Chapter 23

"My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite," Anne said, quoting Romeo and Juliet, as she sat on the window seat, looking out over the garden.

Helen looked up from folding Anne's dresses and smiled.

"You're swooning, my Lady. Is that Shakespeare?" she said, and Anne blushed – she had not meant to say the words out loud.

"Oh, Helen…am I fool?" she asked, but the maid shook her head.

"Not at all, my Lady. Why would anyone think you a fool?" she asked, and Helen sighed.

She had fallen in love with William – completely and utterly so – and she was fortunate her parents now shared her good opinion of him. Notwithstanding the strange coincidence of the dinner party, where their mutual connection to the Duke of Lancaster had been discovered, Anne felt certain William was the perfect match for her. Besides, it was hardly unusual to find such connections, and Anne felt certain William would explain the matter fully to her in due course. Talk at the dinner table that night had soon turned to other things, and when William had bid her goodbye, Anne had promised she would see him again very soon. That had been a week ago, and she was expectant as to what was to come.

"As soon as we can manage it," she had whispered in his ear.

William had seemed somewhat embarrassed by the connection between the two families, but despite her initial surprise, Anne could only think such a match would win approval – her godmother, Lady Flintshire, could hardly disapprove, could she?

"I just feel so very much in love, that's all," Anne replied, and Helen smiled.

"I'm sure Mr. Shakespeare has things to say about fools in love, my Lady. But when did true love ever make sense? If you've fallen in love with him, so be it – I'm happy for you, and I think your parents are, too," the maid replied.

It was the perfect match – approved by all, and certain to make Anne happy. She hoped her father would see the sense in a swift engagement, and as she readied herself for the morning, Anne could not help but feel a sense of excitement at the prospect of what was to come.

He'll propose before long, and then we'll be married, and perhaps I won't mind going to Lancashire then. Oh, but he won't want to go back there, will he? No, we'll get married in London, and have our own house here. I'll be mistress of my own house – no more having to eat the ghastly things mother chooses. We'll have turbot, and sole, and perch… I do love fish. Oh…but first things first, the wedding… Anne thought to herself, caught up in the fantasy of possibility now presented her.

She made her way downstairs, intending to take a late breakfast in the dining room, before joining her mother in the garden. The countess had taken to cutting flowers in the early morning, decorating the morning room with fragrant blooms, and Anne intended to spend the rest of the day there, enjoying her latest book, and daydreaming of ideas for her own literary intentions. But as she came down to the hallway, her father was waiting for her with an anxious expression on his face.

"Anne, I think you'd better join your mother and I in my study," he said, with a grave look on his face.

Anne felt confused. Her father never invited her into his inner sanctum, except on the most serious of business.

"What's wrong, Father? Has someone died?" Anne asked, fearing some tragedy had visited them during the night.

But her father shook his head.

"No one's died, Anne. But I've received a letter," he said, beckoning her to follow him.

Anne did so, entering the book lined study to find her mother sitting by the hearth with an angry expression on her face.

"I just can't believe it, Anne," she said, shaking her head.

"But what's happened, Mother? I don't understand," Anne replied, and her father held up a letter in his hand.

"This – that's what's happened, Anne. After the dinner with William, I wrote to the Duke of Lancaster about his godson. I wanted to get the measure of the young man. I know your feelings for him, and I was grateful to him for defending your honour at Charlton Lodge, and previously when you were accosted. I asked the Duke to furnish me with some particulars of William's past – his prospects. Well…" he said, his words trailing off as he handed Anne the letter.

With trembling hands, she took it, her heart beating fast, for it seemed her hopes and dreams were about to be dashed. The pleasant preliminaries soon gave way to detail, and Anne read out loud, horrified at what she now learned.

As for William, you will find him a decent sort. The son of a former servant of mine, I have always taken an interest in his education, and, for that reason, I have sent him to London with a letter of recommendation in the hope he will make something of himself and further his own fortune. I must say, I find it strange to think of him mixing in such circles as your own, though I applaud him for having done so – the lowly son of a seamstress, raising himself to greater things, and entering a society entirely alien to him, should be applauded. He knows nothing of such a world, but I thank you for taking an interest in him…

She read, her eyes wide with astonishment at what she was learning about William.

He was not the wealthy gentleman he had made himself out to be. His claims to connections and wealth were null and void. He was the son of a servant, without any prospects of his own. Anne felt a fool. She had been taken in by his words, by his appearance, and by Digby, too. The letter went on to reveal the duke's hopes for William – that he would find a respectable position as a clerk or junior, securing a modest income, and, in the fullness of time, finding a wife. Anne looked up at her father in disbelief.

"I didn't mention anything about you, Anne. I only said I'd come across William at the Charlton Lodge ball and asked him to dine with us. I wrote I was keen to help him, but I realize now he's told nothing but lies," the earl said, shaking his head, as Anne began to sob.

