Chapter 3

3

...Died in this city, Miss Jane Austen. Her manners were most gentle, her candour was not to be surpassed, and she lived and died as became an humble Christian.

—Obituary, Salisbury and Winchester Journal

The day after Lord Bertram’s visit, Aunt Mercer sent for her lawyer as well as her doctor. The doctor prescribed something new to ease her discomfort and offered to take the prescription directly to the apothecary on his way home. Her aunt must be declining, for he had never offered before. They’d always had to dispatch Fergus to do so.

“I am sorry, Aunt,” Claire said, noticing her tight expression. “I did not realize you were in such pain.”

Agnes Mercer was typically stoic, but she admitted, “It is getting worse, I own.”

Less than an hour later, the apothecary himself delivered the prescribed draught. Recalling Fergus’s accusation about Mary and the “ginger-haired assistant,” Claire wondered why that young man had not made the delivery as usual.

When the apothecary had gone, Claire asked, “Shall I give you some now, Aunt?” She stood at her bedside, ready to pick up bottle and glass.

“Not yet. Any word from my solicitor?”

“No. Have you pressing business with him?”

“Do not pry. It does not become a lady.”

Her ... a lady? Aunt Mercer must be confused as well as in pain.

“What can I do for your present comfort in the meanwhile? A glass of wine, perhaps? Or shall I read to you?”

“Nothing, nothing. Just sit with me.”

“Of course.”

Claire sat at her bedside. After a moment’s silence, she attempted to distract the woman from her discomfort by asking about her past.

“How did you come to live in Edinburgh?”

“Your father never told you?”

Claire shook her head.

“My mother was born here—your great-grandmother. After she married my father, they lived with his family in England, near Warwick.”

“I noticed you don’t have a Scots accent.”

“Mamma had that drilled out of her by Papa’s family. My sister and I grew up speaking like our English relatives and neighbors.”

The old woman paused to gather her thoughts.

“Mamma always missed Scotland, though, and longed for home. And I thought, someday, should Papa go first, I would take her there, let her revisit the Auld Reekie of her childhood. Alas, her health failed, and moving her was not possible. I took care of them both in their old age and infirmities. And for my pains, Papa left me everything. My sister—your grandmother—had married, but I never did, so he wanted to provide for me. When my parents were both gone, I used that money to come here in Mamma’s stead. To see the Old Town of her youth, the castle and Holyroodhouse, and the beautiful New Town as well. I liked it so much I stayed. The strict Scots religion suits my temperament.”

Claire could not disagree.

She remembered again the letter Aunt Mercer had sent to her when she was five and twenty. In it, she’d hinted that as Claire had reached such an age without benefit of marriage, she might like to come to Edinburgh and set up housekeeping with her—two spinsters living together. At the time, Claire had been offended, yet that letter had given her the courage to show up at her door unannounced.

Her aunt’s story began to wane as the pain clearly worsened. When Mr. Dumfries from Dombey & Dumfries arrived at last, Aunt Mercer shooed Claire from the room, commanding her to shut the door securely behind her.

Claire obeyed. Despite her aunt’s brusque manner, Claire felt sorry for the suffering woman and offered a prayer on her behalf, hoping God might hear her, for Agnes Mercer’s sake if not her own.

When the lawyer left an hour later, Claire tentatively reentered.

“Would you like that draught now?”

“Yes, please.”

After that, her aunt began sleeping more and more.

Meanwhile, Claire waited—an exercise in silent misery. Nerves and fear for the future mounted. Worries stole her peace and made it hard to sit still. To rest. To sleep.

At times, she was tempted to leave now and not wait for the end. But how could she travel anywhere without money for coach fare? Most of the money she’d left home with was gone, and she’d not been paid a farthing in all this time.

If she somehow gathered enough for fare, she would still have to bear the risk and stigma of traveling by public conveyance alone. She had done so only once before, when she’d had no other choice, and was not keen to repeat the experience.

