Holiday in Bath (17 page)

“You should write romances instead of antiquarian tracts, Cranford.”

“Certainly they’d have a larger audience.” He laughed.

Lady Jane concluded the piece and smiled at Trelenny. “You are astonishingly quick to learn, Miss Storwood. I think you have nothing to fear at any dance, but I will be happy to play another song if you wish.”

“Thank you, no. You are kindness itself to devote so much of your time to my instruction, Lady Jane. I think we  should not stay longer.”

“Would you mind my showing Cranford a Roman wine cup my father has acquired? I think it would be of interest to him.”

“Of course it will,” Trelenny agreed, careful to keep the amusement out of her voice.

“I won’t be a moment,” Lady Jane promised.

Left alone with Cranford, Trelenny absently picked out the tune her hostess had just played. She did not refer to the music but hummed as she worked her way through it, her brow contracting in concentration.

“It’s easier to read the music,” he suggested helpfully.

“Not for me.”

“Why not?”

“Because all those little dots are confusing, with their wispy tails and strange lines. I can play a song if I hear it, not if I see it, and I think that is perfectly logical.”

“Expedient, perhaps, for you. The truth of the matter is that you haven’t the patience to learn to do it right.”

Trelenny brought her hands down on the keyboard in a discordant thump just as Lady Jane reentered. Their hostess chuckled as she handed the wine cup to Cranford. “If that is a sample of your skill, Miss Storwood, I must admit that you don’t play at all well. Have you no interest in learning?”

“None,” Trelenny said with a defiant glare at Cranford.

Her annoyance was lost on him, unfortunately, since he was studying the cup with a connoisseur’s appreciation. “I’ve rarely seen one in such perfect condition, Lady Jane. Augustan, I would judge, though the design is slightly unusual.”

The conversation which ensued was infinitely boring to Trelenny, though obviously far from it for the two participants. They shared an enthusiasm which she found unnerving, and she dared not even ask the simple questions the sight of the ancient object inspired in her—such as how did they know it was a wine cup at all? There was a vase at Sutton Hall remarkably like it in shape, in which she frequently arranged calceolaria with scarlet geraniums and blue lobelias from the ribbon borders. Trelenny gave no hint of her restlessness but politely appeared to attend to the two of them while she secretly planned a little joke on Cranford.

When Trelenny had once again expressed her thanks to Lady Jane and they were walking toward Milsom Street, she said, “You have read
Emma
, then?”

“No.” His brow quirked in perplexity. “Why should you think I had?”

“The stories you told while we were dancing. Isn’t there a wicked Bavarian prince in the book? And doesn’t the heroine journey to Greece on a ship with a daredevil captain?”

“I have no idea, Trelenny. I tell you I haven’t read it.”

She drew her arm from his and frowned. “You are very wrong not to confess your mistake, Cranford. Certainly there is nothing amiss in weaving a fantasy from someone else’s tale (I would be the first to admit that, you know) but to persist in denying your knowledge is, I fear, reprehensible.”

“Don’t be absurd, child. If I had read it, I would say so.”

Trelenny sighed unhappily. “Mama will be so very disappointed when I tell her.”

“When you tell her what?” Cranford demanded, mostly exasperated but ever so slightly alarmed.

“Well, you see, Cranford, she thinks of you as a virtuous person and I feel it would be wrong for me to conceal this fallacy in you. Lying about little things has a way of getting out of hand. The clergyman at Shap has made that the subject of his sermons ever so many times. Do you think his wife lies to him?”

“No, I don’t! And that has no bearing on what we were discussing. I have not told you a lie, Trelenny, and I cannot imagine how you have discerned my lack of veracity on a subject you know nothing about. You haven’t read the book.”

“No,” she said sadly, her dejected eyes lowered to her hands. “And I think perhaps I shouldn’t. There are few things more disheartening than finding that someone you respected would deliberately tell you an untruth.”

“You most certainly will read the book,” Cranford retorted hotly, all the while resisting a strong urge to shake her. “If there are Bavarian princes and daredevil captains sailing to Greece I will be monstrously surprised.”

