Amy Lake (16 page)

There was also Mr Elliott, whom I would not meet until that afternoon, when Aunt Sophie introduced me to a white-haired septuagenarian who, as she said, ‘set the clocks.’  I was surprised to hear this, as in those years even grand London establishments generally managed to do without a clock-setter.   After a few more days in Bath I suspected that Mr Elliott did very little besides nap on the odd sofa and drink Aunt Sophie’s brandy; further experience confirmed this. 

There were servants’ quarters at the back of the house on Sydney Place.  There was also the kitchen, where Mrs Baxter, and Janie and Alice sat down to a bit of lunch as they felt hungry.  So did my aunt and I.

* * * *

I wrote my first letter to Miss Barre that evening, describing the trip from London and praising Lucy, Perry, and the coachman for their services. 

I think I shall be perfectly happy here for some time.  My aunt runs a

rather unexpected household, but everything is clean and more or

less tidy, and the food—the cook is Edward, a young man!—has been

excellent.

I did not ask her about the earl or countess, or Freddie.  Or Lord Davies.

Chapter 28: The Pump Room

My days at 5, Sydney Place, soon fell into a pattern.  Gardening was done in the cool of the morning.  I was not accustomed to the lady of the manor—or ladies, in this case—doing such work, but discovered that I rather enjoyed contributing to the household provisions.  Aunt Sophie grew a variety of vegetables, all of which flourished in the mild air of Bath; I found rows of crisp lettuce, radishes, and spinach interspersed with the usual carrots and cabbage.  She also had standing fruit trees, and some espaliered against the wall, within a small orchard attached to the property, and one could look forward to pies made with apples and pears at the end of the summer.

“What on earth are these?” I asked one day, finding a type of plant I had never seen before, small mounds of curled leaves tucked in between rows of cabbage. 

“Mmm?  Endive,” said my aunt, distractedly.  She had her nose pressed into a book she consulted on a daily basis, it seemed; Mr Mawe’s
Every Man His Own Gardener
.  We did nothing in the garden without the imprimatur of Mr Mawe.

“Very good for the digestion,” added Aunt Sophie.  “Regina, would you be so kind as to give the lettuces a bit of water?”

The household did not keep London hours, which suited me extremely well.  We ate nuncheon close to noon; afterwards my aunt preferred to walk into Bath, which involved a longish stroll down Great Pulteney Street, through the circle at Laura Place, and across the river Avon into the town proper.  During these expeditions, if encouraged, Aunt Sophie would talk at length about the history of the place.  She seemed to know anything and everything, and I found it all fascinating.  Once I expressed the thought that she should have been a teacher.

“Well, now, that’s hardly a proper activity for a gently-born female, is it?” she said, and on this occasion I caught the sarcasm, as Aunt Sophie seemed to have very advanced ideas about a woman’s role in society.

When we arrived in central Bath we generally visited the Grand Pump Room in preference to any other, the one in the Abbey churchyard.  The pump room was north of the King’s Bath and was an imposing edifice, faced with half-Corinthian columns in a honey-coloured stone.

“Too Greek,” sniffed Aunt Sophie, who did not approve of pretension of any kind.  She was particularly annoyed that one of the other entrances—on Stall Street—displayed columns of the Ionic order. 

“Roman, are they not?” I said.

“Pah.  It makes no difference.”

Of the great hall inside my aunt made no complaint, as it was quite large, pleasant and well lit, although sporting, once again, half Corinthian columns.  One promenaded or sat, as one wished, and there were a few days when the place was full to bursting, although the noise of our conversation was not excessive, due I suppose, to the size of the room.  Despite our regular attendance Aunt Sophie did not ‘take the waters’, as they say.  The pump room waters were vile, dirty stuff according to her, an opinion rather surprising me until I tried them myself, once, after which I agreed completely.  Nevertheless, what company was to be had in Bath was there, at the tap rooms, and my aunt did enjoy company. 

Later I heard that if drunk as hot as possible the water was more palatable, but I never cared to try.