Besides, even had she the money and a traveling companion, where would she go? Aunt Mercer had made it clear her mother wanted nothing to do with her after her disgrace. Her father had forbidden any contact.

How well she remembered the poisoned barbs her aunt had flung at Claire when news had come of Father’s death a few months after she’d arrived in Edinburgh.

“You know they blame you, don’t you? Oh yes. For the apoplexy brought on by that horrid ordeal. Not to mention the cold he caught when trying to overtake the pair of you on the road. All for naught. If you think your mother or sisters would take you back, you are grossly mistaken.”

Claire had no trouble believing it.

Even Sarah, with whom she had been closest in age and affection, was unlikely to welcome a reunion. She and Sarah had shared a room at Finderlay, their family home in May Hill, and Sarah had watched in shock and dread that night while Claire hurriedly packed a valise, pleading with her to change her mind. How Claire regretted begging Sarah not to say anything until she was safely away.

At the memory, shame pressed hard, weighing her down like a millstone in her middle until she could barely move. Barely breathe. So she remained where she was ... and waited.

Claire awoke in the night, roused by some sound. For a moment she lay there, ears pricked, listening intently.

Nothing.

Even so, something nudged her from the warm bed. She stepped into slippers and pulled on a dressing gown, then gingerly opened the door.

In Claire’s early days there, the creak of her door opening— for a glass of water or a dash to the privy—had been enough to pull Aunt Mercer from bed, sure Claire meant to sneak out with some other man, her “loose behavior” habitual rather than a onetime mistake.

But now the creak of hinges and squeak of footsteps were met with silence.

Claire tiptoed to her aunt’s room. Finding the door ajar, she slowly opened it wider. Inside, the chamber nurse sent by the physician sat slouched in a chair, snoring peacefully. The frail figure in the bed, however, was clearly agitated, gnarled fingers clawing at the bedclothes.

Claire pulled a second chair to the other side of the bed, reached over, and took her hand.

“Shh. Rest easy.”

The hooded eyes opened into slits. It seemed to take the woman a moment to focus, to recognize her.

“C-Claire.”

“I’m here. Can I bring you anything? Water?”

A hesitation, then a mumbled, “Forgive me.”

“It’s all right.”

A slight shake of her head, a mere tremor on the pillow. “Should have been kinder.” Her eyes closed. She drew a shaky breath, then added, “Your father’s wishes...”

“I know. Never mind that now.”

Aunt Mercer might initially have been cold and critical , yet over time she had slowly warmed to Claire—at least to some degree. But she had never before apologized.

Now, seeing the woman’s misery, pity softened Claire’s heart. She said, “You were kind, in your way. You took me in when I showed up on your doorstep. You sheltered me, clothed me, fed me, took me to church....”

“Kirk,” the woman interjected, insisting on the local term for church.

Claire bit back a smile. Still correcting her, even now.

“If you are burdened, ask God to forgive you.” Over a hard knot in her throat, Claire said, “I forgive you as well.”

Claire remained at her aunt’s bedside the rest of the night. When weariness overtook her, she leaned forward in the chair, resting her head and arms on the bed. She was still there at dawn, when the nurse woke her with a gentle touch to her shoulder. “She’s gone, miss.”

Claire straightened and looked to Aunt Mercer’s still form. The grey pallor of her face. “May God rest her soul,” she whispered, sadness flowing through her. Despite the woman’s stern demeanor, Claire had done her best to be a help and comfort to her, and now she was sorry to see her go.

Campbell summoned the physician to verify the death, the lawyers were informed, and the undertaker began preparations. Claire herself stopped the clocks and draped cloths over the mirrors in the house.

In Scottish tradition, they laid out her aunt’s body for a wake of a few days’ duration. Claire, the lady’s maid, and women from Aunt Mercer’s church took turns sitting with the body round the clock.

A modest number of people came through to pay their respects. The minister. Several church members. Governors and matrons of the various charitable organizations she had supported. The apothecary and a few tradesmen. Each left with a packet of funeral biscuits.

