Barbara Metzger (3 page)

So there was another compromise, of sorts. Sir Alfred and his family lived in Lisanne’s house, off her income, and ignored her presence as well as her absence. This suited the young baroness just fine.

Lisanne kept away from the house and away from its surly servants as much as she could. When she was at home, she read in her papa’s library, where there was small chance of encountering any of her relations. She also kept up with her studies in the woods, the stillroom, and the herb gardens. And she still nursed the injured birds and orphaned rabbits that came her way.

One other duty kept her from the forest on occasion: her responsibility to the Neville tenants. Sir Alfred wasn’t able to replace the bailiff, so those dependent on the barony were not subject to his penny-pinching ways. Neither were they well served by him or his wife. The Findleys made frequent trips to London, nary a one to the thatch-roofed cottages. It was Annie, remembering her father’s gentle teachings, who brought baskets of food when the crops were meager, blankets when the winter was severe. She had an elixir for old man Jenkins’s rheumatics, and a syrup for Neddy Broome’s cough. Soon the household servants started coming to her with toothaches and such. For sure Sir Alfred wouldn’t pay out the fee for a doctor’s visit. They might make the sign to ward off the evil eye when Annie was through, but they brought her their sniffles and spasms.

Annie could doctor simple ailments, but she was better with animals. Soon the tenants were asking her to look at a sow that wouldn’t farrow, a cow that gave no milk. And gardens, why, the slip of a girl could sniff at a handful of dirt and tell why the roses didn’t bloom or when the peas should be planted.

Lisanne’s reputation grew, despite all of her uncle’s efforts to curb it. While there was respect for the child’s learning, there was suspicion, too. That was a powerful lot of knowledge for such a young head, the rumors went. And where did she come by guessing whether Rob Fleck’s next babe was a boy or a girl—and getting it right year after year? No one could have taught her, for the servants said she had no schooling. The Devonshire folks shook their heads. They never let any of
their
children play in Sevrin Woods. Whispers of Addled Annie followed Lady Lisanne’s visits.

Uncle Alfred was furious. His fortune, his plans, his dreams of having Esmé and Nigel marry fortunes and titles, were all going up in smoke with one of Annie’s reeking concoctions. The girl wasn’t outgrowing that claptrap about fairy friends; she just wasn’t talking about it. Her silence, in turn, made the locals wonder all the more how she came by her knowledge. It wasn’t normal, they said, crossing themselves. It wasn’t natural. And wasn’t there a peculiar vagueness behind the girl’s blue-eyed stare, almost as if she were seeing other sights, hearing other voices?

Sir Alfred decided to send Annie away to school, away from the gossip, away from those thrice-cursed woods. One of those strict seminaries would know what to do about making a lady out of a chit who constantly looked as if she’d been pulled through a thicket backward. Esmé could go along as companion. On Annie’s account, of course.

When informed of the treat in store for her, Lisanne stared down at the hands correctly folded in her lap, not seeing the dirt under her fingernails that made Aunt Cherise wince. She quietly, politely, ever so assuredly, informed her guardian that she would find a way to run away from whatever school he chose. She’d live in the woods, and he’d never see her again…or a groat more of her income. Lisanne wasn’t half as vague as everyone thought. She’d managed to read her father’s will as well as most of the communications from the London solicitor. She knew her worth to the ha’penny, and knew how much of it was going into Uncle Alfred’s pockets.

Sir Alfred believed the little witch would do what she said, disappear forever just to spite him. So he bit his lip and let her be. As she turned fourteen, then fifteen, and neared sixteen—almost of an age for a presentation—he gnawed on his own frustrations.

How could he bring Annie to London to make a grand match that would benefit him and his children? Even if he could get her there, Annie wouldn’t take. She never cared about her clothes, wearing whatever she found in her closet. Since these were usually the taller, plumper Esmé’s castoffs, Sir Alfred hadn’t complained at Annie’s dowdiness, not in light of the expenses saved. The chit still wore her hair in braids down her back, while Esmé was already nagging her mother to have hers put up. Annie’s skin was browned from the sun, she ran barefoot half the time, and to his knowledge she had no drawing-room skills or conversation. Wouldn’t the Almack’s patronesses just love to chat about Farmer Goode’s infected thumb? What man of means would look twice at a filthy, dreamy, waiflike female? What nobleman would chance begetting an heir with attics to let? None.

