The Bumblebroth

by Patricia Wynn

  Only why, she thought as she turned back towards the room and saw several people staring at them speculatively, why did he have to pursue her in public? He might have come to her house under cover of darkness when she could have kissed him instead, and no one the wiser.

  This naughty thought surprised her and told her she must strengthen her resolve.

  "Where is Pamela?" William asked quickly, as Mr. Pickering— a new admirer, rather short and perky— perceived her across the room and started towards them.

  Mattie had smiled to welcome the older man, whose presence would put a stop to this distressing interview, but at the mention of Pamela's name she recalled the touch of anxiety she had experienced that morning.

  "My daughter," she said, feigning a distance from William as soon as Mr. Pickering was close enough to hear them, "is here with me in Bath. I had hoped she would join me on my walk this morning, and indeed, she was on the point of doing so, when she suddenly developed the headache. I would have stayed with her— " Mattie turned to William, unable to keep herself from admitting her concern to him— "but she insisted upon staying behind alone. She said she would read."

  This behaviour had been so unlike Pamela as to worry Mattie who, wrapped in her own sorrows, had not noticed until that morning that Pamela had not acted herself since their arrival in Bath. Normally cheerful and energetic, she had seemed increasingly dull and listless.

  All this, Mattie would have liked to confide to William, except that Mr. Pickering had reached them, and with a look much like a bantam rooster itching for a fight, he was waiting to be presented.

  Mattie performed the introduction, wishing that Mr. Pickering would take himself off, so she could hear William's thoughts about Pamela. Then, realizing the uncharitability of her wish— seeing as how, with a smile, she had invited the man to join them— she smiled even more warmly upon him. William's courtesy matched her own, but a softening in his eye told her that he sympathized with her anxiety.

  After a few moments of innocuous chat, William turned and said, "Duchess, I have brought my younger brother with me, and if you permit, he would like to call upon your daughter. He has brought a mount, and if you would let me lend Lady Pamela my own, there are some lovely rides across the hills around Bath."

  "Oh!" Gerald is here! Mattie caught herself before she cried it aloud. "That would be just the thing. I think she has been missing her horses."

  She knew that Pamela had developed a great friendship with Gerald. Perhaps she was missing her friends.

  To Mattie, who had never had a chance to develop friendships, this was a new concept, but during her past week in Bath, she had missed William so much she had been given a new understanding of such things.

  William was smiling at her now with that familiar teasing twist to his lips that made her want to cry.

  Mr. Pickering interrupted, saving her from the embarrassment of doing so. "Duchess, may I procure a glass of the waters for you?"

  The prospect of drinking another sip of the foul stuff under William's eye made her stammer, "No, thank you, sir. I think I should consult my physician before drinking too much of the waters for my particular condition."

  "To look at you, Duchess," Mr Pickering said, sweeping her a bow in the most courtly fashion, "one would think you in the pink of health."

  "Yes, wouldn't one?" William agreed wickedly. "One would find it almost impossible to believe that she could have anything at all the matter with her."

  "Well, I do," Mattie said, surprising Mr. Pickering with her defiant tone. Out of William, she got nothing but a falsely sympathetic look that a simpleton could see through.

  And, of course, she was lying, but how dare he think he could shame her into owning it. Mattie would have made some reference to the aches and pains of age if her last attempt had not been greeted with such hilarity. But she must make William see that even if she were not so very old, strictly speaking, she was not of an appropriate age to be his wife.

  Just let him hear what these others would say if they only suspected her of loving him.

  This thought made her sick with anxiety. She felt truly pale. "I think I had best get home to Pamela."

  Mr. Pickering seemed disappointed, but he bowed and moved aside to let her pass.

  William bowed, too, but he offered her his arm to walk her to the door. She could not refuse him without appearing churlish.

  Mr. Pickering hesitated in mid-bow as if he had just caught himself in a mistake. He took a step in front of them. "Shall we see you at the assembly this evening, Your Grace. You and your charming daughter?"

  For all the world, Mattie would not have wanted William to be by her side at that moment. She had promised Mr. King to attend the assembly, but she did not want William to know.

