“I could ask her. What do you need, my dear girl?”
“I wish to go to the Pump Room. I have not done so since I arrived, and I wish to plumb the depths of the local gossip, you could say, concerning Mr. Lonsdale. There is something wrong there, some oddity. I wonder if there are people I could speak with who might have answers?” Anne had a certain person in mind in particular, but she was not about to share that unless necessary.
Lolly retreated inside and returned donning a warm cloak. Lydia was resting, she told Anne, and a maid was sitting with her for the moment. The two set out across town to the older section, once inhabited by upper-crust Romans living in Bath, and entered the ancient baths through the new portico, built earlier that year, strolling arm in arm to the Pump Room, where at any hour of the day all of the town’s society was to be found. It was a good clear day and midafternoon, the perfect time to find the ailing and those who simply wished to be seen, to sample the mineral waters or to exchange news.
There was, of course, music, ubiquitous and adding to the roar of conversation, the din of laughter, the underlying whine of complaint, and ever-present hum of gossip. The sulphurous smell of the mineral water, the odor of bodies, and the overpowering scent of wig powder and perfume assailed her nose. But despite the noise and smell, appearing in the Pump Room was a necessity; it announced one’s arrival in Bath. It was where you could be sure of seeing everyone you knew, at some point, if you were persistent enough to spend the morning.
Everyone knew Lolly and liked her, which is what Anne had counted on in taking her cousin along. They were stopped constantly as they strolled, Anne’s gaze darting until she saw some she knew and wished to speak with. Subtly, she guided her cousin across the floor, past a septuagenarian in a Bath chair, his attendant bending over him to listen to his complaints, and a group of elderly ladies chattering like magpies, toward a couple who stood together arm in arm speaking in low tones.
“Mrs. Venables, Lord Kattenby, how nice to see you!” Anne cried. “Lord Kattenby, may I introduce my cousin, Miss Louisa Broomhall? Mrs. Venables, Miss Broomhall.” She turned to her cousin. “Lolly, Mrs. Venables is cousin to my friend Mr. Birkenhead, of whom you’ve heard me speak.” She turned back to the couple, who appeared slightly disconcerted at her determined hailing of them.
“Oh, you were at St. Swithin on Sunday. Your banns were posted! How exciting,” Lolly chirped, clapping her hands together. “I do so love a wedding,” she went on, clasping them before her in a prayerful attitude. “It gives one such hope, don’t you think? Especially when the couple is . . .” She drifted off, perhaps about to say “older,” then recalling that it was not, perhaps, the most complimentary or politic observation. The baron was closer to her age, but Mrs. Venables considerably younger.
The baron looked a little the worse for wear, Anne considered, examining him. He looked weary. Perhaps being engaged was too taxing for a man who had come to Bath for his health. She turned to Mrs. Venables. “You were not at Bertie and Alethea’s last night, when the tragedy occurred,” she said, concerning Lonsdale’s death.
“No, we traveled out of Bath to see a house dear Kattenby is considering purchasing,” Mrs. Venables said, clinging to her older beau.
“That took all day?”
Baron Kattenby cleared his throat and looked off across the room. Anne eyed him with surprise; his wan cheeks were pinkening.
“Er, we did not leave until late morning, and then . . .” He stuttered to a halt.
Mrs. Venables rescued him, patting his arm. “Indeed, we were gone most of the day,” she said, looking up at the baron. “We stopped at an inn and . . . and had luncheon.”
He cleared his throat again and looked down at her fondly. “It was lovely,” he said, his tone warm with affection.
Anne examined them through narrowed eyes. An inn; perhaps they had partaken of more than luncheon. “But you wouldn’t have been out after dark. It would be a dangerous carriage ride in that case. And cold!” Anne shivered dramatically.
“Oh, no, my lady,” Kattenby said. “The house is a mere four miles from the edge of Bath, a quaint villa with a little land.”
“And did you buy it?”
“I will think on it. I have not told anyone yet of my plans to settle—”
“We are talking it over,” Mrs. Venables said, squeezing the baron’s arm to her.
“And when is the joyous day?” Lolly asked.
