Cynthia Bailey Pratt (5 page)

“Trolling, I think they said. Oh, look, sweets. Can we buy some?”

Danita soon learned that it was an impossible task for one mortal woman to look after Berenice. She would stop to talk with anyone who took her fancy. When remonstrated with, Berenice merely answered, “But they looked so respectable, I’m sure not even Grandmamma could mind my speaking to them.”

This same speech came forth whether Berenice addressed a duchess or a dustman. Most people, Danita had to confess, were enchanted to be taken unawares by a pretty face, modishly attired, and to find their conversation broken into by a husky but childlike voice.

Danita could only flutter after her, like a chicken with one hatchling and that with no sense of self-preservation. On the positive side of the ledger, as she reminded herself at least once a day, Berenice was never on her high ropes, despite her beauty and future fortune. Danita could not bring herself to tell Mrs. Clively about her granddaughter’s behavior. The strict code of honor inculcated by her schoolgirl days forbade it.

It seemed the girl’s favorite walk was over Pulteney Bridge and on toward the green vista that was Sydney Gardens. Mrs. Clively had paid their subscription for the entire season and scarcely a day passed that Berenice did not want to go there. The walk was long from New Bond Street. Sometimes Danita, used though she was to hard work, found her legs aching after marching there after Berenice. But she could not refuse to take the girl. It was not, however, the labyrinth, the canal or the teas at the Sydney Hotel that had attracted Berenice hither.

“There are horses in Sydney Gardens,” she announced one afternoon. She pointed to the open page of the small
Guide to Bath
and read haltingly, “‘Surrounding the gardens is a ride for the accommodation of ladies and gentlemen on horseback, which commands beautiful and romantic views, and it has the advantage of being free of dust in the summer and of dirt in the winter. Non-subscribers sixpence each time.’ Doesn’t it sound heavenly? You know there are nothing but fields and fields the other side of the Gardens.”

Gently, Danita said, “I think they mean ladies and gentlemen who bring in their own horses.”

“Oh, perhaps you’re right.” Berenice sighed. But in a few days, she came forth with news that the Sydney Hotel sometimes rented hack ponies for those who wished to make short jaunts to one of the picturesque sites near the city.

“I don’t think riding every day is the sort of thing your grandmother desired you to do when bringing you to Bath.”

“Oh,
she
won’t mind. She never stops me riding at home.”

“All the same, you must ask her permission.” In response, the girl only muttered something under her breath, slapping her wash-leather gloves into the palm of her hand. “I beg your pardon, dear?”

“I asked her yesterday. She said no. She prefers I take my exercise by walking. She says you can’t talk to people when you’re on a horse.”

“Well, you should appreciate that.”

“I still want to ride.”

“If your grandmother said no, then I can’t allow ...”

“She doesn’t have to know.”

“That would put me in rather an invidious position, Berenice. Your grandmother mightn’t let me continue on here as your companion.” Danita hoped this might move Berenice to think of someone else before herself.

“I have it!” the girl said, paying no attention. “We could go together to the Gardens and then separate. You wouldn’t have to know what I was doing while we were apart. I can leave my habit and boots at the hotel; they have lots of rooms.
She’d
never need to know anything about it.”

“I’m sorry, Berenice, no.”

It was the next day that Berenice vanished for the first time. When she finally reappeared, Danita was nearly frantic. Taking the girl by the arm, she demanded, “Where have you been? Do you know I had half the hotel staff out looking for you?”

“Oh? I was admiring the roses, over there.’’ Berenice waved a languid hand above her shoulder.

Danita noticed the girl’s hat was askew as if the hair had been hastily shoved beneath it. And there was the faint aroma of horses rising through the girl’s modish walking dress. “Berenice, have you done something you should not?”

The large blue eyes widened. “Like what. Cousin Danita?”

The next day, when Berenice disappeared, Danita set her lips. She trod through the garden grounds toward the ride that encircled the park. As she surmised, it was not long before a girl mounted on a large bay horse came cantering past. Berenice clung to the horse like a flea, separate but still part of the animal. The surprise of the rider communicated itself to the horse and it shied. But the girl had it under control in an instant. Looking past her cousin, she rode on.