When the funeral was over, the solicitor came to the house, settled himself in the morning room, and met with each of Aunt Mercer’s retainers individually. Most accepted their employer’s death without noticeable distress. Mary and Campbell, however, were visibly aggrieved. Claire could understand why Campbell might be upset, having served his mistress for many years. And, at his advanced age, it would be difficult to find another situation. But Mary had not been in service there long. She was young and would have little trouble finding another place. So why had the death hit her so hard?

When Claire’s turn came, she entered the morning room feeling nervous.

“Mr. Dumfries.”

He looked up from his papers. “Miss Summers. Do be seated.”

She sat before the desk, hands clasped.

He began, “Your aunt’s will won’t be read formally nor acted upon for some time. Several details yet to be sorted. However, I have two small matters to address with you now.”

“Will the house be sold?” Claire asked, wondering how long she could stay.

“Probably. Although not yet. The will must first be proved in the Commissary Court, Services of Heirs documents completed, et cetera. I’m afraid I cannot disclose specifics. In the meantime, your aunt instructed that the staff be given notice. She had no wish to go on paying, in her words, ‘idle servants who are no longer needed.’”

That sounded like Agnes Mercer.

He went on, “So everyone will be dismissed immediately except for her lady’s maid, who will stay on longer to donate her personal effects to charity, and Mr. Campbell, who will watch over the place until a new owner makes other arrangements.”

“How soon must I leave?”

“By the end of the week.”

Claire gasped. “So soon!”

“I’m afraid so. Have you decided where you shall go?”

Claire shook her head.

“Will you go home?”

“I have no other home.”

“If memory serves, your family live in Gloucestershire?”

Another shake of her head. “They did. But the house went to Father’s heir after he died, so they’ve had to move elsewhere.” This much she knew, from the one letter of Emily’s she’d been allowed to read.

The kindly man gave her a sympathetic look. “I am sorry.”

Claire gripped her hands tightly, hoping to divert the topic before threatening tears overwhelmed her self-control. She prompted, “You mentioned some matters you needed to discuss with me?”

“Aye, just two small things. Your aunt wanted me to give this to you before you go. A small token.” He opened an envelope and poured from it a thin gold chain and cross pendant.

Her aunt’s necklace.

Surprise flared. “Did she? How ... unexpected.” The cross, carved with scrollwork, had a small red ruby at its center to symbolize Christ’s blood shed on the cross. She remembered Aunt Mercer saying, “The cross alone renders sinners acceptable to God .” Was this a gift, then, or a final reminder of Claire’s sin?

“And,” the lawyer continued, “she instructed me to give you the overdue allowance you’re owed as her companion. Twenty-five pounds a year for two years.”

“But—!” Claire caught herself before the objection slipped out. Her aunt had said she’d already received adequate compensation, yet Claire needed the funds and wanted to give this man no reason to change his mind.

At her outburst, he looked up, brow furrowed. “Is the sum less than expected? If it helps, I have taken the liberty of adding interest on the portion not paid last year.” He gathered a pile of bank notes and coins from the cashbox and held them out to her.

After a moment’s hesitation, she held out her palm. “Thank you, Mr. Dumfries.”

With more than fifty pounds, she could let a small room in town and live for some time on that sum. But then her money would be gone, and she would be stranded alone in Scotland. How would she ever reconnect with her family if she remained so far away?

In her heart of hearts, what Claire longed for was to be reunited with her mother and sisters. Yet Claire did not presume she would ever be welcomed back home—even now that “home” was Sea View rather than Finderlay. So what should she do? Where could she go instead?

As Claire rose, Mr. Dumfries asked, “If anyone asks after your whereabouts, what shall I tell them?”

Who would ask? Claire wondered. Aloud, she said, “I can’t tell you what I don’t yet know myself.”

He handed her his card. “I understand. Do please send your direction as soon as you are settled. Just in case.”

“Very well. I shall.”