by Sandra Heath
She’d dressed with great care for this important journey, choosing a three-quarter-length golden velvet pelisse and trained white muslin gown. A plumed golden velvet hat rested on her red hair, and she fidgeted impatiently with the strings of her reticule, sitting right on the edge of the seat opposite her father and sister.
Mr. Richmond glanced fondly at her, confident that such a delightful creature could only enchant the eminent husband arranged for her. Mr. Richmond was a tall kindly man with warm brown eyes, and in his youth had been considered very good-looking. A black tricorn hat rested on his gray-wigged head, and he wore a fur-trimmed Stroud-wool cloak.
His hands were thrust deep into a warm muff, and his gouty foot rested gingerly on a little stool. He was a Tory of the old order, an ardent admirer of the retired prime minister, Mr. Pitt, and a seasoned detractor of the perfidious Bonaparte. He mistrusted France, and said so, often, but at present his contented thoughts were on Jane and her dazzling future.
He knew no such contentment where his elder daughter was concerned. Christina was seated beside him now, her nose deep in a large volume of The Adventures of Gil Blas. He despaired of her, for she was quite determined to defy any attempt to find her a husband, and she had no intention at all of looking for one herself. Looking at her now, her dark hair falling in three heavy ringlets from beneath her dove gray velvet bonnet, her daintily feminine figure sweet in a matching dove-gray spencer and gray-and-white-striped silk gown, he couldn’t credit that she was so stubbornly and unreasonably set upon remaining single. He’d tried everything, from gentle persuasion to browbeating, but she’d remained adamant on the matter, and now he was resigned to her decision. He wanted his daughters to be happy as he’d been, for he’d loved both his wives, and had been loved by them, but only Jane seemed about to follow in his footsteps.
He leaned his head back, thinking of his marriages. Christina’s mother, Joan Stapleton, had been the daughter of a Gloucestershire clergyman, and she’d died in childbed. After a subsequent, bitterly painful love affair, he hadn’t wanted to marry again, but then Georgiana Vesey had come along. She’d been a lady of very good family, and her romantic elopement with a widower of modest means hadn’t pleased her relatives at all. She’d been disinherited during her lifetime, but after her death from a sudden fever, just after Jane was born, the Veseys had relented, and the considerable inheritance that should have been Georgiana’s had come to her daughter instead.
Mr. Richmond sighed quietly, reflecting on his youth. He’d been devastated by the loss of his first wife at Christina’s birth, but after a few years had been persuaded by his friends to reenter the social scene, taking himself to London for a while and leaving his daughter in the country. He’d discovered that he had wit and charm enough to survive very nicely in the capital, and he’d fallen in love again.
Oh, how he’d fallen in love! But who could not have tumbled head over heels for a creature as enchanting as Alicia Partington? She’d been so adorable, with laughing green eyes and a mane of golden hair, and she’d shown herself to be flatteringly interested in the young Gloucestershire widower.
But although she’d been bewitching, she’d also proved to be faithless, as he’d discovered in Chelsea on a memorable September afternoon in 1784. His eyes clouded as he recalled the pain of that day. He’d quit the capital almost immediately, and within two months had met and married Georgiana Vesey.
Ah, sweet Georgiana, she’d brought him such brief happiness, leaving him a widower for the second time only ten months after their marriage; and leaving him, too, with a second daughter, Jane. He hadn’t left Gloucestershire again, nor had he met anyone he’d wished to make his third wife, but in spite of Alicia’s sins, she still crossed his mind from time to time. If only she’d been faithful, how different might things have been? Clearing his throat a little noisily, he dismissed Alicia from his thoughts, and looked out of the carriage window as the autumn countryside swept by.
Luncheon at the Petty France Inn was a crowded, rather disagreeable affair, for the establishment was the first stage out of Bath, and the last stage in, which meant there were many other travelers availing themselves of its table. There was no pleasure to be had in lingering over the excellent beefsteak pie, not when one’s neighbors’ elbows were digging into one all the time, and the moment the horses were ready, the journey to Johnstone Street was continued.