  "That will depend upon the health of my daughter," she replied, thinking that Pamela might provide her with an excuse. "If she has not recovered from her headache, we shall have to miss it."

  William said, "I have taken a subscription to the Upper Rooms which includes two additional tickets for ladies only. I would be honoured if you would accept them from me, Your Grace."

  Mattie faltered. But . . . she couldn't. What would people say if she did? Why, Mr. Pickering was looking daggers at William already, just at the suggestion.

  "That is very kind of you, Wil— Lord Westbury, but I have already procured tickets for the season."

  "You have?" As William swept her past Mr. Pickering with a slight nod, he seemed anything but cast down. "Then I will be certain of seeing you some nights there, shall I not? I shall have to tell my brother Gerald. He is very fond of dancing."

  Mattie was at pains not to laugh at this outrageous lie, which had clearly been designed to undermine her dignity. "William," she whispered as they walked towards the door, "I will not dance with you, so you must not even think it."

  "No?" He tsked. "It is a pity, but you know, I think we should only waltz together— it is much more intimate— and no one is permitted to waltz in Bath. That is why Bath is so devilish flat."

  Mattie felt an absurd giggle burgeoning inside her again. Why,oh, why did William have to be so charming?

  She knew she would have to consult a physician and get him to prescribe the most disgusting cure, so that William would be brought to think she was too infirm to marry him.

  Chapter Twelve

  That night at the assembly, Mattie and Pamela sat in the chairs reserved for peeresses— Pamela all in white, as befitted her age, and Mattie in a soft grey gown and a white cap, which she insisted befitted hers. They watched the dancers perform their dainty steps out on the dance floor. On Mattie's left, a gaunt Lady Repton in a mauve turban ran a constant commentary upon the ladies and gentlemen who swept before them.

  "That is Lady Whitmore's niece," she said, making no attempt to conceal the object of her discourse. "Twenty-eight years if she's a day, and still on the shelf. Her parents have brought her down from London in the hope she will catch a more elderly suitor before they give her up for lost."

  Mattie hardly knew how to reply to such an ungenerous speech, but Lady Repton's other neighbour faced her with more courage.

  "Pooh!" Mrs. Dempling said across her. "Likely the girl is more particular than most, which she has every right to be." Mrs. Dempling was a kindly woman, prettily plump in spite of her greying hair, which led Mattie to believe she had had a fair share of suitors in her day.

  "No, you are mistaken," Lady Repton pronounced. "Her mother confided her circumstances to me. The girl has received not even one proposal."

  "A fine thing for her mother to put about! Tell the world that she's getting desperate? Might as well hold an ax over the girl's head. Clearly, she's so nervous, they've nearly chased the life out of the child."

  "Child?" Lady Repton insisted upon having the last word. "One could hardly call her a child. Why, by her age, I was married and had six children."

  Poor dears, Mattie thought to herself. She noted Mrs. Dempling's shrewd expr
ession and fancied a similar thought had run through her mind. Mrs. Dempling's eye met Mattie's across her ladyship's boney chest, and she winked.

  "Well," Mrs. Dempling said, scanning the dance floor and changing the subject of their dissection. "She has a superior partner in Mr. Warrenton."

  Lady Repton sniffed. "A widower, saddled with three troublesome children, or so I have heard them described. Hardly a prize catch in my book."

  Mattie and Mrs. Dempling exchanged another look. A dimple peeking out from the other woman's cheek nearly caused Mattie to break into a giggle, so she turned away before lapsing into subdued silence.

  When no one responded to her last remark, Lady Repton cast a glance Pamela's way and demanded to know, "Will your daughter be dancing this evening, Your Grace?"

  "I think not," Mattie said, fearful of what Lady Repton might say if Pamela did. "She is not yet out."

  Her ladyship permitted herself a tight, approving smile. "I applaud your restraint, which, alas, in these days, is so seldom seen. But, of course, girls with dowries the size of Lady Pamela's rarely need help in finding adequate dance partners. It is the parents with so little with which to endow who feel they must push their daughters upon the world."