“No, I couldn’t bear to be so disillusioned about you, Cranford.” Her face set stubbornly. “No matter what anyone says, I will be able to champion your truthfulness if I do not read the book. Don’t you see? If I do not confirm the fact myself, I am quite at liberty to deny any allegations of your dishonesty. Yes, that will be much the best thing to do. We needn’t stop at the circulating library, after all.” Trelenny abruptly turned on her heel and headed back down the street, but she had not gotten more than a few feet when she felt Cranford’s hands on her shoulders.

Much to the amusement of several passers-by, he swung her about to face him, his brows drawn low over his eyes. “You will march yourself directly into the library and get that book, my girl. Enough of your foolishness. If I ever hear you call me dishonest again, I’ll…”

“Beat me?” she asked sweetly.

“I’ll abandon you to your wretched fate. Nothing I could do to you would be more ghastly than you are determined to do to yourself. What well-bred young lady would wander about a town dressed as a man in the dead of night? You put me out of all patience, Trelenny.”

“Of course I do, and you are determined to throw all my past indiscretions in my face to obscure the issue. For shame, Cranford. You are to see me home this very moment.” She tapped an indignant foot while he struggled for composure. Let him see how it felt to be upbraided for the smallest thing; it would do him the world of good. He might, it was true, find out that
Emma
was a very domestic novel which took place almost entirely in one small English village but then, she had never claimed to have read it (since she hadn’t) but only to have heard it spoken of in the Pump Room (which she had). She had not precisely said that there were princes and captains in it, either. “Well?”

After one last, longing look at Duffield’s, Cranford shrugged helplessly. “I’ll take you home now.” They were the last words he spoke until he bid her farewell at the Waplingtons’ house in Henrietta Street.

In all likelihood Trelenny had no idea what she was talking about, Cranford decided as he stalked away from the house. Far from ever having read the book she talked of, he had never even heard of it. His irritation at her believing him incapable of weaving a tale of his own came close to eclipsing his indignation that she could believe him capable of subterfuge. She could be the most infuriating girl, with that stubborn little chin defiantly set and those perfectly arched brows haughtily raised. And for all her pert frankness, she had an uncomfortable way of wounding him to the quick. Nothing was more repugnant to Cranford than being compared to his father, unless it might be calling him to account for his neglect of his mother and sister. Trelenny, with her imperfect understanding of the situation at Ashwicke Park, was yet able to touch him on the raw at times as few others knew how or dared to do.

Although Cranford was paying little attention to his direction, so engrossed was he in his thoughts, he soon found himself once again in Milsom Street approaching Duffields. It aggravated him to think that he would have to read the book, probably a fanciful romance of incredible improbability, in order to prove his point. Not once did it occur to him that Trelenny herself had done a certain amount of reading on his account, nor that she had not suggested that he do so in this instance. Oblivious to the fashionably dressed ladies and gentlemen who frequented the shop, he paid a subscription fee and inquired for the book with no suspicion of being thwarted in his aim.

“We haven’t a volume in just now, sir,” the young man informed him politely, “though we do have a different work by the same lady. Would you care to see it?”

“You don’t have
Emma
in?” Cranford asked, astonished. “Is it so popular then?”

“In the last week or so there have been several ladies ask for it. I dare say it’s been moldering on the shelves for some time, but once a book is touted in the Pump Room suddenly everyone wants to have it. The interest quickly dies. Probably I will have it here again next week to be unclaimed for months. Shall I show you another of the lady’s works?”

“Thank you, no. I was only interested in
Emma
,” Cranford admitted, his annoyance roused but kept well under control as he turned away.

“Were you not interested in Drucilla, then?” Lady Babthorpe murmured. She had seen Cranford enter and had unobtrusively worked her way toward him until she stood at his elbow when he finished speaking with the clerk.

Her eyes conveyed the same message they had the previous evening, an invitation not unmixed with challenge. Cranford regarded her with faint amusement. “One would have to be blind to make so rash a statement, Lady Babthorpe. Does your husband attend you?”

“My lord would rather be found dead than in a circulating library. He considers it his greatest achievement of the past five years that he has not once opened the cover of a book.” Her nostrils flared with disdain. “My maid accompanies me.”

“Perhaps I could have the honor of seeing you home?”