It was four in the afternoon when the carriage at last breasted notorious Swainswick Hill, and Bath could be seen spreading up the slopes of the valley below. The elegant terraces, crescents, circuses, and squares were white in the October sunshine, and the Gothic splendor of the abbey church rose majestically above the surrounding rooftops, close to the shining curve of the Avon.
Descending the steep hill, the carriage joined the main London highway, driving southwest into the heart of the spa. The city was a little past its real heyday, when Beau Nash had reigned supreme, but it was still a very fashionable resort. Many fine carriages thronged the streets, and there were stylish ladies and gentlemen strolling on the raised pavements, pausing to look at the windows of the shops.
The carriage drove down Walcot Street toward Pulteney Bridge, for Johnstone Street lay across the river in the fairly new development built on the former Bathwick estate. Jane’s excitement could barely be suppressed now that they were actually in Bath, but Christina hardly glanced up from the absorbing pages of Gil Blas.
Pulteney Bridge spanned the Avon next to a weir that was swollen by the autumn rain. It was a splendid bridge of superb classical lines, built over with charming shops, so that from the pavement it was impossible to tell it was a bridge. Since it was the only way of crossing the Avon into the other part of Bath, it was also a dreadful bottleneck, and for some reason today seemed to be particularly bad, with traffic reduced to a crawl because of the crush.
It was Jane who first perceived that the cause of the jam was something taking place in Sydney Gardens, the famous Vauxhall or pleasure gardens, that lay about a half-mile ahead, on the edge of the town. A great diversion was in progress, for the whole of Bath seemed to have turned out.
As the weary coachman inched the carriage forward, Jane got up to lower the window glass to see what was happening. After a moment she gave an excited gasp. “Look! Oh, do look! It’s a balloon!”
Mr. Richmond sat forward sharply. “One of those infernal aerostations?” he growled disapprovingly.
“Yes. Oh, please look!” Jane was entranced, gazing over the rooftops in the direction of Sydney Gardens.
Christina was roused from the book at last, closing it carefully and setting it on the seat beside her before getting up to squeeze next to her excited sister.
A large crimson-and-blue globe floated serenely in the sky, about three hundred feet up in the air. It was a very novel sight, and Jane stared breathlessly at it, her imagination completely captured. A long rope appeared to be anchoring the balloon to the ground, descending from the golden car slung beneath the globe, and vanishing among the trees of the pleasure gardens. There was a single figure in the car, a daring young pilot who was brandishing a Union Jack to and fro, much to the delight of the crowds.
Still very disapproving, Mr. Richmond reluctantly got to his feet, lowering the other glass to peer out.
Jane continued to gaze at the balloon. “Oh, it’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen,” she breathed. “Isn’t he a hero of the air? I wish I was up there with him.”
Christina heard their father’s angry reaction to this last remark, and nudged her sister warningly, but it was to no avail, for Jane’s attention was fixed intently on the balloon. “What must it be like to fly like a bird?” she mused wistfully. “How magical it must be to float up there, gazing down upon everything.”
Mr. Richmond drew irritatedly back inside. “Close the window at once, ladies,” he commanded, sitting down and replacing his swollen foot carefully on the stool.
Jane didn’t hear. Christina nudged her again
, sharply this time, and with sudden realization she pulled quickly inside, pouting with disappointment. “May we not watch it, Father?”
“No, missy, you may not,” he snapped.
“But ...”
“Such engines are vulgar and disreputable, and if I perceive you—either of you—marveling at it again, I shall be obliged to reprimand you most severely.”
Christina knew when it was wise to submit, and she lowered her eyes meekly, resuming her seat, but Jane didn’t always know when to stop. “I don’t think it’s so very reprehensible just to look,’’ she declared, still pouting.
Mr. Richmond’s eyes darkened. “That’s quite enough, young lady, you aren’t Lady St. Clement yet. Aerostations are an abomination, and it isn’t without reason that those who ascend in them are called balloonatics. The subject is now closed, is that quite clear?”