  Her maternal instincts aroused, Mattie turned to Pamela to see how she had borne this rude comment, but Pamela did not seem to have heard it. She was sitting on the edge of her seat, scanning the room for new arrivals.

  Since receiving a visit from Gerald that afternoon, Pamela had completely recovered from her indisposition and had looked forward to tonight's entertainment with barely concealed excitement. She had even submitted to the crimping of her curls with little protest. Mattie was too relieved to see her daughter in high spirits to question too deeply the cause of such a rapid recovery. Pamela's heightened colour had all the welcome look of good health.

  Mattie, herself, had not been at home when Gerald called, apparently without William. She had been sitting in Number 29, The King's Circus, consulting with an eminent physician, Fellow of the Royal Society, and Member of the Royal College of Physicians.

  The elegant Dr. Falconer had asked for several details about her symptoms, and Mattie was glad she had taken the trouble to provide herself with a list: lowness of spirit; loss of appetite— She had tried to think of others, but in the end had shied away from most. Claims of stomach-ache, which would be grossly untrue, might lead to too close an examination. Having never been ill, aside from an occasional cold, she was not certain just what a doctor did in more particular cases, and she certainly did not want to invite a search that might uncover her deceit.

  Consequently, she played it safe by describing her general symptoms since William's arrival in Bath. And, if the doctor peered at her a bit strangely when nothing more serious was forthcoming than a deplorable tendency to stare morosely into thin air, at least he never accused her of making false claims. He prescribed a modest cure, of which a change in regime seemed the principal ingredient, and— she was particularly grateful for this part— no more than two dippers of the waters per day.

  Now that her "illness" had been certified by a physician, Mattie hoped William would see that she indeed was suffering from the complaints of advanced age. He had not yet made an appearance tonight, but Mattie was certain Pamela would alert her to his arrival in time to compose herself.

  Lady Repton's insistence upon sitting next to her had taken Mattie by surprise. She had not expected to be acknowledged by such a haughty member of the Ton. But Lady Repton proved to be a virtual encyclopedia when it came to family connections and claimed to have a distant relative who had married into Mattie's own family.

  "You were a Delacorte, were you not, before marrying the duke?" Lady Repton had asked soon after taking her chair.

  "Yes. My father was Sir Geoffrey Delacorte."

  Lady Repton inclined her head, as if Mattie had confirmed one of her most profoundly-held notions. "My mother's great-uncle," she supplied, with an air of great wisdom, "had a first cousin who married into that branch of the Delacortes. She would have been your grandfather's great-aunt. A most distinguished woman. Perhaps you heard your parents speak of her?"

  "No, I am afraid I did not." Mattie was sure that Lady Repton would consider it a great fault in her not to have heard of such an august personage. "But, you see, they both died when I was young." She shrank inwardly, waiting for her inquisitor to recall the circumstance of her marriage.

  But Lady Repton, as poisonous as her mind could be upon certain topics, only replied, "Yes, I remember the story now. A boating accident, was it not?"

  "Yes."

  "I remember that my father read us the article about it when it occurred. The same piece mentioned that you had gone to live as His Grace's ward, and I remember my dear mother saying that you were fortunate indeed to have such a distinguished guardian."

  "Fortunate indeed!" Mrs. Dempling had bristled at the words. "To have lost her parents in such a way! And so suddenly! Why, poor child, you must have been dreadfully unhappy."

  "Yes, I was for a while," Mattie had replied, smiling gratefully to her. "But His Grace was very kind to me, and in time, I grew accustomed to being an orphan."

  Lady Repton had fallen silent then, but Mattie read nothing upon her face except a certain envy.

  As misplaced as this was, Mattie immediately felt an easing in her chest. It was as if the burden of years had just been lifted, leaving her free to breathe deeply at last, for no censorious thoughts had accompanied Lady Repton's envy.

