"Oh . . . I will not believe that." Mattie did her best to deny any knowledge of these sentiments, and it was true that she could not quite believe it. Where it was almost certain that William would have been disappointed not to see her, especially after sending her those buns— a thought which made her ache with guilt— he would never have shown his hurt unless he had wanted to achieve something by displaying it.
William seemed stubbornly determined that everyone should know he was pursuing her.
Mattie changed the subject as best she could and eventually showed her visitor out in the belief that she had distracted him and successfully squelched his gossip. After that, she had nothing to do, but stare at a book until Pamela came home.
This she did in mid-afternoon, full of excitement over the vistas they had seen and eager to return on the tenth of August when a large horse fair would take place upon the down. Mattie gave her consent, hiding her sadness that she could not go out herself.
The guidebook she had purchased at a street stall promised her that Bath was "one of the most distinguished spots in the kingdom, where the Wealthy find every comfort and convenience and the Youthful can indulge in every rational pleasure." But Mattie knew she must not go anywhere, either to the Sydney Gardens or to the theatre, which she had been longing to do, for fear that William might frequent such places. All shopping must cease or else she might run into him in Milsom or Bond Streets. Not even Mr. Gibbons's library in Argyle-Street would be safe for she might be seen through the glass.
She had to do everything in her power to overcome his latest tactics, for she could not bear for him to embarrass himself in public. Still, she was firm in her resolve that her difficulties would not interfere with Pamela's life.
But the next day, when again she did not go to the Pump-room, another bouquet came from William, this time a much larger one of delicate, blue forget-me-nots. "From Lord Westbury again, Your Grace," Penworth announced.
Unfortunately, the visitor who witnessed this was Mrs. Dempling. She exclaimed over the flowers, wondering how Lord Westbury had managed to secure so many at this time of year. "For it is rather late in the summer, and I should think they would all have been burned up by now, as warm as it has been.
"But to be sure— " she threw Mattie an arch look— "he has taken great trouble to send these."
"I cannot— imagine why." Mattie tried to cover her confusion. It was said the forget-me-not should only be sent to one's truest love.
"Fie, my dear! You must think me a simpleton. And no need to pretend to be one yourself. Anyone can see that his lordship is heels over head in love with you."
"I know no such thing. Lord Westbury is merely— showing kindness to a neighbour."
"But such extreme kindness? Sending flowers two days in a row?"
Mattie started at this.
Mrs. Dempling gave her a nod. "Bath is a very small place, my dear. By the time the card room had closed at the Upper Rooms last night, everyone knew that his lordship had sent roses to you. And everyone knows what roses mean."
Agitated, Mattie could only look away. "Oh, Mrs. Dempling— You must not! You know what people would say if they thought such a foolish thing."
"Pooh! Let them say what they will. What does it matter?"
Her attitude astonished Mattie, who, not comprehending such indifference, could only stammer, "It matters a great deal."
Mrs. Dempling's face fell. When she spoke next, it was in a more reserved tone. "If that is what matters to you, Your Grace, then I apologize for my rudeness."
Mattie hastened to assure her that no offense had been taken, but she could see that Mrs. Dempling was disappointed in her. Unwilling for her behaviour to go unexplained, she said, "It is not for me, but for my daughter's sake that I must be careful."
Mrs. Dempling merely gazed at her sadly. "And it is not for me to give you advice, my dear, so I will remain silent on that score."
Mattie thought her visitor had forgiven her, but Mrs. Dempling took herself away soon thereafter. Mattie turned her eyes to William's flowers, inhaled deeply to catch their scent, and thought about the time in her garden, when he had kissed her.
Her garden would be a disaster now. She had left no instructions to her gardener, knowing he would not take the pains she had with it. Of a sudden, Mattie missed her flowers intolerably. She wanted to go back to the serenity she had found there, go back to the innocence she had known before William had come.
But then, her heart argued, you would have to give up the beautiful memory of his arms about you and those few moments of bliss before you discovered what he really wanted.
She could not give those up. No matter how lonely and miserable she would feel from now on without him, she would not give up those moments.
* * * *
William sent flowers every day that week. Bluebells for constancy, more roses for love, and lastly, crimson carnations for his ailing heart.
Seeing the progress Mattie had made, her new friends and admirers, he had thought that she would respond to his flower messages, if not to his other overtures. But, perhaps, insulated from society as she had been, she had not understood them. William was frustrated with waiting. He had made a cake of himself all over town, wearing his heart on his sleeve so she could not mistake the seriousness of his intentions. He, a noted Corinthian and, as some thought, peerless catch, had thrown his heart at her feet for all the world to see. It seemed she could not, or would not, realize that he did not mean to live without her.
He had to acknowledge that his Mattie was stubborn. He had driven her back into a sort of seclusion, which was the worst thing for her. He needed to rectify their course.
William decided it was time to stop acting the gentleman. He had not wished to bully her; he had given his promise that he would not. Mattie had enough neighbours and servants doing that already. William had preferred to give her his love. To teach her, in fact, what real love was about.
He thought that by now she would have had a taste of society and should have learned that all her fears were pointless. But, if she had not learned this on her own, then he would have to help her.
