Sylvia Andrew by Francesca Page A

to sit for long periods while Mr Chizzle,her aunt’s chaplain, expatiated on the dreadful fate awaiting those who indulged in the sins of the flesh.
    This last Francesca endured by developing the art of remaining apparently attentive while her mind ranged freely over other matters. Since she felt in her own mind that she deserved punishment, though not for her escapade with Freddie, she found patience to endure most of the rest.
    But the worst of the affair was that Miss Shelwood took every opportunity it offered to remind Francesca of her mother’s sins. That was very hard to endure. And, in her mind, the distress this caused her was added to the mountain of distress caused by one man. Not Freddie—she forgot him almost immediately. No, Marcus Whatever-his-name-was was to blame. She would never forgive him.
     
    The first few drops of rain were falling as Francesca found, to her surprise, that she had reached the Manor. She slipped in through the servants’ door—it would never do for Aunt Cassandra or Agnes Cotter, her maid, to see her in her present state. Betsy was in the kitchen.
    ‘Miss Fanny! Oh, miss! Whatever have you been doing?’
    Francesca looked down. The mud from the ditch had now dried and the dress was no longer plastered to her body. But she was a sorry sight all the same.
    ‘I fell,’ she said briefly. ‘Help me to change before my aunt sees me, Betsy. I’ll need some water.’
    ‘The kettle’s just about to boil again. But you needn’t fret—your aunt won’t bother with you at the moment, Miss Fanny. She’s had another of her attacks. It’s a bad one.’
    Suddenly apprehensive, Francesca stopped what she was doing and stared at Betsy. ‘When?’
    ‘Just after you went out. And…’ Betsy grew big with the news ‘…Doctor Woodruff has been. Didn’t you see him on your way to the village?’
    ‘I went through the fields. Did my aunt finally send for him, then? What did he say?’
    ‘They wouldn’t tell me, Miss Fanny. You’d better ask that maid of hers. Miss Cotter, that is,’ said Betsy with a sniff.
    Worried as she was, Francesca failed to respond to this challenge. Agnes Cotter had been Miss Shelwood’s maid for more than twenty years and jealously guarded her position as her mistress’s chief confidante, but Francesca knew better than to quiz her. If Miss Shelwood did not wish her niece to know what was wrong, then Agnes Cotter would not tell her, however desperate it was. So, after washing, changing her clothes and brushing her hair back into its rigid knot, she presented herself outside her aunt’s bedroom.
    ‘Miss Shelwood is resting, Miss Fanny.’
    ‘Is she asleep?’
    ‘Not exactly—’
    ‘Then pray tell my aunt that I am here, if you please.’
    With a dour look Agnes disappeared into the bedroom; there was a sound of muted voices, which could hardly be heard for the drumming of the rain on the windows. The storm had broken. The maid reappeared at the door and held it open. ‘Miss Shelwood is very tired, miss. But she will see you.’
    Ignoring Agnes, Francesca stepped into the room. The curtains were half-drawn and the room was dim and airless. Her aunt lay on the huge bed, her face the colour of the pillows that were heaped up behind her. But her eyes were as sharply disapproving as usual, and her voice was the same.
    ‘I expected you to come as soon as you got in. What have you been doing?’
    ‘I had to change my dress, Aunt,’ said Francesca calmly.
    ‘You were here before the rain started, so your dress was not wet. There’s no need to lie, Fanny.’
    ‘My dress was muddy. How are you, Aunt Cassandra?’
    ‘Well enough. Agnes has a list of visits for you to make tomorrow. I’ve postponed what I can, but these are urgent. See that you do them properly, and don’t listen to any excuses. I’ve made a note where you must pay particular attention.’
    Miss Shelwood believed in visiting her employees and tenants regularly once a month, and woe betide