  Everywhere Mattie had been since her arrival in Bath, she had been welcomed as if no scandal had ever attached itself to her name. People had been curious, perhaps, but that was natural with any newcomer. And how much more would they be with a duchess who had never appeared among them. Mattie had moved in society for a week and received nothing but attentiveness and kindness. Her fears of a lifetime had been groundless.

  And here was Lady Repton, surely a stickler of the worst sort, rising and asking Mattie whether she would care to repair with her to the card room.

  "No, thank you," Mattie said with a perfectly clear conscience, although the thought of spending an evening playing cards with her ladyship made her toes go cold. "I am certain that Pamela would prefer to watch the dancers, and I must stay near her."

  Lady Repton smiled that tight little smile again. "So refreshing to meet a mother besides myself who observes all the proprieties. You will be glad for your sacrifice when you see your daughter's name held up as a model to others in future years." She curtsied her farewell. "I shall give myself the pleasure of calling upon you, Duchess, to give you the benefit of my own experience as a parent."

  Mattie thanked her, hoping desperately to be out when Lady Repton called, and nearly sighed out loud when she departed. Lady Repton had no sooner left the row of chairs than Mrs. Dempling scooted over to take the vacant place.

  "Now we may be more comfortable," she said, settling into her new seat. "I have never liked that woman, if you will forgive my saying so."

  Astonished by such candour, Mattie could only stammer, "Of course. I'm afraid— that is, I must admit that I found her conversation to be a bit tedious, if that is what you mean."

  "Tedious?" Mrs. Dempling chuckled. "My dear, you are far too charitable. I can see it in your lovely face. Mean-spirited, I would sooner call her. But I'll leave off at the risk of sounding too much like her.

  "How are you settling into Bath?" she asked.

  Mattie was about to reply when Pamela goaded her with one elbow and made her jump.

  "There's Gerald," Pamela whispered, and her face turned a deep, healthy rose which would have soothed the worst of Mattie's maternal concerns, if she were not anticipating William's arrival as well.

  William had already entered the room, she saw, as she followed Pamela's glance. Interrupted in their chat, Mrs. Dempling followed it, too, and lit upon Gerald.

  "Is that Lord Westbury's brother?" she asked. "I heard those two gentlemen were in t
own, but I could not imagine why. Is one of them ailing, do you suppose?"

  Mattie feigned not to know, but she could feel the butterflies dancing in her stomach. "I have just made the gentlemen's acquaintance," she lied, forced to by William's idiotic charade. After Sir Reginald's resounding introduction in the Pump-room, she could not very well admit to an earlier familiarity without making everyone wonder about the cause for his deception.

  Pamela must have heard Mattie's speech, for she threw her mother a bewildered glance. Fortunately, Gerald had seen the two of them and was making his way towards them.

  "Hullo, Lady Pam, Your Grace." His casual attitude, even accompanied by a bow as it was, raised Mrs. Dempling's eyebrows.

  "Good evening, Gerald." Mattie knew it was useless to pretend that Gerald was a stranger to either of them, especially without her daughter's complicity. And she could not ask for that, not without awakening Pamela's suspicions.

  Confound William! she thought, for putting her in this most uncomfortable position. She had enough to worry her, what with all these new experiences, without having to manage that lie, too.

  She explained to Mrs. Dempling that Westbury Manor, where she and Pamela had recently moved, abutted the country seat of Lord Westbury, and, consequently, that the two young people had made friends. Mrs. Dempling accepted this as Mattie had hoped she would, with the implication that Lord Westbury, himself, was still a relative stranger to them. Everyone seemed to know that William spent the greater part of his time in London, which made Mattie wonder what he had done to make his movements so well-known.

  "Care to dance, Lady Pam." Gerald offered his arm with a conspiratorial grin which made Pamela blush and giggle.

  Mattie intervened. "That is very kind of you, Gerald, but I am afraid that Pamela must not dance this evening, since she has not been brought out."

  She felt a gentle nudge in the ribs. "Oh, go on, Your Grace." Mrs. Dempling smiled benevolently upon the young people and said, "What would be the harm in it? We are far from London, you know. Don't let that long-faced sourpuss spoil everyone's fun. She will try, you know."