Black Gold (16 page)

Anne was instantly charmed. The girl was perhaps fourteen, her slim body wrapped in a gauzy shawl. Her oval face had the color of pure rich cream. Her eyes were dark brown, her gaze wistful and inward. A light wind blew through her thick wavy dark brown hair. Her companion was a few years younger and more childlike. His light brown hair was tousled and his complexion enlivened by a touch of pink. He bent forward and looked up at the viewer with guarded hope.

“Elizabeth Linley and her brother Tom,” said Harriet over Anne's shoulder. “My aunt's favorite painting by Gainsborough. The children are probably posing for a play or piece of music. Aunt Caroline likes it because it reminds her of me.”

Anne glanced at her friend. There was indeed a resemblance, even more remarkable today, when Harriet's expression also seemed wistful—and a little troubled.

“Aunt Caroline?” asked Anne, suddenly aware she wasn't acquainted with Harriet's family. She and Harriet had become friends during a summer season at Sadler's Wells, where performances and camaraderie had preoccupied them.

“Yes, that's her painting.” Harriet extended her arms in a broad, sweeping gesture. “And this is her apartment.” A hint of reproach crept into her voice. “Annie, you know I can't afford all this! Who do
you
think is paying for it?” She stared severely at Anne, then a teasing smile appeared on her lips.

“I'm sorry….” stammered Anne.

At that moment, the maid came with a tea tray and served them. The tea service had Derby's deep blue underglazing, further evidence of Aunt Caroline's wealth and good taste.

When the maid had left, Harriet remarked, “I know you are wondering….” She hesitated briefly as if unsure she should continue. “You are wondering about Harry and me. And so are others. You may have heard rumors about a mistress.” Harriet's back grew rigid. She struggled for words. “Well, if he has one, it's not me.”

Anne didn't comment. She frankly felt relieved, but she tried not to show it. With a smile she urged Harriet on.

“Aunt Caroline bought this apartment years ago and came to it every season. She loved Bath, especially its music, and was fond of the Linley family while they performed here. Elizabeth was the finest soprano in England, and her sisters sang almost as well. Tom wrote music, played the violin like a master, but he drowned a few years ago. Their home was ‘a nest of nightingales,' Aunt Caroline used to say. She's now widowed, invalid, and housebound in London. She could have leased to someone. Instead, she insisted I live here with a maid and proper clothes. Didn't want her niece starving penniless in a garret!”

“How fortunate you are, Harriet, to have such a generous, cultivated aunt.”

“Yes, she has given me so much. And she knew Maestro Rauzzini. For years she had encouraged my singing in church choirs. So, when I came to Bath, she arranged for him to give me voice lessons.”

“I'm pleased to hear this. But, if I may ask, what is Sir Harry's interest in you?”

A confused expression came over Harriet's face. “Let's see if I can explain.” She described first meeting Harry, a year ago. She had sung several airs during intermission at the theater and was returning to the dressing room. “He came up to me, this finely dressed, big burly man. There were tears in his eyes. He managed to say, ‘Your songs touched my heart. May I see you later?'”

Stunned by his ardor, she had agreed. They met after her last performance that evening. He promised to do something for her. Bring her forward. Since then, he had been true to his word. Thanks to him, she had sung in the best houses in Bath and Bristol. But, at a cost she was only now beginning to reckon.

“Until a few months ago, it seemed he wanted only my friendship and my voice.” They had gotten on well together, singing, dancing, even teasing one another. Harry acted like an overgrown boy—spontaneous, natural, lively. With Lady Margaret, he was a different person—tense and withdrawn. His wife's icy, aloof manner seemed to cast a pall over his spirit. “I felt sorry for him. So, he often confided in me.”

Harriet looked up wistfully, like the beggar girl in the painting. “Since Captain Fitzroy has come to England, there's been a big change. Harry wants to put Lady Margaret and Charlie aside and start a new family. As soon as I understood this, I told him I would have no part in adultery—I'm a religious person. But I saw he was suffering and it didn't seem his fault. So, I've tried to stay friendly, but without encouraging him to think I would ever become his wife. I know him well enough to realize that would be foolish.”

Anne recalled the scene in Queen Square when she arrived. “Sir Harry seemed to be pressing himself upon you.”