Danita said nothing when Berenice reappeared, wearing a defiant yet shamefaced expression. The following day, Danita tried to substitute the North Parade in their daily exercise. But Berenice was unstoppable. She complained to her grandmother. At breakfast, a terse note appeared on Danita’s plate. From then on, except when a society event impossible to miss took place, it was the Sydney Gardens every day and a mysterious vanishment by Berenice.

While waiting for her, Danita strolled down the long narrow walk, gazing about at the lush, if orderly, greenery on every side. At the end of the vista was the famous large folly, domed and columned like a Roman temple, placed there in accordance with the
Principles of Architectural Harmony.
There were other lady strollers, resplendently dressed, and often dashing gentlemen would accompany them. To watch them act out romances in pantomime was as good as any novel. Every so often one of the pleasant married ladies Danita had met through Berenice’s invitation to a tea would nod distantly to the companion as they passed her by.

One day, about a month after the clash of wills, Berenice caught up with Danita and proposed that they continue down the walk to the folly. Realizing the girl had not been as long away as was usual, Danita thought perhaps this was an overture toward a renewed friendship and agreed.

Bath was becoming more full. As they walked, Berenice whispered about the people they passed, surprising Danita by the amount and complexity of gossip she had collected. After one particularly scandalous story, Danita asked in shock, “Wherever did you hear that?”

The girl tossed her head. “You don’t want me to talk about it.” Danita understood this to mean she listened to the grooms in the hotel stables.

“You mustn’t repeat such things. Let us turn back.”

“Oh, don’t be angry with me anymore, Danita. If you’ll like me again, I’ll give you my new green velvet reticule.”

“You don’t need to give me anything, dear. I do like you. But I’ve a stone in my slipper and not all the ‘like’ in the world will get it out. I need to sit down and take my shoe off.”

“Oh.” But the girl took Danita’s arm as they walked. After a moment, she said, “Do you see that man? He’s taken Number 15 in our street. They say he won a fortune at a horserace.”

Danita could not prevent herself from staring. Sir Carleton looked so different from the last time she’d seen him. Perhaps it was merely that he was surrounded by more insignificant figures, but he seemed to stand to his full height. He wore no hat, and his hair touched by the sun gleamed dark brown like the canal waters that ran beneath the bridges in the gardens. She did not need Berenice’s whispered information to know there were now no hidden dams in his linen. The others in his party turned toward him irresistibly, and when he laughed, so did they all.

He raised his head, as though he felt her stare across all the long walk between them. She knew it was impossible he should recognize her, yet, all the same, Danita turned quickly toward Berenice, glad of the depths of her old straw bonnet. “I think the stone is gone. Let us go on to the folly.”

Chapter Three

Danita hesitated on the front steps. Sir Carleton had left his house fifteen minutes ago. Though she’d hurried down from her watching place in Mrs. Clively’s room, a footman had emerged from Number 15 in that time and now proceeded to sweep the steps, passing insults with a maid from Number 7.

She dared not stand longer waiting for the boy to go back indoors. The gossips, both servant and master, that ranged the street would have taken notice of that. Walking away down New Bond Street, a spot beneath the back of her plain gown burned with a consciousness of unseen eyes watching her go. Danita made a circuit of the building that occupied an irregular triangle. Down Green Street she went, into Milsom and then, taking a great breath as if she could inhale courage, trotted up the now vacant steps to Number 15, prayed, and turned the knob of the white front door.

The footman had not latched it. Danita had not thought he would. Mrs. Clively’s never did when the tenants went out for the evening.

If there had been anyone there when she entered, Danita had prepared to mumble a statement about being in the wrong house. All the houses in New Bond Street Buildings looked virtually alike anyway. It was only Number 15’s greater size that distinguished it from her own Number 12.

Danita gazed about her to take her bearings. Unlike Mr. Clively’s residence, there were rooms on both sides of the staircase. A lustre hung on the landing above, shedding light down into the foyer. A narrow red carpet ran over the black and white tiled floor and up the steps. On her right was a tall table, a vase of arranged flowers admiring itself in the polished surface. Beside the vase was an unlighted taper and a gleaming salver for the receipt of visiting cards. It was empty.