Aunt Sophie was far more of a chatter-box in public company than you would ever suspect from knowing her only in her home.  I suspect my father believed his sister to be living the life of a recluse, sent to Coventry in shame.  Aunt Sophie was doing no such thing.  She greeted scores of people each time we made our appearance, and I was introduced to them all, far more than I could hope to remember.  No-one seemed to raise an eyebrow at the sudden appearance of a niece after these many years; perhaps they had heard some of the story.  There was one slightly odd aspect to these introductions, however; I was presented only as ‘Regina, my niece’ and never as Lady Regina, let alone Lady Regina Knowles, daughter of the Earl of Aveline.  I made no objection, of course.  I was living in her house and she could call me what she pleased.  Moreover, her acquaintances always referred to my aunt as ‘Sophie’ or ‘deary’ or some such; ’twas never ‘Lady Sophie’.

Perhaps I should have attended more to this peculiarity, but my days in Bath were filled with new experiences and there was hardly time to make note of each one.

I did notice that my aunt made no attempt to join any of the fine lords and ladies who frequented the Grand Pump Room; ’twas not the season for the
haut ton
to visit Bath, but there were always a few.  I planned to avoid them as well, not wishing to make any awkward explanations of my presence in Bath, but so far luck was with me and I saw no-one I recognized from London.

* * * *

Gardening and expeditions into Bath helped keep my mind from the letters I had now received from my family.  The first, from my father, appeared not three days after my own arrival in Bath.  I opened it reluctantly.

He was furious.

“Was there ever any doubt?” said my aunt, when I had divulged the contents.

“I suppose not.”  In fact, the letter was no more or less than what I expected from the earl, but I felt tears start to my eyes nevertheless.  ’Tis one thing to believe a father has little tender feeling for his daughter but quite another to see the matter written out in plain English.

I was besmirching the good name of his family for my own selfish desires.

I was an ungrateful child whom he never wished to see again.  This sentiment was followed, somewhat illogically, by the statement that I
would
return to Roselay—at once.  And I
would
marry Lord Davies.

Make no mistake of it, my dear.  You will be Lady Davies before the month is out,

or you will rue the day.

The thought of myself as Lady Davies rather took my breath away, and I found myself staring at those two words, until I laughed and returned the letter to its envelope.

The next, arriving two days later, was from the countess, and no happier.  She begged me to return at the same time she detailed the punishments I would undergo at the hand of my father when I did. 

“Lydia was never the fastest whip on the coach,” commented Aunt Sophie.

My mother finished by describing her various health complaints as a result of my absence and then became diverted by thoughts of her newest gown, which she sketched for me at the bottom of the letter.

The countess is, I must admit, rather talented in her drawings.

“Hmm,” said my aunt, seeing the gown.

A third letter, which I received together with that from my mother, was entirely more welcome, as the inimitable handwriting announced it to be from Miss Barre. 

Dearest Reggie,

Cassandra first reassured me that Lucy, Perry, and the coachman had all arrived safely back in London, which was a great relief.

Lucy is now enamored of all travel, and wishes to see Scotland, and ‘Par-ee’.  I have

explained to her that one cannot arrive in France by coach.

 
She added—

I imagine you know already that the cat is not yet ‘out of the bag’. 

Your parents have put it about that you are unwell, which is all

for the best, as you can change your mind and return at any

time—if you wish, of course.

I had understood that much from my father, who made it quite clear that although he was—for the moment—providing illness as an excuse for my monstrous behavior, his patience would only last so long.

Lady Helen has heard from Peter that the viscount called upon your parents, who were nearly overcome with their distress at your condition.

Dear heavens.  I could only imagine
that
interview.

Jeremy sends his love.  I told him, of course.  He reminds you

that Lord Davies is ever so rich and that he has an excellent

reputation among the young gentlemen as a person of kindness and sense.

Always your loving friend, etc.  —C.

P.S.  The viscount was seen at Lady Pemblay’s musical night before last,

and Amelia says he seemed entirely distracted.

I tried to imagine Lord Davies distracted.  The description did not fit of what I knew of him, but perhaps he was worrying about how to marry off his sisters without an earl’s daughter in hand.

At the thought of the twins I felt a stab of guilt.  Isolde would, I was convinced, find her way to an excellent marriage no matter what, but Carys—  Had I ruined her prospects?

Gods.

Was one ever free of the strands that bound you to family and acquaintances?  My mother and father.  Freddie.  Cassie and Isolde and Carys.  Even Lady Celia and the duke, dreadful as he was. 

