AFTER A BRIEF AND FITFUL SLEEP, during which her mind was chiefly filled with disagreeable thoughts, C.J. elected to take a constitutional after breakfast, the meal itself an unpleasant event owing to her bouts of morning sickness. She could have gone to the Pump Room, but surmised that her performance at the Assembly Ball would form the primary topic of the day’s gossip. It was too much to bear, so she walked all the way to Sydney Gardens and back in the hope of running into Miss Austen, who might offer her the solace of her ever pragmatic perspective as well as a friendly ear.
What a strange look the customarily cordial Folsom gave C.J. upon her return! When he opened the door to admit her to Lady Dalrymple’s town house, he practically backed away from her as though she carried leprosy or head lice.
Collins immediately directed her to the drawing room and informed her that she was expected. Well, of course I am expected; I live here, C.J. thought.
What she saw resembled a firing squad. Lady Dalrymple, wearing a lace cap that made her look considerably older and more ill, appeared exhausted and confused. She was propped up on the divan while her two pekes yapped at her ankles and a fretful Mary Sykes cooled her with her favorite silk fan. Dr. Squiffers pursed his lips and steepled his fingers in a most sanctimonious way. Saunders and Lady Oliver conferred in a corner. Darlington, wearing a haunted expression, had stationed himself at a window, in nearly the same posture C.J. had found him on the evening she returned to Bath with Lady Dalrymple’s medications. And Constable Mawl, looking gruff, dwarfed the settee upon which he was attempting to perch like a gentleman.
Words deserted her.
Finally, Lady Dalrymple broke the silence. “Oh, Cassandra,” she wailed.
“Oh, Cassandra,” echoed Newton. “Oh, Cassandra.”
“What has happened? Have I done anything?” the young woman found herself asking her “aunt’s” parrot.
The usually saturnine Saunders smiled.
Finally, Squiffers stepped forward. “Miss Welles,” he began, forming his words slowly, as though she were incapable of rational comprehension. “Over the past few weeks, it has become increasingly clear to those in your proximity that you have exhibited abnormal, indeed aberrant, behavior.”
“Aberrant?” C.J. questioned. She was indeed uncomprehending.
The doctor removed a small, leather-bound notepad from an interior pocket of his black coat and began to read from a list written in a cramped scrawl. He looked over at Saunders, who nodded her head and rewarded the medical man with a gimlet-eyed gaze. “Perhaps, I should begin at the beginning. Constable?”
Mawl rose to his feet and stepped forward as though he were called upon to testify before the bar. He assumed a pompous stance. “The alleged Miss Welles was apprehended by me, near Stall Street, just after Easter Sunday. She was caught thieving and appeared to be without fixed abode. The minx was thereupon taken to the jail, where she was placed in the care of one Jack Clapham, warden.”
“Constable, did this alleged Miss Welles ever tell you at the time you apprehended her, or during her incarceration in the prison, that she was the niece of a noblewoman: to wit, Lady Dalrymple, whom you see seated before you?”
“What is this all about?” C.J. demanded, feeling increasingly ill and fearing the reply. “Why do I feel like I am on trial here?”
“Because you are, in a manner of speaking,” Squiffers replied. “Are you or are you not related to Lady Dalrymple? What manner of young woman roams the streets of Bath unchaperoned, with nowhere to rest her head at night? What manner of young woman must steal for her supper?”
“Breakfast,” C.J. corrected sullenly. What manner of a nightmare was she caught in?
“If Lady Wickham had been well enough to travel, she, too, would be sitting here to question the sanity of a young woman who spends weeks in her employ, yet neglects to mention that she is the niece of a countess who lives but a few minutes’ walk away.” Dr. Squiffers flipped through his little pad of notes.
“The old bat is healthy enough; she’s just too cheap to hire a hack.”
“Mary!” Lady Oliver gasped at the maid’s rudeness.
“Mary!” Lady Dalrymple said, nearly simultaneously, rather proud of the girl’s audacity.
“Miss Welles is the dearest, sweetest friend I’ve ever had,” Mary proclaimed, dropping the fan in Lady Dalrymple’s upholstered lap and rushing over to protect her champion. She threw her arms around Cassandra and held her tightly. “Miss Welles is not touched. And whoever says so is touched himself!” she insisted, choking back sobs.
So that was what was going on. Dr. Squiffers, clearly bolstered by the support of nearly everyone in the room, with the obvious exceptions of Mary and Lady Dalrymple, thought she was mentally unstable. C.J. reflexively touched her stomach as if to protect her child from hearing its mother so maligned. What did Darlington think? Did the man she had fallen in love with now regard her as a madwoman?
Squiffers began to read from his notes. “Miss Welles comes and goes from the house at all hours, often unchaperoned. Miss Welles has been observed wearing the same garments at all hours of the day, not changing her morning frock for a tea gown on several occasions. She seems overfond of a cheap, yellow muslin and a particular blue sarcenet, although her ladyship has ordered many frocks made to her liking and her measurements. Miss Welles undertook to treat her ladyship of a severe illness of the heart, whereupon she procured some medication that was unfamiliar to every apothecary to whom a sample was presented.” Mary looked shocked and was about to protest that she had never betrayed Miss Welles or her ladyship and that one of the little tablets must have been stolen from her when the doctor raised his