“As a matter of fact, I was telling dear Kattenby that there is absolutely no reason to delay,” Mrs. Venables said, placing her free hand on his upper arm. She brushed off a mote of dust and plucked at the fabric. “Neither of us has any impediments to marriage, and if we marry before the holiday season we can establish our home and be comfortable. I long to make a home for dear Kattenby, a home where we can be together every day.”
That felt rehearsed, Anne reflected, as if it was an argument she had used on him to speed their courtship. She wondered, was the gentleman hesitant? Did his family object? She turned slightly and saw Mr. Thomas Graeme, who had appeared to be heading toward them, veer off to speak with an older gentleman who was at the pump for his cup of medicinal water. A well-dressed voluptuous lady drifted past, pausing by the pump to wait her turn; Graeme bowed to her, then introduced her to the gentleman. Graeme was one of those she had come to the Pump Room to speak with, but she didn’t yet want to leave Mrs. Venables.
“Certainly where there are no impediments, there is no reason to delay,” Anne replied to Mrs. Venables’s statement. “Lord Kattenby, do you have family?”
“I have a son, Tedrick. He remains in London running our business. I wish him to meet dear Bella before we wed.”
He was committed to her now though, having had the banns read. To jilt her would be to suffer immeasurably in society. “Would it be too difficult for him to make the journey to meet your bride-to-be? ’Tis not so far from London to Bath.”
“He will be coming to spend a few days with me over the Christmas season, and I would like to introduce him to Bella then. He is dedicated to our business, and I should not wish to take him from London before then.”
“All the more reason for us to marry before,” Mrs. Venables argued. “Then I can make your house a true home for the holiday season.”
Anne watched the baron; he seemed uncertain despite his obvious pleasure in her company. Was he regretting his haste in proposing and having the banns read? It was not too much to ask Mrs. Venables to put off their nuptials a couple of months, but she did not appear willing to wait. Such eagerness did her love great credit, but to Anne it seemed a sham. They were not amorous youths, straining at the leashes of parental authority, after all, but sober reasonable adults.
“How did you meet, if I may ask?” Lolly chirped brightly, looking from one to the other. “I do find such stories so entertaining.”
“We met through mutual friends,” Mrs. Venables said. She was becoming restive, her gaze darting about.
She wished to be away from them, Anne thought. Mayhap she didn’t see any help from Anne or Lolly in hastening the gentleman to the altar.
“Mutual friends . . . how interesting,” Lolly said. “Here, in the Pump Room, perhaps? Or at the Great Assembly Rooms? So ideal for making acquaintances, I always say. For how else are we to meet suitable gentlemen if we do not meet them through mutual friends?”
Lord Kattenby smiled upon Lolly and her friendly prattle. “Indeed, Miss Broomhall, how true.” He turned to Anne. “Mutual friends, correct. I am reminded, my lady, that I do know a friend of yours. How is Mrs. Basenstoke, may I ask?”
“She is grieving over her nephew, Mr. Alfred Lonsdale.”
“Yes, a great tragedy. Mrs. Venables told me of it this morning.”
Bella cried, “I was devastated last evening when I returned to Bertie and Alethea’s and learned the awful events.”
“You must have returned very late?”
“We were invited to dinner with friends of Kattenby.”
“Perhaps I should make a call on Mrs. Basenstoke,” the baron said, blinking and looking down at Bella. “Would you like to join me, my dear?”
The woman didn’t answer. Anne said, “It’s awful for her, of course, and I’m sure a visit would be a great comfort. Do you know her well, sir?”
“At one time we knew each other very well indeed. Our sons are of an age and are friends.”
“Roger Basenstoke and your son know each other?”
“Tedrick and he went to school together and attended the Inns at the same time. My son has a law background but takes care of our business currently. I feel deeply for her from the bottom of my heart. I did not know the gentleman well—the late Mr. Lonsdale—but I had heard nothing but good of him. Poor Clary is wounded deeply, no doubt; she has a tender heart.”
He had used Mrs. Basenstoke’s given name so casually . . . interesting. She glanced at Bella, whose expression was determinedly blank. “She is well enough physically, but mourning the nephew she considered almost like another son.”