They stared at him, astonished by his vehemence.
“Is that quite clear?” he repeated.
“Yes, Father,” they replied.
“And if that thrice-cursed fellow is making ascents from Sydney Gardens, you are both forbidden to go anywhere near. Is that clear as well?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Good.”
For once it was too much, even for Christina. “Father, is something wrong?” she ventured hesitantly, for she’d never seen him so fierce before, except, perhaps, when he spoke of Bonaparte.
“No. Should there be?” he replied testily.
“No, it’s just ...”
“Yes?”
“Well, you are being rather, er, forceful.”
“I have my reasons, oh, yes, I have my reasons,” he answered with great feeling; then he looked away, signifying that the conversation was most definitely at an end.
The sisters looked askance at each other, still very puzzled. Why did he loathe balloons and balloonists so much?
No further mention was made of the offending object in the sky, and several minutes later it descended out of sight into the Sydney Gardens Vauxhall. The traffic began to move again, and the carriage crossed the bridge, entering the short length of Argyle Street. A hundred yards or so later they were negotiating Laura Place, the elegant circus off which Johnstone Street led.
Johnstone Street was a short cul-de-sac of fine three-story town houses, and number 14A, the property of Sir Archibald Fitton, was almost on the corner of Laura Place. The house next door, number 15, was right on the corner, and a small crowd was gathered on the pavement outside, gazing not in the direction of the pleasure gardens, but up at a pedimented second-floor window, as if waiting for something.
The coachman edged the team past the crowd, and drew up by the graceful wrought-iron railings of number 14A. Mr. Richmond alighted first, lowering himself gingerly to the pavement and taking care not to jar his sore foot. As he assisted his daughters down, a stir passed through the crowd, and someone called out, “Mr. Pitt! Mr. Pitt!”
Mr. Richmond turned as quickly as his foot would permit, looking up at the pedimented window as everyone began to cheer.
Someone had drawn the net curtains aside, and a man had appeared. He was tall and very slender, his face puffy and unwell, and his powdered auburn hair was tied back with a black ribbon. His clothes were formal, making him seem even more frail, and he was immediately recognizable as the Mr. Pitt, for his questing nose had appeared in countless political cartoons. He was still only forty-three, but ill health had aged him, and perhaps long public service had as well, for he’d become prime minister at the incredible age of only twenty-four, and had held the office for eighteen years before resigning.
Mr. Richmond stared openmouthed. “Upon my soul, I do believe I’ve taken the house next door to Pitt himself!”
Christina smiled. “I knew he was supposed to be coming here for the cure, it was in The Times a week or so ago.”
“By Gad, how splendid,” breathed her father. “Maybe I’ll manage to get an introduction, and then I’ll persuade him to get back to the helm, where he belongs. We need him to stand up to the French!”
Christina glanced at the unfortunate Mr. Pitt, who didn’t look in any condition to be at the helm, or to take on the French.
Jane drew her aside as Mr. Richmond continued to stare up at his hero. “Trust you to have read The Times, Christina Richmond.”
“It happens to be very informative.”
“And excruciatingly dull. Oh, do stop looking at that window, I want to talk about the balloon!”
“Sh, or Father will hear,” Christina warned anxiously, “You’d be wise to forget all about balloons, Jane.”
“Father is being very unreasonable.”
“Maybe, but he’s still our father, and what he says is law.”
Jane sighed crossly, turning to look toward Sydney Gardens. “I would like to see it, and I’d adore to fly in it.”
“Put any such notion from your head, Jane. You’re here to meet Robert Temple, and you’d be exceeding foolish to do anything that might even remotely jeopardize the betrothal. Ladies don’t make ascents in balloons, certainly not unmarried ladies about to make grand matches!”
Jane’s eyes flashed, and suddenly she was very much the spirited redhead. “I sometimes think you haven’t got an adventurous bone in your body, Christina.”
