“Perhaps, Alma,” he said, smiling fondly at her, “that is what I am afraid of.”
He would send his own carriage, Avery told them, and would brook no protest, and sufficient servants to ensure their safety and comfort during the journey. He would make all the arrangements for horses and refreshments and accommodations. All they would need do was come.
“It will mean the world to Anna,” he told them. “And it will give me great delight. There are some remnants of the old abbey remaining, including the cloister. They will interest you, sir.”
There were tears shed the following morning before Avery handed Anna into the plainer of his two carriages, which had returned from the inn where the rest of their entourage awaited them. But there were smiles too. They would all see one another again soon.
“So different from the last time I was torn from them,” she said, sitting back in her seat as the carriage made its way out of the village.
“Do you remember?” he asked, taking her hand.
“Not with my head,” she said. “But with my heart, yes. I can remember crying and crying. I can remember my father’s voice, gruff and impatient, telling me to be a big girl. I believe I was very fortunate not to have to grow up with him as Harry and Camille and Abigail did.”
“That is one way of looking at it,” he said. “Yes, indeed, my Anna, you were fortunate to grow up in an orphanage.”
She turned her head to smile at him. “It was not so very bad,” she said. “It shaped me into the person I am now, and boastful as it may sound, I like myself as I am.”
“Hmm.” He looked rather arrested for a moment. “Yes, I do too. I even like that bonnet, though every finer feeling ought to revolt at the very sight of it.”
It was the straw bonnet she had worn to her wedding—and every day since.
“And so we return to London,” she said. “I can face it now.”
“London can wait a day or two longer,” he said. “We are going to Bath.”
“Bath?” She raised her eyebrows.
“I want to see that orphanage of yours,” he said. “And I want to meet that . . . friend of yours.”
“Joel?”
“Joel, yes,” he agreed. “And we will pay our respects to Mrs. Kingsley and Camille and Abigail.”
She stared at him, her heart thumping uncomfortably. “But will they receive us?” she asked him. “Will they receive me?”
He handed her a large linen handkerchief and she realized that two tears were rolling down her cheeks.
“The Duke of Netherby is received everywhere,” he said quite in his old manner. “He is a man of enormous consequence. The Duchess of Netherby will be received with him. Besides, Anna, there is the family connection, and Mrs. Kingsley at least will be curious to meet you.”
“She is the former countess’s mother,” she reminded him.
“Yes,” he agreed, taking the handkerchief from her hand and drying her cheeks and eyes with it.
*
Mrs. Kingsley owned a house on the Royal Crescent, the most prestigious address in Bath, curving in graceful, classical lines at the top of a hill with a panoramic view down over the town and the countryside beyond. Kingsley had been a wealthy man—hence the marriage between his daughter and the late Earl of Riverdale. Avery sent his card up with the butler early in the afternoon of the day following his arrival with Anna, and they were shown up to the drawing room a few minutes later and announced with formal dignity.
Avery had met Mrs. Kingsley once or twice before. She was a tall, white-haired, formidable lady. She came toward them across the room, greeted Avery cordially while shaking his hand, and then turned to look steadily at Anna.
“Duchess,” she said in chilly acknowledgment of his introduction. “It would be unjust to blame the sins of the father upon the child. You are welcome to my home.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Anna said, and Avery, turning to look at her, was not surprised to see her calm and dignified, her hands clasped before her. He would wager, though, that if he could see through her gloves he would find that her knuckles were white. She had toyed with both her breakfast and her luncheon after eating heartily for the past week.
Camille and Abigail were both present, and both were on their feet. Neither made any move toward the door, however. Camille was looking thinner and paler, Avery thought, while Abigail looked merely pale. He bowed to them and strolled closer.
“When passing through Bath,” he said, possessing himself of the handle of his quizzing glass, “one feels the desire to call upon one’s cousins by marriage.”
“Not even that, Avery,” Camille remarked.
“Ah,” he said, “but your father and my stepmother were brother and sister. That surely makes us cousins of sorts. And never tell Jessica there is no connection between you. Not only would she weep an ocean; she would also throw a horrid tantrum and strain my nerves to the breaking point. How are you, Camille? And you, Abigail?”
“Well,” Camille said curtly.