“He's been doing that recently,” Harriet conceded. “And he has grown more and more protective. Takes me home in his carriage from the theater or the Assembly Rooms. Doesn't want me to walk alone. Wants to be close to me, touch me. I'm beginning to think he's jealous. Fears someone will take me away from him. I'm not sure how to deal with this.”

Anne felt unprepared to offer a solution to Harriet, but she thought she saw a glimmer of hope. “Let's keep in touch. Something may happen to bring Sir Harry to his senses.”

As Anne returned to Combe Park in a cab, she wondered, if Fitzroy were removed from the Rogers' household and imprisoned in France, would Sir Harry's anger toward Lady Margaret diminish? If so, he might then reconcile himself to continuing their marriage and end his infatuation with Harriet. If Fitzroy remained at Combe Park much longer, Anne feared, Sir Harry might resort to desperate measures and Harriet would be hurt.

***

In the feeble light of a few sconces, Paul and Anne spun across the floor in a country dance. Combe Park's empty ballroom echoed with the sound of their feet. “You dance well, Paul,” she said encouragingly. He had asked her for a lesson before the Fancy Ball that evening. Hundreds of the city's most distinguished residents and visitors would gather in the Upper Assembly Rooms and many of them would watch him, a French nobleman. He wanted to dance with more assurance than he had last night with Lady Margaret.

“Would you care to rest for a moment?” she asked. “You're puffing.”

“Thank you. That might be wise.” He explained he had spent the morning at the training session, where he lifted irons and sparred with Lord Jeff. The footman had been mercifully gentle, like a cat with her kitten. Nonetheless, Paul had finished the session bruised and tired. Afterwards, Sir Harry had insisted on a match of tennis.

“You must be starved, Paul. Let's have a bite to eat. Jeffery will fetch something for us.” She stopped a servant in the hall and asked for the footman. Gone to the city on an errand, she was told, but the servant offered to bring food to the dining room.

As they lunched, Anne reported on her encounter with Jeffery in the attic. “I fear what might happen if Sir Harry finds out his slave is attempting to learn to read.” She broke a piece of bread, took a bite, then laid it aside, a question growing in her mind. “What do you suppose Jeffery does when he runs errands in the city? Could Georges look into that?” She knew he had created a wide network of spies with Baron Breteuil's money.

Paul gazed at her doubtfully. “I don't see how Jeffery's errands concern our pursuit of Fitzroy. Still, I'll ask Georges. Very little escapes his notice.”

***

That evening, a coach left Combe Park for the Fancy Ball at the Upper Assembly Rooms. Sir Harry had excused himself for an important sporting conference in his study. He might come to the ball later. Georges sat alongside Peter Hyde, the coachman, with Mr. Critchley and William behind them. Lady Margaret had invited Anne and Paul to ride inside. They sat opposite her and Fitzroy. The captain attempted to appear unperturbed by his cousin's arrangements, but he nervously fingered the hilt of his sword and cast furtive, baleful glances at Paul. After a few moments of strained silence, the men paid compliments to the ladies: Lady Margaret in a mauve silk gown, Anne in delicately patterned soft red muslin, a gown that Madame Gagnon had altered and lent to her.

Having exhausted that topic, they chose the weather. An unusually mild spring, they agreed. Blossoms had appeared on walnut trees. At the carriage entrance, they left the coach and went their separate ways. Georges mixed among the footmen and chairbearers.

Anne and Paul began to explore the building. It was their first visit. In the ballroom, they found five hundred men and women jamming themselves into a space that would comfortably accommodate half that number. Anne glanced up to the musicians' gallery where Harriet stood hesitant for a moment before she began to sing. The din of the crowd, together with the instruments of the band, overwhelmed even her strong voice. Anne couldn't hear a word.

The Master of Ceremonies stepped on to a platform and invited persons to dance in order of rank, beginning with an earl and working downward.

“It will be a long while before we might be called,” Paul said, taking Anne under the arm. “Let's move on. We may learn something useful.” In the Tea Room they saw Madame Gagnon at a table with three other ladies dressed in fine muslin. Their fans fluttered, their heads nodded or shook in response to whatever the French woman was telling them.

