by Sandra Heath
I am, yours very simply,
Robert Temple
Jane watched breathlessly. “Isn’t it perfect? Isn’t it the most perfect letter ever written?”
“Well, I don’t know that I’d go quite that far ...” began Christina teasingly.
“Don’t be infuriating, just admit that he’s quite wonderful and that I’m the most fortunate creature on earth!”
“Very well, I admit it on both counts,” replied Christina, returning the letter.
Jane held it against her heart, twirling joyfully so that the perfume from the potpourri jar moved richly around the room. “I’m so happy I think I might burst!”
“Oh, please don’t do that, not in my bedroom, anyway.”
Jane ignored her. “I’m going to be the envy of the world at the ball, and I’m going to exult in every second of it!” she cried, laughing.
Such happiness was infectious, and Christina found herself laughing as well, but then Jane suddenly stopped twirling, a lightning change of mood making her serious. “What if I bore him?”
Christina stared at her. “Bore him? You? Hardly.”
“No, I mean it, Christina. You know what we’ve heard about him, about the many ladies he’s, well, he’s known ...”
“So?”
“So I’m a green country girl, I’ve never been to London, and I don’t know anything about high society. Why, you know more about it than I do!”
“Gentlemen like to play the field, Jane, but they don’t want their wives to have done the same.” Christina got up, taking her sister’s hand. “Don’t you think it would be strange if such a gentleman hadn’t associated with the opposite sex?”
Jane lowered her eyes. “I know, but I can’t help feeling dull. How can I possibly be as interesting as an actress? I haven’t had any experience at all.”
“I should hope not. Listen to me, Jane Richmond. Husbands should be experienced, for then they can know how to please—no, to pleasure—their wives.”
“Christina!” Jane was shocked at such a worldly observation.
“Well, it’s true. A wife should be innocent, and she should be taught everything by a loving, knowledgeable husband. At least, that’s what I would wish.”
“Is that the sort of thing you read in your books?”
Christina grinned. “It’s the sort of thing I read between the lines in my books.”
“Perhaps I should take up reading.”
“Why bother when you’ll soon have a real flesh-and-blood husband to occupy your time.”
Jane was still staring at her. “How can you look so demure and yet say such outrageous things?”
“Being demure doesn’t preclude me from thinking.”
“Evidently.” Jane’s gaze became quizzical. “Which must lead me to again ask the obvious.”
“Why don’t I put myself out to find a husband?”
“Yes.”
“For the same old answer, because I wouldn’t settle for anything less than a love match. Oh, please don’t take offense, for I don’t in any way wish to denigrate your match with Robert Temple, but you have to admit you seem to have been fortunate.”
“You might be as well.”
Christina shook her head. “I’d rather remain as I am.”
“But ...”
“Please, Jane, just leave it alone.”
“Oh, very well. For the time being.”
Christina sighed. This conversation had taken place in so many different ways over the last few years that she really didn’t think there could be any more variations on the same theme.
Jane went to one of the windows, staring out at the silhouette of Bath abbey against the blood-red sunset. Thoughts of the balloon returned. “Christina, I do think Father’s being grossly unfair about the balloon. It’s quite ridiculous for us to be forbidden even to go to Sydney Gardens.”
“I agree, but Father quite obviously has his reasons.”
“Which are to be kept a mystery.”
“That’s his privilege.”
Jane glanced at her over her shoulder. “I still think balloons are wonderful,” she said slowly.
For once, Christina didn’t detect anything untoward in her sister’s manner. “I’ve found out a little about this particular one,” she said.
“You have? How?”
“Jenny told me.” Jenny was Christina’s maid, who, together with Jane’s maid, Ellen, and their father’s man, Edward, had traveled to Johnstone Street several days ahead of the family.
Jane left the window. “What did she tell you?”
“Well, the aeronaut is a certain Mr. William Grenfell, a dashing young gentleman who has recently been making ascents over London.”
“A gentleman?”
“Most definitely, and good-looking as well, from all accounts.”
Jane’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, how romantic. A handsome young gentleman pilot, soaring in the sky over London and Bath.”
“He makes only captive ascents, and started here only yesterday, which accounts for all the furor when we arrived. It’s still very much a nine-day wonder.”
“Captive ascents? What does that mean?”
“The balloon is held to the ground by a long rope.”
Jane drew a sighing breath, her eyes still shining. “Oh, I do so want to see it all properly.”
Christina was alerted at last. “No,” she said firmly.
“Oh, but—”
“No! We’ve been forbidden, Jane, and that’s the end of it.”
