Chapter 236: Chapter Two Hundred And Thirty Six
Anne sat at a small table in a discreet corner, looking out the window at the busy street. She wasn’t watching the carriages or the people hurrying by under their umbrellas. Her gaze was distant, her expression completely lifeless. The storm of emotion that had ripped through her in the last few days—the shock, the grief, the rage—had passed, leaving behind a vast, hollow calm. She felt like a porcelain doll whose inner mechanisms had finally wound down.
The bell above the shop door tinkled softly. A woman entered, wearing a fashionable but simple dress, her face obscured by a thick, dark veil. She moved with a furtive quickness, her eyes scanning the room. When she saw Anne, she walked directly to the table and sat down in the chair opposite her.
"I received your letter," Augusta said, her voice a low, urgent whisper as she lifted the veil. Her face was thinner, her eyes holding a new, hunted look, but the old arrogance was still there. "My sunshine, where were you all day yesterday? I went back to the manor at Willow’s Creek, but you were gone. I didn’t know where you were. I couldn’t find you. I was so worried."
The words, which once would have been a source of comfort, now felt like the cloying links of a chain. Anne slowly turned her head from the window to look at her mother.
"Why do I need to tell you everything I do?" she asked, her voice flat and devoid of emotion.
Augusta was taken aback by her cold, distant tone. She saw Anne’s foul mood and decided to change the subject, to move on to what she considered the more important business at hand. "What about the Carsons?" she asked, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "That’s why you sent for me to meet you here, right? Did you set up a time to see them? Have you told them about the child?"
Anne looked at her mother, at the eager, scheming light in her eyes, and a wave of pure disgust washed over her. She pushed the feeling down, replacing it with a cold, polite mask. She smiled, a small, empty smile that did not reach her eyes. "Would you like a cup of tea, Mama?" she asked, her voice suddenly light. "You always did like the tea here so much."
Augusta, relieved that Anne’s strange mood seemed to have passed, smiled back. "Perhaps later, my dear. I have some urgent business." She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with a new plan. "I need to sneak into Ellington Textiles. I am going to set aside a few of the more valuable pieces. The Adair Reed fabrics I stashed."
"But carrying those heavy bolts of silk will be too much for you alone," Anne replied, playing her part.
"I have someone helping me," Augusta said dismissively. "He’s waiting outside. A reliable man." Fredrick. The name went unspoken, but they both knew who she meant.
Anne picked up her teacup, her hand perfectly steady. "But Mama," she said, her voice still light and conversational, "I have a question."
"What is it, my sunshine?" Augusta asked, her attention already drifting back to her own plans.
Anne set her cup down and looked directly at her mother, her gaze clear and unwavering. "This is the last time I will ask you these questions," she said, her tone shifting, losing its lightness and gaining a chilling seriousness. "So I want you to tell me the absolute truth." She leaned forward. "Are you the person responsible for Papa’s state? For Henry’s sickness? Mama, are you sure you didn’t do anything bad to him?"
She didn’t wait for an answer before asking the next question. "And you did not orchestrate Lady Catherine’s accident all those years ago?"
And then, the final, most important question of all, the one that had defined her entire existence. "Am I the real one?"
Augusta stared at her, her polite smile frozen on her face. A flicker of annoyance crossed her features. She had no time for this emotional nonsense. "What is this, all of a sudden?" she asked, her voice sharp with impatience.
"Answer me!" Anne commanded, her voice no longer a child’s plea, but the demand of a judge.
Augusta let out an exasperated sigh. She clearly needed to soothe her daughter’s fragile nerves before she could be of any use. She softened her expression, putting on her well-worn mask of love and patience. "Anne," she said, her voice dripping with a false sincerity. "I am going to answer this question only once, so you must listen to me very carefully."
She reached across the table and patted Anne’s hand. "Delia is a liar. A jealous, manipulative girl who is trying to turn everyone against me. I have not done anything wrong. Everything I have done has been to protect this family, to protect you. And of course you are the real one! You are my daughter, the true heiress of the Ellington name."
It was the same lie. The same story she had been telling for twenty years. And in that moment, Anne knew that her mother would never, ever change.
Anne chuckled. It was a soft, empty sound. "Okay," she said, pulling her hand away from her mother’s. "Is that so?"
Augusta was confused by her strange, calm reaction. "What’s wrong with you today, Anne? What is going on?"
"No, it’s nothing," Anne replied, looking past her mother, toward the front of the tea shop. "I’ve gotten my answers. The ones I needed."
As she spoke, she saw one of the city constables looking around the shop.
She turned her gaze back to her mother. "Delia reported your deeds," she said, her voice a simple statement of fact.
Augusta’s eyes widened. "What?"
"Delia reported you for selling fabricated textiles under the name of a master artisan," Anne continued, her voice still unnervingly calm. "She has an expert witness and a piece of the fabric as evidence. And the constables are here to arrest you."
Augusta’s head whipped around. She saw the constable by the door, and then two more entering from the street. Her carefully constructed world, which she had been trying so hard to rebuild, shattered all over again. Panic, raw and absolute, seized her.
"I need to leave. Now," she hissed, her eyes darting around the room like a cornered rat. She shot up from her chair, knocking it over in her haste. She didn’t even look at Anne. She just turned and fled, disappearing through the back door that led to the kitchen and the alleyway beyond.
Anne didn’t move. She just sat there, watching the empty chair her mother had just vacated, sipping her tea.