And, if she would not respond to his more gentle urgings, she would have to listen to his more forceful ones.
He took up his hat, called for a chair, and went to see her in Upper Camden Place.
* * * *
"I am afraid Her Grace has just gone out," her stately butler said, hiding the curiosity he surely must feel. William had given strict orders that his gifts were always to be announced, so he knew that Penworth was apprised of his efforts.
"Do you know where I might find her?" he asked, meaning to chase her down if he had to.
A visible struggle went on in the butler's mind, before he answered, "I am not at liberty to say, my lord. However— " his voice softened imperceptibly— "if I might venture— the Lady Pamela is still at home if you would wish to pose that question to her."
"Thank you, Penworth." William stepped inside, aware that he had discovered an ally.
"I shall ask her to see you directly, if you would care to follow me. You may make yourself comfortable in the saloon."
William followed him as far as the next floor, but decided to stand by the stairs instead. He had not long to wait. Pamela came bouncing down within a few minutes.
"Hullo, your lordship."
Her unaffected greeting cheered William. "Hullo to you, Lady Pam." He watched her blush at Gerald's appellation for her. "I've been given to know that your mother is out. Do you know where she's gone?"
A cloud crossed Pamela's face. "Yes. You won't believe this, but she's gone to take the waters."
"To the Pump-room, do you mean?" After his waiting so patiently for a week when Mattie had not come, this was quite a turn.
"No. I mean she's taking a round of baths. She said her doctor prescribed them. Listen, Lord Westbury . . . " Pamela struggled to hide her concern . . . "you don't think Mama is really ill, do you?"
L
aughter welled inside William, to think of Mattie's carrying her charade so far as to take a bathing cure. "No, I don't," he said. He could not hide his amusement entirely, but it seemed to comfort Pamela. "I simply think that your mother is determined to carry her own brand of quite charming lunacy a bit too far.
"You wouldn't happen to know which bath she is visiting?" he inquired, before Pamela could ask what he meant.
"Yes, I do. It's the King's Bath." Pamela seemed to remember something. "Mattie told me not to tell anyone where she had gone, but she couldn't have meant you, do you think?"
"Oh, surely not." William was at pains to hold his laughter inside. "Going for a ride with Gerald today?"
"Yes," Pamela coloured, and it seemed to William that she had become almost beautiful. "We are riding to Claverton-down. To see some race horses," she added hastily.
"What a splendid idea. Well, I wish I could accompany you, but I have business to attend in the centre of town. You will say hello to my brother for me, will you not? I have not seen him this age, and cannot imagine where he has been keeping himself."
Since he knew very well that Gerald was practically living in Upper Camden Place, he was gratified by the blush with which Lady Pamela bid him good day.
* * * *
Mattie was soaking up to her neck in the warm bath, her high-waisted bathing gown drifting languidly in the wake of every passerby.
She had found the bath to be another social meeting place. Although a few bathers were plainly ill and attended by nurses, an equal number seemed to have nothing much the matter with them. Ladies wore fetching bonnets with feathers flying above their drab, shift-like gowns. Old dandies in cocked and high-crowned hats stood about in exaggerated postures. Some of the gentlemen were not above putting quizzing glasses to their eyes to ogle the younger women.
Seeing this, and wishing nothing more than to disappear, Mattie had found what she thought would be a subtle hiding place. But the cosy recess she had chosen behind a Doric colonnade had proved to be nothing less than a trap.
At the moment, she was doing her best to ignore the marked stares of three strange men who had followed her and stopped to chat, blocking her exit. They had watched her movements from the moment the attendant had opened the door to the bath from the ladies' quarters. Startled at first to see men sharing the bath with the ladies, Mattie had had no choice but to move among them. So far, none had approached her, but she was uncomfortably aware of being alone in a crowd, who seemed to have nothing better to do than flirt in the most outrageous way.
The water, too, was anything but refreshing. Warm and grey with a fine type of sand, it had a ponderous feel to it that made Mattie shiver with distaste. She was wondering how long she should stand before trying to make her way past the men, when a familiar figure waded through them and glided straight towards her.
A wave of relief filled her chest, and a smile broke across her face before she remembered that William was the man she had come here to avoid. Even as her heart beat in a flutter of irritation with herself, she could not help noticing how handsome he looked in his bathing garb.
On the other men, she had found the brown bathing linens distinctly less than appealing, but with William's long, broad chest, the dampened shirt clung about his waist in a way that was most attractive. Mattie did her best to recall that she should be annoyed with him for coming, but it was hard to do when he stood staring down at her.
"Hello, Mattie," he said in an undervoice, a voice so low and intimate, it made her spine tingle. "What in heaven's name are you doing here?"
"I— am taking a cure. I told you that I was suffering from something. But what about you, Lord Westbury? I am astonished to see a gentleman as young and fit as yourself inside the baths."
Ignoring her question, William put his back to the wall, laid his hands on the stone seat behind him, and hoisted himself out of the water. His motion sent rivulets pouring from his torso and down his bent legs. Mattie gawked at the muscles in his arms, and then did everything in her power to prevent her eyes from falling to his Inexpressibles where the soaked material now clung in a most revealing way.