“We could just stroll along Great Pulteney Street one day soon—”
“No,” repeated Christina wearily. “I’m not going to disobey Father, Jane, and under the present circumstances, you shouldn’t even be thinking about it.”
“Because of Robert Temple?”
“Is there any need to ask? Of course because of Robert Temple. I know you only too well, Jane Richmond. You wouldn’t be content with a mere stroll, you’d have to go into Sydney Gardens, and then you’d have to walk right up to the balloon. I wouldn’t put it past you to then step into the balloon’s car and instruct Mr. Grenfell to take you up!”
“I wouldn’t!”
“No? Forgive me if I view that assurance with a rather jaundiced eye. I’m Christina, remember? I’ve been with you all your life, and I know the sort of scrape you’re capable of getting into. It isn’t so very long since I caught you riding bareback in the lower meadow, and walking with that shepherd to look for lambs. Then you waded in the stream up to your knees, chased that peddler with a stick, argued with Squire James outside the church—”
“He was being positively beastly about the Reverend Hunter’s sermon!” protested Jane indignantly.
“You still shouldn’t have called him a boneheaded old clodhopper.”
Jane grinned. “But that’s exactly what he is.”
“Maybe, but ladies don’t say such things,” answered Christina, struggling not to grin as well. “Jane, your impetuosity has caused a great deal of trouble over the years, and you simply can’t take a chance now. You’re going to be Lady St. Clement, so please, please behave like it.”
“I am behaving like it. I’m a reformed character, truly I am.”
“I wonder how many incorrigible miscreants have appeared before judges and said the selfsame thing?” mused Christina with some feeling.
Jane was offended. “I’m hardly an incorrigible miscreant.”
“No? What else would you call someone who’s constantly in hot water of one sort or another, albeit without Father ever knowing?”
“I’ve already said that I’m a reformed character. I don’t intend to misbehave at all, Christina, I promise.”
“I sincerely hope so, otherwise I don’t give this match with Robert Temple much of a chance. You really must curb your hotheadedness, Jane.”
Jane sighed. “I know, and I will. I want this marriage, Christina—in fact I think I’m in love with Robert already.”
Christina smiled. “Ju
st you keep reminding yourself of the fact, and then behave accordingly.”
The dinner gong echoed dully through the house, and Christina adjusted her shawl. “I’m hoping against hope that we’re going to be spared roast beef and Yorkshire pudding just this once.”
“I hate to disillusion you, but when I crossed the landing just now, the aroma was suspiciously familiar.”
“Oh, I do wish Father would choose something else for a change. I swear I’ll wake up one morning and find my head has turned into a Yorkshire pudding.”
Jane laughed, linking her arm. “If you found yourself a husband, Christina Richmond, you’d be in charge of the menu and need never have roast beef ever again.”
“With my luck, I’d choose a husband who shared Father’s culinary fixation,” replied Christina dryly.
They proceeded from the room and down the staircase, but at the bottom Christina felt obliged to issue another warning. “For goodness’ sake, steer clear of all mention of balloons. A safer topic of conversation would be the blessed Mr. Pitt.”
“Safer, but as dull as dull can be.”
“Grin and bear it, sister mine,” replied Christina, pushing open the dining-room door.
They entered to see the immense joint of roast beef ready and waiting on the table.
Chapter Four
The strict regimen of the Bath cure commenced before dawn for Mr. Richmond, who rose before either of his daughters was awake. He was conveyed to the Cross Bath in a sedan chair, along with many fellow sufferers, immersed for an hour in the hot waters, and then wrapped in blankets from head to toe to be returned to Johnstone Street in the same sedan chair. He immediately adjourned to his bed to cool down, after which he’d take breakfast and then sally forth again, this time to the Pump Room to drink the water. It was his return from the Cross Bath that at last aroused his daughters from their slumber.
Christina awoke, stretching luxuriously in the lemon-silk-hung bed. She felt refreshed after such a long sleep, and didn’t lie there for long. Flinging back the bedclothes, she slipped from the warm bed and put on her apricot wool wrap. Pausing only to drag a brush through her tangled hair, she left the room to go to sit with Jane for their customary early-morning dish of tea.
Her sister’s room was at the front of the house, overlooking the corner of Laura Place. It was a gold-and-cream room, bright with early-morning sun because the windows faced the east. Jane’s maid, Ellen, had already brought the tray of tea and attended to the fire, so the room was not only bright and inviting, it was comfortably warm as well.
Jane was sitting up sleepily in her immense four-poster bed, her red hair tumbling over the shoulders of her white satinet nightgown. She smiled as Christina entered. “Good morning, I trust you slept as well as I did.”
