"You mean you're not married yet?"
"No. Da wants ta wait 'til the baby's born, and Cappi ain't too anxious, neither."
Impulsively, Michael dropped to one knee.
"Anala Kuczenski," he said, "Will you marry me?"
Her eyes bulged and she looked around nervously.
"You're off yer rocker," she said, her voice wavering.
"No, I'm not. This is what I should have done in the first place. Please, Anala. I know I've treated you shamefully, but I want to start over with you."
"What about yer da?"
"I don't care anymore."
"What about my da?"
"We can talk to him."
"What about Cappi?"
"We can talk to him, too. Please, Anala. Say you'll marry me."
Finally, she gave in, unable to refuse any longer.
"Yes, Michael," she said. "I'll marry you."
Part 42 Posted on Wednesday, 8 December 1999
Anne could not find her daughter. She looked under furniture, behind drapes, but still no sign of Stacy. She closed her eyes when she saw the door to the room standing open. Stacy could be anywhere by now. She went out into the hall.
"Stacy!" she called. "Come to Mama. Stacy..." she peeked under a decorative table. "Come on, darling, it is time to eat. You would not want to miss dinner, would you? Anastasia Cassandra Preston, when I get my hands on you..." she let the threat hang menacingly and turned around. It was then that she noticed her husband standing just inside the door, watching her. She bit her lip unconsciously, and straightened to her full height.
"Hello, Anne," he said softly.
"John," she said in return. She berated herself inwardly for her inability to apologize. "I hope you are well."
"I am. And yourself?"
"Perfectly fine, as you can see. I missed you." The words were out before she could halt them. She blushed, and looked down.
"I missed you, too."
"Are you here to collect me?"
"I am here to make amends with my wife." He hesitated. "And I have some bad news for you."
"What has happened?" she asked, fearing the manor had burned down or something of the kind.
"Your mother is dead."
She blinked, stunned, but strangely not grieved. She bit her lip, forcing tears to her eyes. But for some reason, she could not feel real grief.
"When?" she asked.
"Two days ago."
"How?"
"She fell down the stairs."
"When is the funeral?"
"Friday."
"So soon?"
"Yes. Are you angry with me, Anne?"
"No," she said, surprised. "There is no reason to be angry with you. Your behaviour has been exemplary. Are you angry with me?"
"No, of course not. I love you."
"I love you, too. I have ever since my mother invited you to dinner."
"You have? Why?" He was truly flabbergasted.
"You were not disgusted," she said simply.
"What was there with which to be disgusted? You are lovely."
"I am wicked. I am not even grieved at my mother's death."
"I am surprised, but not shocked, at that news. From the way you always defended her, I thought..."
"Are loyalty and love so very different, then?"
"They are different, but often come together."
"My mother was a difficult person to love. And I was hard to love when I was with her." She grimaced. "I wonder you could have fallen in love with me at all."
"I was determined to have you almost from the moment I laid eyes on you."
"Really?" she said. There was suddenly a teasing spark in her eyes. "Determined? And what would you have done if I had refused?"
"Persisted, no doubt, until you consented."
They were silent for a moment. Stacy crawled into the room, and started tugging at Anne's skirt. Anne bent down to pick her up.
"Shall we go home?" she asked. "I have nothing to do here. Lady Blakeney is in charge, Mrs. Blakeney is constantly with her husband, and Miss Blakeney is preparing for a ball tonight with her intended."
"Yes, let us go home," he agreed, and they left without a word to anybody.
Epilogue Posted on Thursday, 9 December 1999
Several months later, Lady Laura Fitzwilliam sifted through her mail while rocking her baby to sleep one evening. Her husband was reading a newspaper in a chair opposite her. She opened one letter, and after reading it, furrowed her brow in puzzlement.
"Richard, what can my father be saying? He wants to know where Michael is."
"Well?"
"I don't know where Michael is," she said whilst opening another letter. Reading this one, she blinked in amazement. "Michael is in America."
"Why?"