She pursed her provocative lips thoughtfully. “I had intended to take a stroll in the Sydney Gardens before returning to Laura Place.”

“You will certainly need my protection then, Lady Babthorpe. Your maid would be insufficient discouragement, I fear, for the young sparks who would be drawn to your flame.”

Lady Babthorpe smiled appreciatively. “Ah, yes, the labyrinth and the grottoes are too secluded to traverse alone. One needs a trustworthy companion, even in the daytime.”

“I believe I may be trusted to see to your ladyship’s ease of mind.”

“Do you think so? I’m sure you are mistaken, Mr. Ashwicke, and I would be very pleased to have your company.” With an arch look, she took his arm, issued a peremptory command to the maid to follow with her books, and allowed Cranford to lead her from the building into Milsom Street. “I was surprised to see you at Mrs. Waplington’s last night. You have scarce shown your face this last year or so.”

“There has been a great deal to do at Coverly.”

“And you are escorting that buxom maiden I met you with?”

“Miss Storwood. Yes, I have brought her and her mother to Bath from Westmorland. Mr. Storwood is an invalid of sorts and Trelenny was anxious to see something of the world.”

“I would have thought seeing you was quite enough for any young lady,” she retorted.

“Trelenny finds me a dull stick.”

Lady Babthorpe gave a tinkling laugh. “In the dining parlor, perhaps, when you are engrossed in your antiquities, but in the boudoir…”

“You flatter me, Drucilla. I hope Lord Babthorpe made no difficulties for you.”

“Alfred is a swaggering fool. Had he found us in the bed itself, rather than my parlor, he would have done no more than rant and rave. Come to that, it might have been better if he had. Perhaps an apoplexy would have carried him off.”

“Goutish men have a way of turning nasty. I wouldn’t push him too far.”

“Pooh. I can twist him around my little finger, the old lecher. He very nearly died of ecstasy on our wedding night.”

Uncomfortably Cranford turned the subject. “Have you read this book
Emma
?”

“I’ve heard of it, and read some three pages before I threw it down. Very mundane stuff, Cranford. I wouldn’t bother with it.”

“Are there Bavarian princes and daredevil captains in it?”

“How should I know? I told you I only read a few pages, but I shouldn’t think so. You’d do better to read one of Fielding’s,” she suggested with a speaking glance.

“No, it’s
Emma
I have to read. Have you a copy of it?”

She made a wry face. “I suppose it is somewhere around. Mr. Kelston bought it for me, though I can’t think why he would think I'd enjoy such stuff.”

“Mr. Kelston?”

“One of my admirers here in Bath. I have them everywhere I go, you know. This one is a young cub with a spotty face who can’t put two words together in my presence but writes voluminous letters and poetry that’s enough to curdle your insides. I stopped reading them after he compared me to a pineapple.”

In spite of himself, Cranford laughed. “It’s better than a turnip.”

A tiny frown wrinkled her brow. “I’m not at all sure he didn’t try that metaphor as well, though I was not altogether positive, for he had such a superfluity of flowers and crops in his ‘Ode to Persephone’ that I could never be sure that it was not the meadowlark or the gentian which was supposed to represent me. It might be that the turnips and swedes were only put there for a little earthiness.”

“At least he was on the right road,” Cranford said approvingly. “There is a decided earthiness to you, Drucilla.”

“I hope you mean that as a compliment, my dear sir, for I intend to take it as such.”

“I hate to see all the earthiness bred out of a woman. It leaves only an artificial shell surrounding emptiness. On the other hand—”

“Don’t tell me,” she protested, lifting an admonitory finger. “Are you not going to get me a chair, Cranford?”

The thought had not once occurred to him; Trelenny would have spurned the very suggestion of a chair for such a paltry distance. Ever gallant, however, Cranford apologized and motioned to the two men standing nearby with their sedan chair, which had seen better days. Lady Babthorpe wrinkled her nose delicately as she allowed Cranford to hand her in, and made no attempt to converse with him during their progress to the gardens where she arrived in high good humor, taking little notice of her maid’s breathless condition. In fact, it suited her very well. “Sit here, Clothilde, and rest yourself until my return.”