The Bumblebroth

by Patricia Wynn

  Reflections like these, and the novel sensation of being out on her own, occupied her mind her first morning in Bath, so that she did not have much time to brood about William. Mrs. Arnold was pleased that Mattie liked her cooking, and both she and her husband seemed anxious to make Mattie's stay comfortable.

  But these people must not know about the scandal of my first marriage, Mattie told herself. Or if they did, they were not in a position to hold it against her. It was the Ton who would remember and not forgive.

  Mattie was in her room, bracing herself to face them on a walk about the town before returning home, when she received a visitor.

  The name on his card meant nothing to her until Mr. Arnold informed her that the gentleman asking to see her was none other than Master of the Ceremonies of the Upper Assembly Rooms. It seemed that Mr. Arnold, pleased to be entrusted with such an important visitor, had sent a boy to notify Mr. King of her arrival in their town.

  "I knew he would want to know right away that Your Grace was here," Mr. Arnold said, surprising Mattie completely.

  She almost asked why, but then remembered she had been married to a duke and that she was a duchess.

  "You may show him into the parlour," she said, wiping her damp palms upon her skirt. Mattie took a quick look in the glass upon her dressing table to make sure her hair was not a mess. She could be glad for the gown from Madame Riviere, for she had nothing to be anxious about in her dress.

  When she entered the little parlour, a well-starched gentleman rose and extended her his deepest bow.

  "Your Grace." His white hat, so peculiar in colour, nearly scraped the floor. "I hope I do not intrude upon you too early in the day."

  As it was nearly noon, and Mattie was used to being up and out long before this hour, she could only stammer, "Not at all. In fact, I was on the point of going out."

  Thinking that perhaps these words did not convey her pleasure to receive his call, she amended them with, "To find a guidebook and explore your delightful city."

  Mr. King beamed at the compliment, as if he and not the celebrated architect, Mr. John Wood, were responsible for the elegant buildings to be found here. He begged her to take a chair and held one for her, then asked if he might be so bold as to join her.

  "Certainly." Mattie suppressed a smile. The man was so obsequious, and yet so self-important, as to raise a bubble of mirth even in her untutored head.

  Once he was seated, she expressed her surprise over his visit.

  "Ah, Your Grace understands the burdens upon my time." Mr. King spoke with a sigh. "You must have seen at a glance that the great extension of our city makes it impossible for me to be regularly informed of the several persons who arrive here, but a visitor of your distinction must surely be greeted or you would have just cause to complain of a want of attention. Mr. Arnold is to be commended for calling your arrival to my notice, else I might have made the error, through no intention of mine, I assure you, of neglecting Your Grace in favour of a person of lesser importance."

  "I see," Mattie said, and she began to see, in fact, that she was regarded by some, at least, to be vastly important. The fact that her position as a dowager duchess was entirely responsible did not lessen her relief, not when her fear of being rejected had been so high.

  Perhaps the scandal about her marriage was so old that she would not be cut as she had feared. Or maybe the Ton had had time to forgive her perceived mistake, given the quiet nature of her behaviour since.

  Then, Pamela would be all right. But Mattie swore she would do nothing to rouse the enmity of society now, such as marrying a man younger than she who must be regarded as one of its greatest prizes.

  At the thought of William, her heart filled with lead, but she did not allow her visitor to see her sorrow. She smiled and nodded while Mr. King described to her the amusements of the Upper Rooms, which, under any other circumstances, would have sounded delightful.

  But she had forgotten that she could not stay in Bath.

  When Mr. King paused to gather breath, Mattie took the opportunity to say, "I am certain my daughter and I would enjoy your assemblies, and I, myself, came with the intention of taking the waters, but I am afraid we cannot stay." She proceeded to the same story she had given Mr. Arnold.

  After only a brief pause, Mr. King offered a polite protest. "But surely Your Grace could hire a house?"