"Won't you sit here," William said, patting the seat beside him. "I would be very pleased to help you up."
"William— Lord Westbury, how can you even suggest such an improper thing?" Mattie felt a flush rising to her temples. She put her hand to her lips to hide an outraged smile. If William's bathing dress fell in such a way, what would her own do?
"What?" William gazed innocently around the bath. "Oh, yes, I see the difficulty. You would not want all these other people to witness your deshabille. And now that I think about it, neither would I, although I shall miss the pleasure myself."
"William, you mustn't talk in that fashion!"
"No? Then, how should I talk to you, Mattie, so you will hear?"
Mattie felt an ache rising up inside her. She had not missed the gentle note of pain in his voice. "You know how I feel. And you know how futile this all is."
"Not at all." A flippant note had replaced the pain. "I think I will wear you down eventually.
"How did you like the flowers I sent you?" he asked before she could refute his statement.
"Oh . . . " Mattie could not keep her voice from softening. "They were so beautiful. All of them. I had them carried up to my room, so I— "
"Aha!" William's brow rose wickedly. "To your bedroom, do you mean?"
"Yes, but not because of what you think!" Mattie felt heated by her mistake. Now that William was here, the water's temperature had gone up by several degrees, and whereas before it had felt mildly oily and cloying, now it seemed like a pool of warm milk, silky and smooth and seductive. "I took the flowers up to my room because I thought their aroma might freshen the air. You know I have not been well, and it has long been thought that flowers soothe the invalid."
"Oh, I see. You must pardon me, Duchess, but I have not yet heard what your symptoms might be."
William had the nerve then to put two fingers about his eye as if he had an ogling glass and to stare down at her figure in the water. "No, I see nothing glaringly missing, nor too much out of place, but it could be my eyesight in this dusky room."
"William, what are you doing here?"
"I have come to see whether you would attend the theatre with me this evening."
Ohhhh. . . the wretch, Mattie thought. When he must know how much I would love to do just that. As much as it hurt to refuse him, Mattie stiffened her spine and said, "I cannot. I am afraid if I did it would look very particular."
"Which is exactly what it should. I would not invite anyone else but you, now that I love you."
"William, please, you must respect my age and illness."
He clapped his palm to his forehead. "Alas, I forget again. Just what are you suffering from, Mattie?"
"From— from palpitations!" Mattie asserted indignantly, grasping at the first thing that came to mind.
"Ahhhhh. . . " the satisfied way William said this told her she had made a grave error. "Then I know the cure for that. Have I not told you that I suffer from palpitations, too, whenever you are near? But we can do something about that, Mattie."
"William . . . no." Mattie felt her breath coming in delightful little gasps. Her knees had grown weak. "We cannot— and you mustn't— " Then a light went off inside her head, and she thought, If William feels as weak about me as I do about him, then perhaps he will agree to an affaire after all.
"At least," she said, pitching her voice so low that no one else would ever hear and turning away to hide her own blushes, "there is something we might do, but I have already proposed it to you . . . ."
She trailed off on a note of inquiry. A second passed. Then another. And another, before William slid back into the water. Mattie felt him take her arm in a rigid grasp.
"Your Grace, you must let me escort you to the ladies' quarters before I take myself out of here. I am finding the air a little thick."
Mattie quaked at
the suppressed anger in his tone. Cowed and ashamed, she allowed him to lead her to the other side of the room where an attendant waited to open the doors for her.
"Good day, Your Grace." William bowed his head to her before wading through the chest-high water to the gentlemen's quarters. Mattie would have watched him go, but for the woman waiting to hand her up the steps. All she could do was drag herself up and away through the swinging doors with a heavy heart.
Chapter Fourteen
All the rest of that day, and throughout the night and the next morning, Mattie felt lost in a sea of misery. She had angered William. William, who had never shown her anything but gentleness and kindness, who had humbled himself to pursue her futilely in public, who had had the courage to bear public scorn. And whose only sin had been to fall in love with someone worse than a coward.
But had she been cowardly for herself? Her mind argued no, not as long as she was a mother and had Pamela to think of. Pamela must not be made to feel she was an outcast of society, not when living as a member of the Ton had so many delights to offer her: the theatre, the opera, the parties. Why, only this afternoon, Pamela had gone with friends on a visit to Sydney Gardens, which had been followed by a shopping expedition.
Outings such as these would be impossible if Pamela's mother disgraced herself. The feeling of knowing that each person she passed was whispering about her was so painfully fresh to Mattie that it might have happened yesterday instead of twenty years ago. She could not bear the thought of Pamela's suffering the same estrangement.
But to realize how much she had hurt William, whom she loved— she, who had always tried to spare the feelings of others— was almost more than Mattie could stand. His steely expression, the cold light in his eyes as he had bid her good day, the hurt in his tone drowned all other thoughts and feelings from her mind, so that she was startled to hear Pamela address her by name.
"Mattie?" Pamela had entered the parlour some time before, but Mattie had been so swamped with unhappiness she had not noticed how unusually quiet her daughter was.
The Bumblebroth Page 18