No man in his right mind was going to marry a woman who wasn’t in her right mind. Sir Alfred slowly repeated that obvious fact to himself, in wonder. It was almost as if the skies had opened up and the heavenly host presented him with a divine revelation. No one was ever going to marry Lisanne Neville, not even the most desperate fortune hunter. All these years Alfred had been thinking of the grand marriage he’d arrange for Annie—and for his own advancement. But if she never married, he didn’t have to relinquish her guardianship for ten more years, not until she turned five and twenty. If, by some happenstance, he could then show that the poor, unfortunate lackwit needed a keeper, well, perhaps he could spend the rest of his days in clover.

Yes, Sir Alfred liked this new idea very much indeed. He let Annie go her own way, higgledy-piggledy adding to her reputation as an eccentric or worse. He encouraged the local gossip, and even added some of his own when in Town, laying the groundwork with the deceased baron’s old acquaintances.

“Dreadful news about Neville’s daughter.” Sir Alfred sighed. “Why, the poor dear is as queer as Dick’s hatband, don’t you know. The death of both parents was too much for her, such a fragile little thing. Her mind must have snapped.”

He gravely accepted the condolences of Lord Harrington, the biggest rattle in Town. “Sad fate for a noble family to end that way. Nothing to be done, eh?”

Findley shook his head. “Unfortunately not. She lives in a fantasy world, dabbling in herbalism and woodlore so she doesn’t have to face the harsh reality of her loss. It’s all harmless, you understand, but not the thing for a proper young female. She simply cannot be taught any of the usual accomplishments.”

“You’ve had her to the sawbones, of course. Don’t suppose they did her any good. Can’t cure the king, after all.”

Another sigh. “The professionals have given up. It’s a hopeless case. Besides, all they advised was to bleed her or put her in restraints, or drill holes in her head. We couldn’t put the dear child through that.”

Harrington shuddered. “Nothing left but to send her to Bethlehem Hospital.”

“What, declare my own sister’s child a bedlamite? I couldn’t betray the baron’s trust in me that way. No, we’ll keep her safe at home.” Alfred put his hand over where his heart would be, if he had one. “Her loving family will stand by her.”

Of course they would.

*

“Pa, I don’t see why you can’t make Annie show me the way through Sevrin Woods. It ain’t as if it’s hers or anything.”

Nigel had been sent down from school again. This was the last time, for Sir Alfred knew better than to send good money after bad. They were at the breakfast table on a gloomy, rainy day. The eggs were runny and the rashers were greasy. Sir Alfred had the newspaper propped in front of him in hopes of avoiding the morning brangling between his children and the carping demands of his wife. He looked over the newspaper and said, “Why don’t you ask her yourself? She’s sitting across the table from you.”

Lisanne was taking one of her infrequent meals with the family because it was raining too hard to venture out, and the current cook refused to permit any hell-born babe in her kitchens lest her bread stop rising. As usual, the family ignored Lisanne’s presence in their midst, except for Aunt Cherise’s calling for her sal volatile when she saw her niece’s apparel. Tired of Esmé’s billowy castoffs that snagged on every bush and briar, Lisanne had taken to wearing Nigel’s.

“Tell her she must not appear in the public rooms in such attire, Alfred. I have a hard enough time holding my head up in this neighborhood as is.”

Alfred pointedly nodded to where Lisanne was placidly nibbling at a sweet roll, and went back to his paper.

Esmé took up the complaint: “Well, I don’t see why I have to have lessons anymore when Annie doesn’t. She’s only a year older than me, and she’s been out of the classroom forever.”

“Than I, Esmé,” Sir Alfred wearily corrected without looking up. “And if you knew that, perhaps you wouldn’t need schooling any longer, either.”

Nigel reached across the table for the jam pot. “But, Pa, I have to hunt in Sevrin Woods. You know the bailiff won’t let me shoot on Neville grounds.”

“That’s because you shot two goats and a chicken last time.” Esmé snickered before returning to her claims of injustice. “I think you should make Annie practice the pianoforte at least, Papa. It’s not fair that I have to play when the church ladies come visit and Annie doesn’t.”

“What, have her in the parlor when company comes?” Lady Cherise screeched before falling back in her seat, clutching her chest. “Tell her she cannot, Alfred.”