  "Yes, but— "

  "You need not think it will be too difficult. With such a continual succession of arrivals and departures, a lodging suitable to every wish is generally quite easy to find."

  "Yes, I would, you see, but— " Mattie flushed to admit her incompetence— "if only I had brought my servants with me, but. . . . "

  "I understand perfectly, Your Grace." Mr. King inclined his head. "With such excellent servants as you naturally possess, one would hesitate to accept the services of— shall we say— a lesser-trained sort. But I can assure Your Grace that here in Bath you will find a number of qualified persons as would suit your purposes quite adequately for an indefinite stay. In fact— "

  Mr. King drew a card from his pocket and handed it to Mattie. "If I might suggest . . . the name here is that of a superior agency for recommending just that sort of individual Your Grace might require." Then, a different notion seemed to enter to his mind, for he added, "But . . . if I might be permitted . . . ?"

  Mattie nodded, ready to permit Mr. King anything so long as he would not expect her to call upon the agency and engage an entire household of new servants.

  He continued, "I have just been put in mind of a house that might not only be available, but could be taken with its full complement of servants. Lady Findlay— But perhaps, you know her?"

  Mattie did not.

  "A charming lady, if I may be permitted to say. In any case, her ladyship resides in Bath the year around because of the healthful benefit of our waters. But," he added, "due to the persistent nature of her complaint, I am afraid her medical man has prescribed a different cure, and she has left us to tour the Lake Country for the season, taking— since her purposes are related to health and only temporary in nature— only her maid and coachman."

  Mattie followed this embellished tale to its end, and then asked timidly, "What you are saying is that, perhaps, Lady Findlay could be persuaded to let me her house for the remainder of the season? A house for which no additional servants would be required?"

  "Precisely, Your Grace, with the exception of a maid for yourself, of course, for which task the agency I have suggested to you might safely be applied. And if you would permit me to act as intermediary, I am certain her ladyship would be more than delighted at the arrangement."

  Mattie sat and reflected upon the daring notion of taking a house for the season— all on her own.

  The servants would be strangers. Besides John Coachman, there would be no one familiar to her. She would have to face them all and learn their idiosyncrasies.

  But wasn't that why she had come to Bath? To get away from everyone at home? Anyone who knew her and might guess that she had nearly embarrassed herself and that her heart had been broken?

  She would have to hire a maid, for no duchess would establish herself in town and then dress herself.

  With a disloyal thrill, she thought of how much fun it might be to buy more new dresses and have an eager, youthful soul around to rave over each one. With such new experiences to cheer her, she might even be able to forget for a minute or two how much she missed William. She might even offer the position— temporarily, of course— to Mr. Arnold's cheerful daughter.

  "How soon do you think you might get a response from Lady Findlay?" she asked Mr. King.

  "By return mail," he answered promptly. "I have taken it upon myself to perform a few slight services on her ladyship's behalf, since her departure was so sudden. As a result, we have been in frequent communication, and since I believe I know what her mind will be upon this subject, you might consider the agreement as having already been made."


  He smiled roguishly, with the air of a man who would expect a return for his services. "And I hope this means we may be permitted to expect your delightful presence at our assemblies?"

  All had been concluded so fast that Mattie suddenly found herself breathless, and unable to speak, she simply nodded her accord to what moments before had seemed an impossibility.

  She had taken a house. She and Pamela, in no more than a few days, would be living in a place they had never seen, surrounded by strangers, and Mattie, herself, would be mistress of the entire establishment. It was almost more than she could believe, but it was exactly what was needed. This way, she would not have to face either William, or Lady Westbury, or Mrs. Puckeridge, or even Gilly again, until she had recovered from her broken heart.

  * * * *

  After discovering the duke's house closed and inquiring at all the inns, William traced his prey to Lady Findlay's house quite easily. He applauded Mattie's industry in finding a suitable lodging on her own and the courage which had led her to do it. William decided, however, not to threaten her by appearing on her doorstep, but instead frequented the places in which he thought he might see her.