The Viscount of Cardingham.  Perhaps he felt the same as I.  Perhaps he felt he had no choice.  Was it possible to find one’s path in a world that seemed endlessly constricted by rules and guilt?

Here I was in Bath, as independent as I might wish.  And I guessed that Aunt Sophie would put no objection to my remaining here for a good long while.  I would make it enough.  I
would
be content.  But was an individual ever really allowed to act in such a way to provide solely for their own happiness?  

Chapter 29: Brother and Sisters

It was now a good fortnight since Lady Regina had taken ill, and Talfryn was more worried than he was willing to admit to Lucien and Lord Peter, who might commiserate with him, but who would also be likely to chaff him as a sentimentalist.

Still, he could not endure more of this without telling
someone
, and so the viscount decided that ’twas time to speak with Carys and Isolde.  Both of his sisters had been his confidants—within limits, of course, the limits natural to his position as an older brother—since their early years, since the time the three of them had understood that they were living in a household where neither parent could be counted upon to take much notice of a child’s concerns.

Lord Davies asked himself, sometimes, what he and the twins would have done without each other.  And as it happened, he did not need to say much before the twins understood exactly the issue.  Neither seemed at all surprised at his interest in Lady Regina.

“Yes,” said Carys, in her quiet, thoughtful way.  “I heard that she was ill, as well.”

Isolde had little patience for dithering.  “Then ’tis settled.  Carys and I will find out what’s wrong.”

“You.”

“Well,
you
can’t do it.  You’ve been to the house once already.”

True enough.  Lord Davies frowned.  “What will you say?”

“We will decide on the way.  You can trust us—”  Isolde paused, and Carys nodded.

“Yes,” said the other twin.  “Miss Barre is the better bet, I think.”

“Do you think—?”

“Exactly.”

“But if—”

Carys shrugged. 

“Gods!” said Lord Davies.  “You know I can’t follow you when you talk like that!”

Both his sisters grinned, an expression so alike that the viscount had a dizzy moment where he felt as if his vision had doubled.

“Don’t worry, Tal,” said Carys.  “We will find out if she is truly ill.  You will have a second chance with your lady love, I promise.”

And Lord Davies was forced to wonder, as he had done many times before, if the twins’ uncanny ability to foresee each other’s thoughts extended to him as well.  Then he realized—Carys had said ‘
truly
ill’.  What else could Lady Regina be?

Chapter 30: Comfortable in Bath

The letters from the earl continued to arrive every second day or so, with an occasional addition from the countess.  My father’s anger was such that he was rarely temperate in his choice of words, and his logic of argument so ridiculous that I suppose I could have found these missives comical.

I was to return home at once.  I would be beaten.

I was to be married to Lord Davies.  I was to be sent to Three Stags, never to be heard of in London again.   

He would not allow my name to be spoken in front of him—

But I could not be amused.  I knew other fathers of the
ton
; Sir Reginald Barre for one, of course, and Mr Hingham and Lord Wilmott, and I did not believe any of them would express themselves to their daughters in such a manner.  I had always accepted that the earl was a harsh and unfeeling man, and I had interceded on behalf of one or other of the servants on repeated occasions.  But never before had I been the direct recipient of so much anger.  It was quite dreadful.

With the countess I did laugh.  That she was equally anxious to see me married I had no doubt, but I believe she possessed, in a manner of speaking, less
imagination
than my father, and was unable to calculate all that would follow from my removal to Bath.  At any rate, she was evidently writing under instructions from the earl, and one could almost see—after a few lines of pleading and claims of the headache and taking to her bed in despair—when she became fatigued with the matter, and returned to talk of a new hat, or mere gossip.  I learned that Lord Bessborough had married his late wife’s second cousin, which was considered scandalous not because the lady was a cousin, but because she was rather older than Lord Bessborough and thought unlikely to give him an heir.  Lord Peter and Alice Montvale were again engaged—Cassandra had also told me this news—and the wedding was to be near Christmastide.   How she longed to arrange a wedding herself, although ’twould be a terrible amount of work, she would require ever so much help, and did I know that Lady Terrance was seen on the arm of Lord Sharpe at the Seventh Night ball?