Annie Powell was in the hall just before noon as the maid was answering the doorknocker. On the front steps was Mr. John Beverley Robinson’s tall footman. He handed Lucy an envelope saying, “For Miss Anne Powell, if you please.” Then he took off down the walkway, scratching his powdered hair.
“You will give this note to Miss Powell, ma’am?”
“Of course. Leave it with me.”
Annie went into the parlour and over to the window where she could get a better look at the note, pondering all the while about whether she should break the seal and read the contents. Why in tarnation was Mr. Robinson writing to her daughter? Was this some sort of illicit connection that it was her duty to know about? She had always opened her daughters’ mail when they were younger, but Anne was thirty-two now. Hm. What should she do?
She was searching for her spectacles when Anne came into the parlour. “What’s this all about, Mama? I was belowstairs just now checking on what Cook was making for dinner when Lucy told me you had a message for me.” She held out her hand, and Annie was obliged to hand over the envelope. Thank the Lord she didn’t find me in the process of opening it. That would have meant another fracas, and just now I cannot cope with any more of her tirades. William has only yesterday departed for England, leaving every mess for me to solve. Some days I feel I cannot go on.
Anne slit open the seal with her finger, read the note, and gave a loud whoop of laughter. Next, she ran to the button on the mantel and in a moment, before Annie had time to say a word, Lucy entered. Anne ran to the desk, seized the quill, scribbled something on the note from the Attorney-General and handed it to the maid. “See that this is delivered immediately to Beverley House.”
“What in tarnation is this all about, daughter?”
“Oh, Mama, I cannot believe my good fortune. Mr. Robinson has written to say that he and his wife will be travelling to England early next year, and he has asked me to go with them. It is my opportunity to return to Tolpuddle and the world I love.”
“What motive could Mr. Robinson have in making such a singular request?” Annie could feel her heartbeat quicken. What am I to do?
“I have no idea, Mama, and I do not care. You saw me scribbling an answer. I said three words only: ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ ”
“I cannot believe this!” Annie was shouting now.
“Believe what you like, I do not care. All I know is that in this stupid stupid stupid world a woman cannot travel alone. Now here is my chance to leave this place behind, travel with two chaperones, and arrive safe and sound far far from everything in this world that I hate.”
“I assume that last phrase includes me?”
“No, Mama, do not make that assumption. I do not hate you. I merely despise the narrow strictures that have been laid upon me—by you, yes, and Papa, yes—but I realize—”
“Shut up! Shut up! Leave me!”
“Yes, Mama, I shall leave. We shall discuss this when you are calmer after, may I say, you have had your dram of laudanum.” And with that, the wicked girl departed.
Annie sat on the sofa, taking deep breaths, trying to regain a modicum of self-control. She waited until she heard Anne slam the door to her bedchamber, then she rose, headed straight for the Pembroke table, opened the drawer, and— yes—swallowed the remains of her bottle of laudanum.
* * *
In the afternoon Annie and Eliza were in the parlour stitching new aprons for Cook and Lucy. The laudanum had dulled Annie’s senses, and the quietness of their task helped as well to ease her agitation.
“Where is Anne, Mama?” Eliza asked, biting off a piece of thread with a savage pull. “You and I cannot be expected to do all this work without her assistance.”
“She has been in her bedchamber since noon hour.”
“Has something happened?”
“I cannot discuss it now, Eliza. I shall tell you later. Just now I need to relax and enjoy the quiet solace of your company.”
They continued their stitching in silence, the only sounds being the occasional breaking of thread and the clink of Eliza’s glass of sherry as she set it down on a nearby table.
There was a banging of the door knocker and a scuffling of feet in the hallway. “Who can that be?” Eliza whispered. “Too late now, I suppose, to tell Lucy to say that we are not at home.”
Into the parlour marched Mrs. Attorney-General Robinson. Her face was flushed, and she was breathing heavily. The tabs on her coat were askew, and her gloves were mismatched.
“Dear Emma,” Eliza said, putting aside the apron and rising to take the woman’s hand in hers. “What is the matter? How can we help?”
Annie intervened. “Please leave us, Eliza. Mrs. Robinson and I must have this talk in private.”
After fifteen minutes of weeping and wailing as the woman spilled out her message, Annie managed to calm her. “Do not worry,” she said, as she accompanied her to the front door. “I shall chastise my daughter and make her see the fracas she has caused. All will be solved.”
As soon as the front door closed behind Mrs. Robinson, Annie went to the bottom of the staircase and shouted for Anne to come down.
When her wretched daughter appeared, Annie found that she could not contain her rage. She went up to her and slapped her face, hard. “Dear Mrs. Robinson has informed me of the highly improper suggestion you made to her husband. What have you to say to this outrage?”
“Did you inform her, Mama, that it was Mr. Robinson himself who made the suggestion? You were here when the note came. Did you not defend me?”
“She says that you set this up with her husband at the time of Lady Sarah’s lawn party, and I believe her. It was obvious to everyone there, myself included, that you were flirting with the man. I saw you talking to him. I saw him handing you a dish of food that he had procured for you. I saw you later and—”
“Stop it, Mama. You have misinterpreted everything. Worst of all, you have believed Mrs. Robinson and betrayed me in the worst way possible.”
“Only a fiend would have the gall to tell such lies.”
“I am leaving this room now, Mama. I do not have the note that Mr. Robinson sent me this morning. You saw me give it to Lucy for delivery to him. I am telling the truth, but alas, I have no way of defending myself against your lies.”
She left. Annie sank onto the sofa. I now almost believe my husband’s words. As he left for England, he warned me that she was up to no good. He called her “a wretch and a fiend.” I hate her, but I hate him, too. He has left me totally bereft. How I am to cope with this scandal, I have no idea.