"Don't waste your love on somebody, who doesn't value it," she said, quoting Romeo and Juliet once again.

How betrayed she felt, as now her mother came to put her arms around her.

"My darling, don't cry. At least you've discovered the truth before it truly hurt you," she whispered.

But the truth had already hurt Anne. She felt devastated to learn William had lied to her. He had seemed so sincere, so truthful. She had trusted him, and all the while he had been laughing at her. The lies he had told, the impression he had given – it was all a sham, and Anne realized she had been a victim of a terrible betrayal.

"But it's already hurt me," she sobbed, clinging to her mother, who stroked her hair and shushed her.

"There, there, life isn't always like your penny novels, Anne. It's not always easy to realize that, though," she said, as Anne looked up at her through her tears.

"But I… I'm in love with him," she exclaimed, as though the fact should make a difference to the truth.

"And we may never know why he's done what he's done. I'm only glad we discovered it sooner, rather than later," the countess said, as Anne's father cleared his throat.

"Well…the matter's settled, at least," he said, but for Anne, it was far from so.

"I'm going to talk to him. I'll tell him what I think of men who behave in such a beastly manner," she exclaimed, her tears turned to anger, as she pulled away from her mother and rose to her feet.

"Anne, you can't do that," her mother exclaimed, but Anne was already hurrying out of the study, calling for Helen to bring her shawl, and for the butler to summon a carriage.

* * *

"But my Lady, it's…you can't expect him to apologize," Helen pleaded, as the carriage pulled up outside The Spaniards Inn a short while later.

"He may not apologize, Helen, but I'm going to tell him just how he's made me feel," Anne replied.

She was not about to allow William to get away with his lies and treachery. He had played her for a fool. She felt deeply embarrassed at having been caught up in the possibility of romance, even as cruel fate had snatched happiness from her grasp. Flinging open the carriage door, Anne climbed down, followed by Helen, who had spent the entire journey trying to talk her out of doing anything she might later regret.

"But my Lady…" Helen called out, as Anne flung open the door to the inn and strode into the taproom.

The sight of an aristocratic lady was clearly not a common sight in the low beamed taproom of the inn, where barrels of beer lined the wall behind the counter, and groups of men sat drinking at small tables around the side.

"Can I help you, miss?" the man behind the counter – a large man, with a ruddy face and beard, presumably the landlord – asked.

"You can tell me where I might find William Baker," Anne replied, but as she spoke, she saw William at the far end, his back turned to her, hunched over a tankard of ale.

Digby was with him, the two of them no longer dressed in the finery of gentlemen at a ball, but in the common dress of the countryside. Anne strode towards them, and William turned to her with a fearful expression on his face.

"Anne, I…didn't expect to see you here," he stammered, rising to his feet.

Anne pointed at him angrily, her whole body trembling as she spoke.

"Oh, but I expected to find you here. A place like this is just where I'd expect to find a commoner like you," she replied, almost spitting the final words in her anger.

"Lady Miller, please…" Digby said, trying to calm the situation, but Anne was not interested in excuses, nor in having her question answered by William's mouthpiece.

She wanted to know the truth – not from Digby, but from William.

"Be quiet. My father received a letter about you, William – a letter from your godfather. He wrote some interesting things in it," she said, as William's face turned pale.

"Lady Miller, really, this isn't the time or the place," Digby interjected, but Anne silenced him with a withering gaze.

"I told you to be quiet. I don't need to listen to any more of your lies about this…commoner," she exclaimed, as William stared at her in horror.

"But…he's my godfather, I was telling the truth about that," he said.

The taproom had fallen silent. All eyes now turned on Anne and William, who stood facing one another at the far end by the windows looking out onto the yard.

"Oh, yes, godfather to the son of a servant without a penny to his name. You're no gentleman, you've no prospects of your own. You know nothing about business, or imports and exports. Every utterance you've made is a lie," Anne exclaimed, jabbing her finger at William, who stepped back in fear.

"Not all of them, Anne, I promise. I didn't mean to lie to you, it just…when we met, I was…nothing, and you were…everything. I knew you were different. I'm sorry. Don't think badly of me, please," he said, but it was too late for that.

Anne did think badly of him, and more so, because she had actually thought he was different from the others. He had seemed it, but Anne now realized he had simply been playing her for a fool. In Lord Peter, Anne had discerned a rake, and that was what he was. He had not tried to hide his true nature. But what William had done was worse – he had created a false impression, and made himself into something he was not. It had hurt Anne dreadfully, and now she shook her head, refusing to believe anything he told her.

"But I do think badly of you, William. I trusted you. I believed the things you told me. And now…there's nothing left to say," Anne replied, her lips trembling, as she fought back the tears.

She had fallen in love with him, and she had believed he loved her, too. The words of Shakespeare once again came to mind – "Parting is such sweet sorrow."