"He ran away with the girl, and they are settling in America. She gave birth to a boy, by the way, but it does not mention the baby's name."
"What girl?"
"Anala. You remember, the Gypsy girl."
"So your father disinherited him?"
"My father knows nothing about it. Michael says he has no wish to be a duke anymore, if it means he would have to give up Anala, and he does not want me to tell my father where he has gone."
"Then why did he tell you?"
"So I wouldn't worry," she said flatly.
"But what about your father?"
"I don't know. Perhaps we will go to Kentucky, to talk some sense into him."
"Kentucky? Where is Kentucky?"
"It is where they are settling. Michael says it is between Ohio and Tennessee, wherever that is."
"What will happen if they won't come back?"
"My father will be short one heir."
Richard dropped his paper and grinned suggestively at her.
"Then that would mean... Laura," he called teasingly. "Don't you think there should be an heir for your father?"
"Oh, stop," she said, laughing. "He will come back."
"I don't think so. Your brother is awfully stubborn. I would like to meet this Anala that has him so enchanted as to give up his title."
"He wants me to say he is dead."
"Why on earth would he want you to say that?"
"So that Father does not come looking for him."
"Your brother makes no sense."
"I will write him a letter, telling him that he makes no sense." She grinned cheekily, and the next day did just that. Michael, however, was firm. She threatened to tell their father the truth, but Anala was able to convince her to keep the secret. Richard and Laura made the trip to Kentucky, and seeing how satisfied the Lancasters were there with their son, Michael Lancaster the Third, could not bear to make them part with that. They went back to England, and told the duke that his son had died. In private, however, they told him the truth. He laughed at his son's incorrigibility, and decided to humor him.
According to the records, Michael Lancaster, the Marquess of Montgomery, died in a fire in London, in February of 1816.
Anne Preston had also received a letter.
"John," she said, sipping her tea with her feet propped up on a stool, "Mrs. Blakeney has given birth to a son. Matthew Fitzwilliam Blakeney."
"Congratulations," he said, pulling Stacy away from his ear, as it could take no more tugging.
"John," she said thoughtfully, "are you certain it is decent for me to have my feet up like this? What if someone should come in and see up my dress?"
"Nobody shall. And you must obey Dr. Barnes's orders. He said you were on bedrest until the child is born."
"Well," she said, rubbing her belly, "I suppose I can bear it. But I am anxious to see my son."
"Anne, remember what happened the last time you said it would be a son." He held Stacy at arm's length in front of him. She wiggled and giggled as he used one finger to tickle her.
"Yes, I know," she said. "But this time I am absolutely certain. And even Mrs. Darcy does not disagree with me this time. She says I have the 'look of carrying a boy' about me."
"Well, as Mrs. Darcy has a son, I will choose to trust her opinion. But I shall not be disappointed if it is not a son. We will have many other opportunities." He grinned at his wife, who nodded most assuredly. "For I am determined," he continued, coming over to sit next to her, "to love you more each day. Think of what that will mean for our nursery."
"John!" she giggled. "There is a child present!"
"Yes, well, she does not really understand us just yet. Do you, Stacy?"
"Papa!" said Stacy, pulling on her fingers. "Papa, Mama, nurs'ry," she proudly showed off her vocabulary. Anne laughed.
"If we love each other more each day, think of what we will be in our dotage. We shall be disgusting to behold," said John.
"I don't care," Anne declared. "If people cannot bear the sight of two people determinedly in love, they will simply have to close their eyes when they see us coming. And I will say now," she added, as Stacy held out her arms to be held, "If this next child of ours is anything like Stacy, I will not care whether it is a girl or a boy."
"Boy!" said Stacy.
And indeed, it was a boy. And thus continued Sir John and Lady Preston for the rest of their lives together. Through good times and bad, their determination to always love each other pulled them through seven more pregnancies, six of whom lived, and afterwards, when their children were grown up, they were indeed "disgusting to behold." But, as Anne said, people simply had to close their eyes if they could not stand the sight of them. John and Anne could not have cared less what people thought of them.
The End