“Persons of quality,” whispered Anne.

“It's remarkable that such well-born, fashionable women would sit in public with a milliner,” Paul remarked. “That would never happen in Paris.”

“Nor in London. But Bath is different. A city of strangers seeking pleasure and diversion. Manners and dress are what count here. The three ladies have probably come from London for the season and do not know each other well. They may have visited Madame Gagnon's shop, where she teased them with bits of gossip. Now she's feeding them the latest rumors.”

Madame Gagnon's gaze swept the room. She excused herself from her companions and strolled toward Anne and Paul, stopping on the way to greet friends and customers.

“You've led me to believe she deals in more than ribbons,” Anne whispered to Paul.

He threw her a teasing smile. “That's a state secret.” He rose to greet the French woman, then introduced her to Anne.

“Miss Cartier, I've heard about your adventure yesterday afternoon on the way back from Bristol. Very instructive. When women learn to shoot, men will pay them more respect. By now, the story's all over town.” She leaned forward and whispered in French, “Whom do you suspect was behind it?”

“Jack Roach,” Anne whispered back.

The milliner glanced over Anne's shoulder toward the door. “Don't look. The Red Devil has just appeared. He'll probably torment some of his victims this evening and keep his eyes open for new ones.”

Roach stepped into the Tea Room, looked around, apparently didn't see anyone he wanted to meet, and left.

“Let's see where he goes,” Paul said to Anne. He rose from the table and bowed to Madame Gagnon. “Excuse us, Madame, we'll talk more later.” Anne took her spyglass from her purse and held it ready.

They followed Roach into a noisy octagonal antechamber, where he spoke familiarly to an elderly man accompanied by a much younger attractive woman. Anne raised her glass and studied them, using Paul as a shield. The elderly man was visibly distressed, his eyes avoiding the confused gaze of his companion. No money was passed, but Anne managed to read from Roach's lips his parting words. “Pay or else.”

Anne repeated this to Paul.

“I smell scandal and extortion,” he said softly. Suddenly, he touched her arm. “Wait a moment.” He led her eyes to a man in a plain gray suit, walking with a limp. “I know him. Watch. I think he's following the Red Devil into the Card Room.”

Roach wandered through the room, greeting many of the players by name, saying a few words at a table, then moving on to the next one. The man in gray sat alone against the wall appearing to listen to the musicians in the gallery. Anne and Paul also found a small table. Hiding her spyglass with a fan, she studied the stranger. Perhaps fifty years old, he was of medium height, thick-set body, square face, and a full head of pepper-gray hair.

“Now I recall his name.” Paul leaned toward Anne. “Dick Burton, a Bow Street officer! “

Anne nodded. “Barnstable's letter mentioned him coming to Bath. Do you think he can deal with Roach?

“Burton's shrewd, well-informed, experienced. We had lunch together in London last year. I hired him to help me locate you. The limp is new.”

The room grew crowded and very warm. Roach approached the table where Lady Margaret and Captain Fitzroy were playing whist with another couple. She ignored Roach's greeting. Unabashed, he bent over Captain Fitzroy's shoulder as if inspecting his hand of cards and spoke a few words into his ear. The Irishman clenched his teeth and muttered out of the side of his mouth what looked like a curse. Roach merely smiled and moved on. The four people at the table glanced at one another, startled and confused.

“I thought the captain and Roach were in league against us,” whispered Anne.

“Yes, they were,” replied Paul, “but they now appear to be enemies. The attack failed. Perhaps they blame each other or quarrel over the expense.”

Eventually, Roach left the Card Room. Burton rose and followed him into the Ball Room. The crowd there was so dense, the atmosphere so stifling, that Anne and Paul gave up any hope of dancing. And there didn't seem to be any profit in following Roach and Burton any further.

“William Rogers has found companions,” remarked Paul, glancing off to his left. In a corner of the room the young man and a pair of fops had gathered around three young women in fashionable low-cut gowns. Mr. Critchley was out of sight.

“No chaperons,” observed Anne, studying the group with her spyglass. “William has dipped deeply into the punch bowl. His cheeks are as red as ripe apples. He and the other men are bargaining with the women. He knows them, takes the lead. This is not the first time.”