Fishing in her pocket, Danita brought out her sole sovereign and placed it in the center of the design hammered into the salver. Her sigh was one of relief. She had now only to turn and leave, one-fifth of her debt paid. How she would return the other four sovereigns she would consider when she possessed them, which at the moment seemed a remote possibility. Happily, Danita turned about.

Hearing a rattle, her eyes dropped and fixed upon the brilliant brass knob in the center of the door. For an hour afterward, she could have drawn the pattern marching endlessly around it. The knob was turning. Only one instant remained before she must be discovered. As though her feet took control from her brain, Danita scurried into the room on the left. Even as she did so, she heard hard footsteps on the marble floor and male voices.

“I called on you in London,” said Sir Carleton.

“So my man told me. I was forced into the country for a time. My uncle died.”

“Bad luck. So, it’s Lord Framstead now?”

The two men surely would notice a closing door. The only place to hide was behind it. Fortunately, the narrow space had not been hung with pictures to thump and betray her presence. Danita stood with her shoulders against the wall, running her fingers aimlessly down the flocked stripes on the wallpaper.

“I am glad to see you looking so well, Blacklock. And more than looking well, if all I hear is so. Five thousand pounds on one race. Well done, old man.” The second man’s voice showed more animation on this subject than when speaking of his recent bereavement.

“That horse may not have known it, but it was outrunning the constable as well as the Master of St. Austell. Which recalls me to my duty. I owe you a part of my winnings. I have enough in my desk.” The sound of footsteps came toward Danita and she pressed farther against the wall, hoping to pass for a statue. The door moved as if touched. She reached out to the knob lest it strike her.

“Blast,” said Sir Carleton. “I’ve told them time and again I want lighted candles burning in here until I myself snuff them out.”

“Discharge the lot,” Lord Framstead said frivolously. “Here’s a candle and ... I say, Blacklock, you must pay your servants well that they leave gold about.”

“I beg...what is that?”

“A yellow boy. Glistering, yet still gold.”

“Let me see.” His steps faded. Danita applied her eye to the crack between door and wall. He held the coin up, the candle flames of the lustre above glinting on its surface. “How did that come by here? Did you put it there for a joke?”

“I wish someone would play such a joke on me.” Lord Framstead was a thin young man, rather pale, faultlessly if foppishly dressed. Whatever his intention had been, his cravat puffed up under his chin like some strange form of avian plumage. His eyes, however, Danita noticed, were not foolish as they looked upon his friend.

Sir Carleton shook his dark head at the coin. As though throwing aside the mystery, he tossed the coin back onto the salver. It rang as it struck. “Come in here, and I’ll give you back the fifty ‘jokes’ you lent to me.”

“You know, Blacklock, my trustees kicked up a devil of a fuss over that loan. But I told them you were no Captain Sharp.”

“Well, as it happens, I’m not. But I could have been. I do thank you most gratefully for the loan, Lord Framstead.”

This formality seemed to render the younger man speechless. “Oh, I say ...” he sputtered once or twice as Sir Carleton entered the dark room. “Don’t you want this candle?” he offered at last.

“No, I can see well enough. I will be delighted, however, when the Gas Works begins performance. I’ve been trying to find shares in it but they’re deuced hard to come by.”

Danita watched Sir Carleton open his desk with a key that flashed for a moment in the bar of light shed through the open door. His signet ring, on the little finger of his left hand, glinted and glimmered as he counted out a stack of spangled coins.

As he locked his desk and started out from the darkened room. Lord Framstead asked him, “I thought you were to bet on the Master. Why did you change your mind? And what was the name of the horse you did choose to put our money on?”

“Milliner’s Kiss.” Absently, Sir Carleton reached for the knob of the library door to close it behind him.

Danita let go of the knob just one instant too late. For a heartbeat, she thought he had not noticed. Looking again through the narrow crack, she saw Lord Framstead staring back. Sir Carleton had not yet emerged into the foyer. Very slowly, Danita turned her head, seeing nothing.