Chapter 234: Chapter Two Hundred And Thirty Four
The carriage ride back to Willow Creek Manor was a blur of green countryside that Anne did not see. She was trapped in the prison of her own thoughts, the confusing and hostile encounter with Delia playing over and over in her mind. Delia’s words, her calm certainty, her talk of lies and fakes—it had all left Anne feeling exposed and profoundly unsettled. And beneath it all, Fredrick Garrison’s strange, unsettling hints about her parentage coiled like a serpent in the pit of her stomach. She needed her mother. She needed her to sweep away all these confusing, terrible thoughts and tell her what to do next.
As the carriage clattered to a stop on the gravel drive, Anne didn’t wait for the footman to open the door for her. She pushed it open herself and quickly went down the steps, her movements hurried and graceless. She climbed the grand stone stairs in a haste, her one and only goal to find Augusta.
She entered the manor, her eyes wild as she looked for a servant. She saw a young maid polishing a silver vase in the grand entrance hall.
"Where is my mother?" she asked, her voice sharp and breathless.
The maid, startled by her sudden and frantic arrival, gave a quick curtsy. "She is in the drawing room, my lady," she replied. "She has a guest with..."
Anne didn’t let her finish. She didn’t care about guests. She needed to talk to her mother now. She dashed past the maid, her light shoes making almost no sound on the thick, expensive rugs, and hurried down the hall to the drawing room.
"Mama, Delia came to the establishment today," she said under her breath, the words a frantic rehearsal for the conversation she was about to have. She reached the tall, white doors of the drawing room, her hand landing on the cool, brass knob, ready to burst in and pour out all her fears.
She paused, her hand frozen on the knob. She heard voices from inside. Her mother’s voice, yes, but another as well, a woman’s voice she vaguely recognized. The tone was not one of urgent plotting or desperate hiding. It was the light, pleasant tone of a social call.
Curiosity overriding her urgency, Anne pressed her ear to the crack of the door, her haste replaced by a sudden, cautious stillness.
"Yes, Dupont, it has been an age," she heard her mother’s voice say, as smooth and sweet as honey.
"I haven’t seen you in a while, Augusta," the other woman, whom Anne now recognized as the gossipy Baroness Dupont, replied. "And I must say, I have heard the most shocking things about you and the Ellington family."
Augusta laughed, a light, carefree sound that made the hairs on the back of Anne’s neck stand up. Anne could hear the delicate clinking of teacups. "Oh, my dear, you mustn’t believe everything you hear," Augusta said. "I simply left Albion for a while. I needed to clear my head. I took a small break at a country relaxation establishment—the stress of my dear Henry’s condition was becoming quite overwhelming. You know how it is. And you know how people love to talk. They are just cooking up wild stories to sell their little pamphlets."
Anne just stood by the door, listening, her hand still resting on the knob, a cold feeling of dread beginning to form in her stomach.
Baroness Dupont asked, "And what about dear Anne? How is she faring through all of this?"
"She is doing wonderfully," Augusta replied, her voice filled with a proud, motherly warmth that Anne knew was completely fake. Anne could almost picture her gesturing around the magnificent room. "She is so resilient. As you can see." Augusta’s voice dropped to a sly whisper, but Anne could still hear every poisonous word. "His Grace, the Duke of Kaulder, has been a rock for her. He gifted this entire manor to her, as a token of his affection. That’s why I am staying here for the time being, to keep her company."
The lie was so audacious, so breathtakingly bold, that Anne felt a wave of dizziness.
"And my dear," Augusta continued, her whisper full of feigned joy, "you will not believe the news. She is already with child. The Carsons, especially the Dowager Duchess, are so happy. They are absolutely over the moon. She is definitely going to marry Philip, of course. It will be the wedding of the season."
Baroness Dupont sounded suitably impressed. "Oh, Augusta! A child! How wonderful! But it has to be fast, Augusta. The wedding. To protect her reputation."
"Of course, of course," Augusta replied smoothly. "Everything is being arranged. Anne’s husband will definitely be the successor to the textile establishment, and our dear Anne will become the Duchess, carrying the all-important heir."
The two women laughed together, a sound of shared, triumphant social maneuvering.
The sound of their laughter was like a physical blow to Anne. She let go of the door handle as if it had burned her. She backed away slowly, silently, her mind reeling. Her mother wasn’t in hiding. She wasn’t afraid. She was holding court, drinking tea, and weaving a web of fantastical lies with an effortless skill. She was using Anne, and the secret of her pregnancy, as the cornerstones for a new, grander deception.
A familiar, sickening wave of nausea rose in her throat. She turned and ran. She ran back down the hall, past the grand staircase, her one thought to get to her room, to get away from the sound of that laughter.
On her way, the nausea became overwhelming. She used her hand to cover her mouth, a strangled sob catching in her throat. She finally reached her room, burst inside, and ran straight for the washroom, throwing up into the porcelain basin.
When the sickness had passed, she was left weak and trembling. She gripped the edge of the basin, her knuckles white, and looked up at her own reflection in the mirror. Her face was pale and tear-streaked. She didn’t see a future Duchess. She saw a fool. A pawn in her mother’s twisted game. The disgust she felt was not just for her mother anymore. It was for herself, for being so desperate, so naive, so willing to believe in the pretty lies because the truth was just too ugly to bear.