  In Bath, this was quite simple. Every person of rank, resident and visitor alike, could be expected to make an appearance in the Pump-room in the mornings. After an interval of a decent number of days, by which time he hoped Mattie would have got her feet on the ground, and during which he helped Gerald exercise their horses, William strolled from his room at the White Hart in Stall Street to the nearby Pump-room.

  He saw her immediately, sitting near a Corinthian column in the midst of a group of elderly gentlemen, who seemed quite intent on securing her attention. William smiled to see how quickly she had gained a circle of admirers, and he determined to become one of them. He looked about the large room, hoping to spot an acquaintance who could perform an introduction.

  He was not long in finding one. An aged friend of his father's, who walked with a cane, had taken a place near the door. Sir Reginald Pursey gladly greeted his old crony's son in a rather loud voice.

  "Westbury, my boy! What brings you to this ghastly place? Not taking the waters, I hope, like the rest of us?" Sir Reginald made a face over the glass in his hand. "Vile stuff! But they say it does wonders for the gout, so I'm condemned to try it." Another thought seized him. "Not attending your mother, are you?"

  "No, sir. Just visiting." William allowed his gaze to wander back to where Mattie was holding court and said, "I thought you might be able to tell me who that ravishing creature is."

  "An't she?" Sir Reginald's eyes had followed William's and located Mattie with little effort. "She's the Duchess of Upavon, my lad, and now we know why the old codger kept her to himself. Though they do say he was never one for society." He cocked an eye towards William, who did nothing to hide his admiration of Mattie's beauty. "Thinking of having a go at the dowager, are you?"

  "If I can get myself presented. Would you do the honours?"

  Sir Reginald barked a laugh. "I have got that far, at least, though you've got to be a mite faster than me on this damned stick to get close to that one. And don't think I haven't tried. Why, if I were just ten years younger— "

  "— and unmarried, I presume . . . ." William hastened to cut off his confidence.

  "Don't think it for a moment." Sir Reginald winked at him, then poked him in the ribs with his cane. "Give me your arm, boy, and I'll use this to clear us a path.

  "Nasty old buggers," he mumbled loudly, as they reached the crowd surrounding Mattie. "Not a one of 'em under ninety. Ought to be ashamed of themselves."

  William hid his grin at this gross exaggeration. He was doing his best to appear as if he had never met Mattie before. But he found this almost impossible when the group parted between them and her eyes met his.

  The look upon her face nearly proved his undoing. First she turned pale, and then a rosy pink. A pulse beat rapidly at her throat, just above the spot he had so recently kissed.

  "Lord— " the trembling word escaped her lips, before William interrupted, turning to Sir Reginald.

  "Sir, will you present me."

  "My dear— " In his loudest voice, Sir Reginald had already sprung to the task, enjoying the superior age that allowed him to be so familiar with her. "This young gentleman has begged me to make him known to you. As a suitor, I can recommend him highly, seeing as how his papa and I were friends, don't you know. He is Westbury."

  During this speech, which was loud enough for all in the room to hear, Mattie had recovered much of her composure. Now, with only a little stammer, she was able to hold out her hand for William to take.

  He did so, bowing to kiss it and resisting the temptation to linger over it. "Your Grace."

  "My lord— " Mattie snatched back her hand and buried it in her lap, beneath her reticule and book.

  William was happy to see that she was still trembling. "Have you been here long, Duchess?"

  She glanced at him, seemingly unsure of the game he was playing, but William knew perfectly well what he was about. This time, he meant to court her in public. No more hiding for either of them.

  "I have been here but a week."

  "I, too. And do you find Bath to your liking?"

  Now, she was surprised. She was probably wondering why he had not tracked her down before.

  "Yes, indeed." Mattie fanned herself, though the room was rather chilly. "Yes, I like Bath very much."

  "And how long do you plan to stay?"

