Late. Anne was late and she had thought she understood the difference between the probable and the inevitable but here she was, staring out the window of her room and seeing nothing. Oh, there was sunlight falling across the roofs of the neighboring building and a blue blur she could convince herself was the harbor, but no answers. Or rather, there were answers but she didn’t like any of them. She sighed in bitter recognition; what she wanted was, as usual, not the primary concern. Far from it.
Anne was not in the habit of asking for advice, but there was no one left at Mansion House for her to talk to, save Mary’s little calico Plum, who was currently purring beside Anne’s ankles. Mary herself was away in Boston, still quite ill based on Anne’s reading of Jed’s brief letter back to the staff. Anne hoped for Mary’s sake that Jed’s determined optimism was not misplaced but she remembered how often, how brokenly Mary had called for Jed in her delirium—to have him by her side was a better tonic than anything Jed could make up from replete pharmacy stores. Mary would have listened without the evident judgment Anne knew she herself would not have been able to resist, and listening, she would have offered practical support along with her calm acceptance, acceptance Anne knew she had done little to deserve.
Jed Foster, a known maverick, an unacknowledged opium-eater, forthright about his own principles and governed by a sense of honor Anne could never entirely anticipate—Jed Foster would have been someone to talk to, though she could not imagine the circumstance that would have brought her to his office door. Perhaps a discussion of hospital administration, a drink shared over the recovery of a boy they’d neither of them expected to survive, some commiseration over another remnant of the McBurney period coming to light. He had experience with being trapped by his own choices, was more likely to sympathize than castigate her. And she’d seen how kind his dark eyes could be, even if he was unaware she’d noticed.
She would have turned to Bridget Brannan if the woman had not been near-destroyed by the death of her son. She could not go to her now and rely upon a response that would not colored with the silence that comes after all the tears have gone, the dazed look of a grievously injured patient who does not understand why their heart still beats. Bridget would ask her if it was Declan and Anne would have to say no. She couldn’t face hurting her again. Anne’s sister Jenny was too far away and her mother was dead. There was no one to consult, to advise.
“I begin to see why Mary spoke to you,” Anne said, looking down at the cat so quiet at her feet. “You’re not much of a conversationalist, it’s true, but you don’t interrupt and you don’t say anything foolish. No There, there or It’s for the bestor You’ve made your bed, dearie! Just that purr. It could mean anything at all.”
Plum only looked at her steadily. The sunlight had turned her sleek fur the deep gold of clover honey. Anne smoothed her own hands, callused but still shapely, across the tawny gold silk of her skirt. She had decided to wear her best dress, despite the risk of being made to loathe it by association; if that were to happen, she’d be dyeing it black and declaring herself the widow of a Private John Hastings, giving up nursing and settling down to take in washing or run a boarding house in Baltimore or Newark, some city large enough not to take any interest in another war widow, another child born never knowing their father.
She found Byron reading at his desk, an unimaginable situation several months ago, before Samuel had conducted his tutorials and McBurney had ranted and threatened and announced a dispatch to a Western post. There was a book open in front of him and he was making notes on a piece of foolscap; he was so engrossed she’d come in and shut the door behind her without attracting his attention.
“Byron—”
“Anne, my dove!”
“No. Let me speak,” she interrupted his exclamation but her flat tone must have conveyed her suppressed apprehension as he simply nodded. “I’ll say it plainly. We’ve run out of luck. I’m with child. Your child.”
She braced herself for his response—would it be an unmerited astonishment, his mouth gaping like a hooked trout, or a rejection? Would he question her diagnosis or the paternity? Would he gabble like a goose or narrow his eyes, seek to put her off with one of his elaborate effusions?
He got up and walked over to where she stood, looked her straight in the eye and, with a shocking degree of grace, got down on his knee.
“Nan, will you marry me?”
“I—I didn’t think you’d offer,” she said, waiting for him to become angry.
“Then I have not made you understand me properly,” Byron said. “You needn’t come out West—I shall get you a house here in Alexandria if you like or near my sister Agatha in Kings Point, I shan’t expect you to live with my mother.”
“You’re not angry,” she said. “About the baby, about any of it?”
“Nan, I have wanted you to be my wife for a good long time but you wanted to be the Head Nurse. I’m not angry though perhaps I may admit I’m sorry that you’ll never believe I would have done this without a goad,” Byron said, smiling up at her.
“I’ve got nothing, no family, no connections nor any fortune. Nothing that will aid in your advancement,” she said. She’d seen how he brushed his dress uniform, how gently his hand was stroking his father’s sword.
“‘She is herself a dowry,’” he said. “Will you say yes, Nan? I’m afraid my knees won’t last much longer—they aren’t what they used to be.”
“That’s Shakespeare,” Anne replied wonderingly, reaching a hand to help him rise. “The dowry part, not your bloody knees.”
“Yes, I know. Dunce that I am, I’ve picked up a little learning over the years,” Byron said. “It’s easier to remember beautiful things.”
“You’re not a dunce,” Anne said. “And you’re not going out West, not if I have anything to say about it.”
“Clayton McBurney ought to quake in his over-polished boots. I know I do when you speak so,” Byron said, laying a hand at her waist and leaning in to kiss her very softly. “It was yes, wasn’t it, Nan?”
“It was always going to be,” Anne admitted.
“I’ll speak to Reverend Hopkins right away,” Byron said.
“You do that. I’ll take care of Major McBurney,” Anne said. She was nearly giddy with relief, with the prospect of imposing her will on McBurney, and if she were honest, with the look in Byron’s grey eyes. “I mean to make him rue crossing Miss Hastings only slightly less than Mrs. Hale. And think how pleased Jed Foster will be when he comes back—I shall expect an entire silver tea service as a wedding gift!”
Byron only laughed. It was not a bad beginning to a marriage. Neither was Cordelia Anne Hale, with her father’s ginger curls and the Hastings mouth, opened wide in a raucous, demanding cry.