“I’m not sure a visit from me would be appropriate after all,” the baron demurred. “We . . . uh . . . we were once closer than we are now. Please give her my regards when next you see her.”
“I will do that, sir. But if you and Mrs. Venables should care to visit I’m sure—”
“Kattenby, we should be moving along,” Bella said. “You know we are promised elsewhere.”
“Ah, yes, of course, my dear,” he said, patting her hand where it tugged at his jacket. He did not appear to be in any hurry to leave, though. “My lady, you asked about how Bella and I met; it is an interesting story. Most fortuitous, you know, how it occurred—”
“Kattenby!” Mrs. Venables said. “We will be late for our engagement.”
“Certainly, my dear. Do you wish to attend the pump?”
“I wish you to take your second cup before we leave.”
“So concerned for my health,” he said with a fond smile. The baron bowed to Anne and moved a few steps away with his fiancée on his arm. “There is Mr. Thomas Graeme, the very fellow who introduced us to each other; we must say hello to him in passing. Do you know him, my lady?” he said, looking back to Anne. “Such a delightful fellow. A tea merchant. Done well to be so successful at such a young age.”
Mr. Thomas Graeme interested Anne more and more; he popped up in conversation and in person as the mutual acquaintance of so many. “Perhaps we shall follow you,” Anne said, tugging her cousin, as the engaged couple strolled toward the pump. “Lolly, you were saying how you wished to have a cup of the water for your dyspepsia.”
“Did I?” Lolly said, startled. She caught Anne’s wide-eyed glance. “Of course, my . . . dyspepsia. So alarming.”
They followed the couple, catching up with them.
“You must take the waters, then, Miss Broomhall. It is supposed to aid in digestion greatly,” Baron Kattenby said as he strolled at an easy pace. “Though I have not been feeling the good affects promised.” He laid one hand over his waistcoat.
“You’re not well?” Anne said, frowning.
“It is nothing at all, merely alarm over how his son will feel about our marriage, I am sure,” Mrs. Venables said with a slight smile.
Many in Bath, Anne had noticed on past visits, seemed to suffer nothing more than excessive worry over their health brought on by a preoccupation with it. He could be one of them. Others tried to cure with the mineral waters overindulgence in wine or rich food, the curse of wealth. One glance across the Pump Room showed that Mr. Graeme was on the move, strolling toward the door. As he was her next target, there was no time to lose. “Come, Lolly, there is a line at the pump; let us promenade instead.”
She took her cousin’s arm and moved as quickly as her gown would allow. Lolly was out of breath and protesting by the time they had positioned themselves exactly where Anne wished. She turned and bumped into the young gentleman. “Mr. Graeme. I did not see you there. Good day, sir!”
The fellow bowed politely over her hand. “Lady Anne, how charming to meet you here!”
“I was visiting this establishment with my cousin. May I introduce you to Miss Louisa Broomhall? Lolly, this is Mr. Thomas Graeme, tea merchant, I believe?”
“Yes, though you find me visiting Bath at my leisure.”
Lolly peered at him steadily, a frown on her face.
“So successful that you can take time away from your business. How fascinating.” Anne took his arm and turned, with him, so that he was rather forced to take Lolly’s arm on his other side or appear abominably rude. “Let us perambulate,” Anne said.
After a moment or two of chat, she paused by the brilliant light of the window and turned, watching his face. “I’m sure you must have heard by now the terrible news.”
“News?”
“About Mr. Alfred Lonsdale. He has tragically died, and so young! I was there when he was found.”
“I am devastated, of course. So young to meet his Maker.” He sighed deeply, covering his heart with one hand and bowing his head, a theatrical stance of mourning. “I mourn him sincerely.”
“You met at Eton, I remember one of you saying . . . or was it at a club?”
He started and opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“Had you seen him yesterday at all?” she asked, intent on reconstructing Lonsdale’s day. She wondered if he was the acquaintance with whom he took a midday meal.
“One does, you know.”
“One does what?”
“See people.”
“Did you see him yesterday?”
“I believe I did, yes. Bath is a social town; one sees one’s friends everywhere: here, the Assembly Rooms, the coffee house.”
