Someone to Love

Can you guess what is coming? I daresay you can since you certainly do not lack for wits and it would not take much intelligence anyway to understand. That second marriage was bigamous. It was not a legal, valid marriage, and all children of the union are therefore illegitimate. The countess, who has recently lost the man she thought to be her husband—my father!—is not the countess after all and never was. And the very young man, her son, is not the earl. Her daughters are not Lady So-and-So. I must have heard their names but foolishly cannot remember them—my own sisters! I believe the young man is Harry. I am, in fact, my father’s only legitimate child.

Today I found the family for which I have always longed—my half brother and half sisters—and today I lost them again in the most cruel fashion. Can you just imagine the bewilderment and anguish in that room, Joel, when the truth was revealed? And since every sufferer needs a scapegoat, someone to blame, and my father, the real culprit, was no longer available, then of course all their hostility was turned upon me. The man who has now become the earl since my half brother does not qualify might have been their choice as scapegoat, but he was wise enough to declare himself quite averse to his change in status, though to do him justice I believe he meant it.

It did not occur to me to declare that I would really rather not be my father’s only legal child, though I did protest having been left the whole of his fortune while my brother and sisters have been totally disinherited. Oh yes, there is that too. Some parts of my father’s property were entailed and go to the new earl. Other parts are not entailed and come to me because my father’s only will was made just after my birth and left everything to me—and presumably to my mother if she had lived.

How could my father have behaved as he did, Joel? I do not suppose I will ever know the answer, though one lady there today said that he had always been a toad. I think she may have been his sister and therefore my aunt. Oh, how very dizzying this all is. I have not fully comprehended it yet. Can you tell? And can you blame me?

This is turning into a very long missive, but I had to write to someone or burst. And you were my obvious choice. What are best friends for, after all, but to burden with all one’s woes? Some people would not call them woes, would they? I have no idea how much I am now worth, but it must be something, do you not think, or the word fortune would not have been used. I hope it will be enough, anyway, to allow me to send this very long letter. It will cost the earth.

I hope you do not become horribly bored and fall asleep in the middle of it. And surely there will be enough to get me back to Bath in a little more comfort than the stagecoach is said to provide. Perhaps there will be enough to enable me to take some modest rooms outside the orphanage and thus acquire more independence. How lovely that would be!

But oh dear, I do feel bruised and battered. For I have found my parents and they are dead, and I have found a family that is mine—I do believe most of the people there in that room, if not all, must be related to me in some way—but they hate me with a passion. The elder sister—my half sister—in particular yelled the most horrible things at me. The boy—my half brother—could only seem to laugh and look dazed and talk about it all being a lark, poor thing. Oh, poor thing, Joel, and he is my BROTHER! The younger sister looked dazed and bewildered. And the dispossessed wife wrapped herself in dignity and looked like a stone monument about to crumble. I fear she will indeed crumble when the reality of it all hits full force.

My fingers are sore, my wrist is aching, and my arm is about to fall off. Mr. Brumford sent me back here even though I wanted to return to Bath without further delay. He convinced me to stay until he has had a chance to come and talk business with me. I expect him any moment.

I will come home soon, though. Oh, how I long for my schoolroom and my children, even the naughty ones. How I long for you and Miss Ford and Roger and—oh, and my little room in which I would not be able to swing a cat even if I had one—another of Miss Rutledge’s sayings. Maybe I will come tomorrow. Almost certainly I will come no later than the day after.

Meanwhile, you have my permission to share the contents of this letter if you wish—everyone will be longing to know why I was summoned here and will be vastly entertained by my story. You will be the most popular man in Bath.

Thank you for reading so patiently, my dearest friend—I trust you have read this far! What would I do without you?

Your ever grateful and affectionate

Anna Snow (for that is who I am!)

Anna blotted the final sheet of the letter, folded it neatly—it was indeed fat—and sank back in her chair, exhausted. She had had luncheon with Miss Knox soon after her return from that mansion, though she could not remember either what had been served or how much she had eaten. All she wanted to do now was crawl into the large bed in the bedchamber that was hers, pull the bedcovers over her head, curl up into a ball, and sleep for a week.

But there was a knock upon the door, and she sighed and got to her feet while Miss Knox strode past her to open it.

* * *

When Avery entered the drawing room, he found it much as he had expected. It was full of variously distraught Westcotts—with the apparent exception of the Countess of Riverdale, who was no longer the countess and actually never had been, and Camille and Abigail, who were sitting in a row on the sofa, silent and motionless.

The dowager countess was seated on an adjacent love seat, her eldest daughter beside her.

“Do not fuss, Matilda,” she was saying in obvious exasperation. “I am not about to swoon.”