  "Through the season. I have taken a house," she said, stressing the last word in the way one might say he had climbed a mountain.

  "So I have heard." When she raised her eyebrows in question, he added, "I, on the other hand, do not plan to take a house, but I find myself quite comfortably settled for the season at the White Hart, which is no more than a stroll from here."

  "But why?" The words escaped her before she considered. "Surely you cannot wish to spend the entire summer at Bath?"

  "And why not? Did we not just agree that it is charming?" William smiled at her obvious distress. "Besides, I have a purpose in coming here."

  "You do?" Her voice was small.

  "Yes, I came to find a particular person, a connection that seemed quite lost to me, but one which I am determined to recover."

  "Oh." Now, she sounded breathless, but there was nothing she could say to discourage him, not with so many men around.

  After a moment, she thought of something. "I have come to take the waters," she emphasized. "Like other people of an advanced age, I find I am in need of medical advice."

  At the outrageous claim of age, a chuckle went up amongst her courtiers.

  "What's that? What did she say?" one gentleman asked, and another repeated for him the duchess's delightful joke.

  Doing it much, much too brown, William told her with his eyes, and Mattie had the grace to flush. But she had given him his opening. "Then, perhaps you would stroll with me to the fountain, where we both might sample the waters?"

  Before she could refuse him, he took a step closer and proffered his arm, willing her to come with him.

  Drawn by his compelling look, Mattie took his arm before she had time to think. The feel of his muscles beneath her palm caused her pulse to jump.

  The gentlemen in her retinue must have felt William's superior claim, for they faded away as if in one body.

  "William, you shouldn't have come," she whispered to him as they cleared the small group. "It is pointless."

  "Surely, not pointless. I meant what I said, Mattie. I mean to convince you, so naturally I had to find you."

  "But you cannot!"

  "If I cannot, then you have nothing to worry about. And if I can, then we both may be happy. So don't let my presence disturb you. Just ignore me. Treat me like some annoying fly. With so many suitors, it is certainly your prerogative."

  A giggle welled up inside her, and she felt her cheeks warming. "They are not my suitors," she said, though she knew the
y very well were. It had been a new experience to have the attention of so many men. New, and not altogether displeasing.

  At first, Mattie had thought they were only being kind to her. Then, she had noticed the admiration in their eyes, a sight she might not have recognized if she had not first seen it in William's. At the thought of William, all her pleasure had diminished, for none of the men could touch her heart as he had.

  Reacting belatedly to his last comment, she said, "And treat you like a fly, William? Do not be absurd. You must know I could not do that."

  "Then you do love me, and you had better face it and come live with me, my love."

  Mattie did her best to squelch the inevitable feelings of pleasure and pain his words aroused. By now, they had reached the alcove where a fountain spewed water from several openings into a great marble basin.

  "I am far too old for marriage," she said. "All this furore has overset me, and I do need a cure." To prove this to him, she turned to the attendant and asked for a dipper of the waters.

  "How much is it, please?" she said, raising her reticule.

  "Shame on you, Mattie." William took the cup and served her himself before pulling a coin from his pocket and pressing it into the attendant's palm. "Do you mean to say," he asked, turning towards her as she raised the cup to her lips, "that you have been here a whole week and have not yet tasted the waters? I thought you were here on a cure?"

  Mattie flushed under his teasing gaze just as a mouthful of warm, brackish water assaulted her tongue. It was all she could do not to spit it out.

  William laughed at the look on her face. "Don't you care for it? You had much better let me serve you champagne, Mattie. You should always drink champagne."

  The beautiful vision his words conjured up was so tempting, Mattie felt her knees begin to quake. "I have not taken the waters because I have not yet consulted a physician, but I will as soon as possible. I have not been well."

  She would be firm with William, she told herself. She would be firm, and when he saw that she was determined in her refusal, he would go away. Or, much better yet, he would ask her to be his mistress after all.