“Where were you when you met yesterday?”
He gazed steadily at her and cocked his head. “Why the inquisition, my lady?” he asked. He had the sharp look of a fox, with a narrow pointed chin and nose, and squinting eyes.
“Ah, I have been trying to place you, Mr. Graeme,” Lolly chirped. “And now I have it. I met you one day on the street where Margaret’s Buildings are. I live there, you see, and I know I have seen you strolling, or . . .” She put her head to one side, peering at the gentleman as he glared at her. “You were speaking with—”
“You are mistaken, Miss Broomhall, for I don’t know Margaret’s Buildings,” he said, his tone gentle. “It is an easy error to make, for I have the kind of face that looks familiar to all. I have never been along there, so you must have seen someone else who looks like me.”
Lolly blinked, then nodded. “Of course. I’m sure you’re right.”
Impatient at the interruption, Anne said, “You were saying, Mr. Graeme, that you saw Mr. Lonsdale yesterday?”
“Was I?” he asked. “I must have seen him, but I cannot say where. One doesn’t keep track, does one?”
“So you didn’t have lunch with him, or meet him here?”
He waved one hand airily, fluttering his fingertips. “I cannot say, my lady. Now, I must be on my way.” He separated himself from them and bowed. “My deepest condolences to the Birkenheads.”
“Will you not attend them personally to offer your condolences?”
He nodded and a slight smile tipped his lips in one corner. “If you see them please tell them that I will attend them and we can reminisce together about Lonsdale and their deep and abiding friendship with him.” He bowed again then left the Pump Room, his pace rapid.
Anne watched him go. That was a most odd exchange. It was as though there was some secret message buried there, something he wished the Birkenheads to know, and he was going to use her to deliver it. Or was she reading too much into a simple expression of sympathy and regard? Not likely, given Bertie’s apparent expulsion of Graeme from his home. Anne recalled the look on Graeme’s face as he glared up at the Birkenhead home; it was filled with loathing. After such a quarrel he would not likely attend them to offer condolences.
Uncertain about her n
ext step in trying to reconstruct Alfred Lonsdale’s last day on earth, she strolled a while longer with Lolly, then sat down to think. As usual, Lolly attracted more than one friend, and it seemed that for many of them the death of Mr. Alfred Lonsdale was cat’s meat to a tabby, irresistible fodder for gossip. A plain-countenanced young woman took Lolly aside and spoke for some time, her tone becoming more piercing and cutting as she spoke.
Lonsdale’s name was invoked, and the lady commented that many were saying he had sinned in his life and could no longer bear the weight of it, and so had destroyed himself. Lolly, horrified by the suggestion, replied that there was no reason to think that true. If he had been intent on self-destruction, after all, why would he do so in his good friend’s home? Would any friend do such a turn to a close companion?
The young lady’s gaze bored into Lolly, and her words were perfectly heard even by Anne, several feet away. “It is being whispered,” she said, “that Mr. Lonsdale did so purposely, to cause as much trouble for Mr. Birkenhead in particular as he could.”
The young woman walked away in triumph, having spread a little poison in the place of healing waters. Lolly rejoined her younger cousin.
“I overheard,” Anne said, breathless at the cruelty of gossip and how quickly it would spread. But still . . . she had to consider it. As awful as is sounded, was there truth behind it? She reflected back to the conversation she had two short days before, after church. Lonsdale himself had spoken of sinning so deeply he did not think he could uphold the office of vicar. But he also spoke of moral dilemmas in the plural. And he said, as he left, that there was something he had to do that moment while he had the courage. What was all that about? And did it involve the disagreements between himself and Bertie, and himself and his cousin, Roger Basenstoke?
Quin Birkenhead limped into the Pump Room supported on one side by the Birkenhead footman and on the other by Susanna Hadley, now his constant companion. Anne waited as he was greeted by friends and the curious. After fifteen minutes, Quin was clearly tiring and looking about for a place to sit. She beckoned him then, and he gladly hobbled over to her, leaning heavily on Susanna’s arm.
Lady Anne and the Menacing Mystic Page 16