Sir Alfred tossed down his papers. He couldn’t recall the last occasion he’d been able to tell his niece anything but the time of day.

Lessons? Hah! Even Mrs. Graybow had confessed years ago that there wasn’t a blessed thing she could teach the chit, and a lot she could learn from her. Trust that fusty old Neville to spawn a brilliant child, while Alfred’s two progenies hadn’t a brain to share between them. It suited the baronet’s purposes to have everyone consider Annie an unlettered wantwit, however, so he kept mum about her abilities, although a bluestocking was nearly as unmarkable as an imbecile on the marriage block. As for music, heaven only knew what language the chit would sing if she ever opened her mouth. Annie must know six or seven languages by now, the governess reported after spying in her room. Chances were the gel had the voice of an angel, too, to show up Esmé’s caterwauling. The devil knew she understood farming better than Alfred did, and horses, too.

As for making Annie do what she didn’t choose, such as taking Nigel hunting, or wearing proper dress, or practicing some mind-numbing set piece, well, Findley might as soon whistle for the wind. And Alfred hated to whistle; it was common. The deuced chit was like a thorn in his side, though, going her own quiet way. Nigel could be kept on a short lead by threatening his allowance or a caning, and Esmé would jump through burning hoops for some new gewgaw or other. It was only Annie that Findley couldn’t control. The very thought gave Sir Alfred dyspepsia. He pushed his chair back and stood up. “Dash it all, can’t a man have any peace at his own breakfast table?”

“I believe it is
my
breakfast table, sir.”

Six pairs of eyes turned to stare at Lisanne: four Findleys and two servants. It was the first time in ages any of them had heard her voluntarily enter a dialogue. She spoke to the tenants, she made requests of the servants, but Lisanne did not often speak to her family.

Sir Alfred sat down again. “What, you’ve blessed us with your presence and now you’re going to extend us the gift of your conversation?”

Lisanne sipped at her chocolate.

“Come now, Annie, surely you have more to say than to claim a piece of mahogany.”

“Yes, sir. I wish to tell Nigel that he must not hunt in Sevrin Woods.”

“Dash it all, Annie, it’s not yours to say me aye or nay. Is it, Pa?”

Lisanne stared at her cup. “The animals and birds there have never been hunted. They’re tame.”

Giggling, Esmé taunted, “Then maybe he can hit something.”

Nigel’s face got red, but he spat back, “Shut up, brat. And what’s the difference, I say. A deer’s a deer, no matter where it lives.”

“It wouldn’t be sportsmanlike” was all Lisanne said, finally staring Nigel in the eyes, daring her cousin to admit he was less than a gentleman. His adolescent amour propre could not let him confess to such a thing in front of his disdainful father or his sniggling sister. He might feel that there was nothing wrong with shooting ducks in a barrel, either, as long as you managed to hit one, but he knew better than to admit it. Nigel looked away first.

Lisanne nodded. “Besides, you would be poaching on Lord St. Sevrin’s preserves. His Grace might be in London, but he is still the owner of the property.”

“Then how come you get to wander on his land free and clear?” Nigel wanted to know, his voice cracking in his agitation.

“I never harm anything,” Lisanne answered in her quiet way.

Esmé couldn’t resist adding: “Neither would Nigel, the way he shoots.”

Ignoring his sister, Nigel tried to shake Lisanne’s composure. The fact that his cousin was so poised and confident when she was the one dicked in the nob infuriated him. “Harm, my foot! What’s that to the matter? It’s still trespassing! You’ve never met St. Sevrin. For sure the duke never gave permission for no loony to ramble around his estate.”

“I did meet His Grace once, when I was very small. He put some of the Priory’s furnishings up for auction. Papa took me when he went to look at the books.”

“I daresay the man was run off his feet even then,” Aunt Cherise put in, addressing the table at large. She knew everything about everyone in the
ton
, being an avid reader of the gossip pages and a faithful correspondent to her like-minded London acquaintances. “They say he took to drink right after his wife died, well before Annie could have been born, and started gambling away his fortune. I’d always heard he was a dirty dish.”

“He was pleasant to me,” Lisanne said, smiling at the memory. “I told him he had the loveliest wildflowers growing in his wood, and he said I may as well pick all I wanted, for he couldn’t make any profit off them.” She turned to Nigel. “So you see, I do have His Grace’s permission to be on the property.”