Page 63 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

“Yes, I heard Hermione was staying in Bath. Well, at least she won’t be joining us. That’s a bit of good news.” He cleared some books from a chair and poured her a cup. “Are you hiding from Cornelia, too?”

“No, but my question concerns her. Have you ever heard of a woman named Anne Ballew?” As her great-uncle fell into his thinking posture, arms crossed, eyes tilted up toward the upper shelves, Thisbe went on, “I believe she was an alchemist. She was burned as a witch, from what I’ve been told. Although, really, I’m not completely sure she even existed.”

“Anne Ballew. Anne Ballew. It has a certain familiarity. When did she live?”

“I’m not sure. Long enough ago that she was executed for witchcraft.”

“That could cover a great number of years. People have always been frightened of things they don’t understand. The Middle Ages. The Lancashire witch hunts in the seventeenth century—though the alchemist part seems earlier than that. You know, alchemists were something akin to scientists. Learned men pushing the boundaries of knowledge. John Dee, Elizabeth’s adviser, was quite well-known and respected. Odd for a woman to be an alchemist, though. Wait.” He held up a finger. “Anne Ballew. Annie Blue. That was what she was called, as I remember. It was John Dee that made me think of it—she was something of a protégée of his.”

“So, Elizabethan times?”

“Yes, or I suppose she could have been a bit earlier, during Mary’s reign. A lot of executions for heresy at both times.” He shrugged. “But I’m afraid that’s the extent of my knowledge.”

“Do you think it’s possible she could have been one of Grandmother’s forebears?”

“Anne Ballew?” His voice registered surprise. “I can’t see how, dear. Cornelia comes from a long line of proud people. It’s hard to imagine finding an alchemist among them. Or a witch. Who suggested that she was?”

“Grandmother.”

“Cornelia herself?” His eyebrows shot up.

“Yes. She claims that’s where she got her powers.”

“Her powers? Oh. That.” His face cleared. “Anne Ballew communed with the spirit world, as well?”

“Apparently there is a legend that she could, and she used a certain instrument to do so, a sort of lens that enabled her to see them.”

“Interesting. Does Cornelia have this supposed magical lens or is she searching for it?”

“She has a large ornate quizzing glass that she says was called ‘the Eye of Annie Blue.’”

“That has quite a ring to it.”

Thisbe nodded. “Apparently other people have heard of the legend. Grandmother said that Anne Ballew was actually from a ‘good family.’ Not a commoner, as apparently others believe.”

“Naturally she would say that.” Bellard tapped his upper lip. “Let me think... Cornelia’s maiden name was Bellingham, was it not?”

“Yes, but the first mention of its existence was in a letter from her great-grandfather or something like that. His name was Arbuthnot Gray. So we only need to go back from there. That would cut off some research.”

“Gray—Gray...” He tapped his finger against his upper lip. “I remember Cornelia talking about her grandmother being a Gray. Not one of those tragic Grays. Poor little Jane—it was never a wise thing to get involved with the Dudleys. She did have a legitimate claim to the throne, you know, though, of course, much further down the line than Mary or Elizabeth.”

“Yes, no doubt you are right,” Thisbe agreed, drawing him back to the original subject. Once started on history, Bellard could go on for hours. “Do you suppose you might have a family tree of my grandmother’s line of Grays?”

“Oh! Yes, yes, quite forgot what I was doing—it’s so easy to get distracted when it comes to the Tudors. Let me think. Her Grays were, I believe, from the Cotswolds. Ah! I have it.” He jumped up from his seat and went to the shelves.

Thisbe watched as he scanned the bookcases, now and then muttering to himself, and once pushing the ladder along to a different spot. “Yes! Here it is, The Great Families of the Cotswolds. Bit pretentious, don’t you think?” He pulled out a massive tome. “More like a history of half the families of the Cotswolds.”

He laid the book on a table, pushing aside a few tin horses and cannons, and began to leaf through it. “Gray, Gray, Goodwin, Gorton... Yes, Gray, here it is.” He glanced about the room and began to search the pockets of his jacket. “Now, where are my glasses?”

“Atop your head,” Thisbe told him, joining him at the table.

“Why, so they are.” He smiled in pleased surprise and settled the spectacles on his nose. Bending over, he began to read. “Good Lord, they go all the way back before the Norman Conquest.” He thumbed forward a page or two. “Yes, here we are. Arbuthnot.” He trailed his finger up the page, turning back to do the same on the next.

“Grandmother says that it was handed down, mother to daughter. So it could have been Arbuthnot’s wife’s family or his mother’s and so on. Does that show their trees, as well?”

“Not unless they were from the Cotswolds. It has only the wives’ maiden names and dates, and some of them they’re not sure of. Goodness, here’s one where the wife’s name is a blank. Arbuthnot’s wife was from Wells—Cecily Hargreaves.” He flipped through several more pages and began studying the lines. “Her mother, apparently, was a Penburton. Her father’s mother was a Carrington. This is mushrooming a bit, isn’t it?”

Thisbe sighed. “It’s probably a hopeless chase. It would take hours to trace all the possibilities.”