“There’s a difference between being adventurous and being headstrong, which latter trait you appear to have perfected over the years!”
Jane scowled at her, and then gathered her skirts to sweep into the house.
Christina sighed, for although she loved her sister dearly, there were times when she could cheerfully have strangled her. The balloon wasn’t important, but Robert Temple was. She glanced toward Sydney Gardens, strongly suspecting that Jane wouldn’t forget about the balloon; indeed, if there was a chance of sneaking off to see it at close quarters, the future Lady St. Clement was quite foolishly capable of doing just that.
Chapter Three
Sir Archibald Fitton was a gentleman of taste, as the interior of his residence bore elegant witness. Furnished in the French style, it was a gracious dwelling that both Christina and Jane found very much to their liking, although their father cast dark glances at all things French, except, perhaps, champagne and cognac.
Christina’s bedroom was at the rear of the house on the second floor, looking over a walled garden and two hundred yards of open land sweeping down to the Avon, not far from Pulteney Bridge. Bath rose from the far bank, presided over by the tower of the fifteenth-century abbey church.
The room was blue and white, with striped cotton on the walls above low white paneling, and ruched white silk at the two tall shuttered windows. The Aubusson carpet was beautifully patterned in the same colors, and so was the tapestry-upholstered armchair before the fire, but refreshing contrast was provided by the lemon silk hangings of the bed.
A dressing table covered with frilled white muslin stood against the wall between the windows, and there was an inlaid table beside the bed. In the corner to one side of the carved marble fireplace there was a wash-stand, and in the other corner there was an immense wardrobe with mirrors on the doors. Paintings and more mirrors adorned the walls, a domed clock and some silver-gilt candlesticks stood on the mantelpiece, and an open potpourri jar had been placed on the hearth, filling the warm air with the scent of roses.
The short October evening was drawing to a close, and because the windows faced almost due west, the sunset shone brilliantly in on Christina as she sat reading in the armchair by the fire, waiting to go down to an early dinner. She wore a satin gown the same lilac as her eyes, it had a golden belt with a clasp fixing the high waistline immediately beneath her breasts, and long tiffany gauze sleeves gathered at her wrists. The fashionable train spilled over the carpet, and the low scooped neckline was graced by the only item of jewelry she’d chosen to wear tonight, a dainty pearl choker necklace bequeathed to her by her mother. A fringed white shawl rested lightly around her shoulders, and her dark hair was twisted up i
nto a loose knot, leaving a froth of little curls to frame her face.
The pages of Gil Blas turned slowly as she whiled away the minutes before dinner. Her father intended to follow the Bath regimen to the letter, which meant very early mornings indeed, hence the disagreeable hour set for dinner. As always, Gil Blas absorbed her, so much so that she gave a start when the clock began to chime half-past six. She closed the book, smiling a little as she wondered if the stay in Bath would lead to her father’s realizing his great ambition, meeting Mr. Pitt.
The door burst open suddenly, and Jane came in in a flurry of rose-pink organdy muslin. A diamond-studded comb flashed in her carefully pinned hair, and a knotted pink-and-white shawl trailed along the floor behind her. She was holding a letter that had just been delivered, and her eyes were bright with excitement and pleasure. “Oh, Christina, he’s written to me again! It’s a perfect letter, simply perfect!”
“What else could such a paragon write?” murmured Christina, setting Gil Blas aside. “Am I going to be permitted to read it, or is it too passionate for my delicate sensibilities?”
Jane gave her a pert look. “I’ve a mind to keep it from you now.”
“But you won’t, because you wish to flaunt it,” observed Christina accurately.
“Certainly I do, wouldn’t you?”
“Probably.” Christina held out her hand for the letter, which was written on the same fine vellum as all the others.
Curzon Street
October 3, 1803
My dear Miss Richmond,
The singular joy I feel because you are to be my wife is such that I am compelled to write to you again. The moment of our first meeting will be precious indeed, and you may believe sincerity dictates my pen when I assure you that time will pass on leaden feet until the evening of the autumn ball.