“I think I must have done,” replied Christina, hurrying to kiss her cheek before going to the tray of tea next to the velvet fireside chair.
Jane watched her pour the tea. “You’re always disgustingly eager for your first cup of the day.”
“I love my morning tea,” admitted Christina, taking one of the dainty floral porcelain cups to her, and then returning to sit in the chair, stretching out her bare toes toward the fire.
They sipped the tea in companionable silence for a while, and then Christina noticed Robert Temple’s miniature on the mantelpiece, the painted face caught in a shaft of sunlight. The eloquent gray eyes seemed to be gazing at her, and by a trick of the light the lips appeared to move. She lowered her cup.
Jane observed her. “I’m of a mind to be piqued, for you appear to find my intended completely absorbing.”
“Well, he is rather striking, you have to admit.”
“I think he’s beautiful,” sighed Jane.
“Beautiful? What sort of word is that to apply to a gentleman?” Christina smiled at her.
“A silly word,” admitted Jane, “but it does seem appropriate. Oh, I can’t wait for the night of the ball.”
She sat up then. “That reminds me, when Ellen came in a little while ago I instructed her to go to Madame Gilbert, the couturiere in Milsom Street. I’ve been in such a tizzy about everything recently that I’ve lost weight, and when I tried on my new plowman’s gauze evening gown last night, it positively hung. It has to be taken in before the ball, and last time we stayed here, Madame Gilbert was so very efficient with that badly torn pelisse.”
“She was indeed.” Christina smiled then. “No doubt you’ll soon be eating like the proverbial horse again, and the poor woman will have to let it all out again.”
Jane laughed. “Probably. Actually, I’ve taken it upon myself to mention your gown in the message to Madame Gilbert as well. I hope you don’t mind.”
“My gown? Why?”
“Well, when you tried it on before we left home, I admit I thought it the prettiest thing, and more bluebell than our woods in May, but on reflection I think the silk needs just a little adornment.”
Christina thought for a moment. “You’re probably right—you usually are where such things are concerned.”
“Only because I make the effort,” observed Jane slyly.
Christina gave her an arch look. “You aren’t going to start all that at this unearthly hour, are you?”
“Well, in the absence of any other diversion ...”
“There’ll be diversion enough in a moment, for I believe I hear Father stirring from his bed. He’ll be expecting his breakfast in a moment, and then the chair will be here to bear him away for his obligatory three glasses of the water.” Christina finished her cup of tea and got up. “Shall we inspect the house after he’s gone? I mean really inspect it, every nook and cranny from attic to cellar?”
“Oh, yes, like we did in Queen Square the last time we were here.”
“It’s settled?”
“It’s settled.”
Mr. Richmond did indeed call for his breakfast shortly afterward, and his daughters were astonished at the veritable mountain of bacon, kidneys, scrambled eggs, and sausages he devoured; evidently immersion in Bath’s hot waters gave one a more-than-just-hearty appetite!
He departed for the Pump Room at nine o’clock precisely, and was most pleased to find himself following the great Mr. Pitt’s chair through the town. He gave little thought as to how his daughters were going to amuse themselves on their first morning; he was too intent upon how he was going to achieve an introduction to England’s great leader.
The moment he’d departed, Christina and Jane commenced their promised inspection of the house, beginning with the attic. There wasn’t a corner of roof space they didn’t pry into; they were even impudent enough to go through the contents of a large sea chest, and all was well until an enormous spider ran over Jane’s hand. Spiders were the one thing she couldn’t bear at any price, and with a shuddering squeal she gathered her orange muslin skirts to flee to the safety of the floor below.
Spiders weren’t Christina’s favorite creatures either, and in a moment she was following her sister, the hem of her dark-blue dimity gown covered with dust and the ribbons on her day cap fluttering around her head. On reaching the landing below, she suddenly realized how very funny they must both look, and she began to laugh. For a moment Jane wasn’t amused, but then she had to smile as well, and after that they elected not to poke around where they had no business to be.
They continued with their inspection, but decorously this time, refraining from opening cupboards and drawers which were none of their concern. They’d completed the bedroom floor and were on their way down to the ground floor, when something made Christina glance back at Jane’s room. The door was open, affording a clear view through the windows at the front of the house: there, floating serenely just above the rooftops of the houses opposite, was the balloon.
Christina’s steps faltered, and her breath caught on an amazed gasp, for there was nothing captive about this flight; the balloon was as free as a bird. “Look! Oh, look, Jane!” she cried, turning to hurry back up the stairs.
Jane saw the balloon as well, and with an excited squeak she followed. They ran to the bedroom window, raising the sash and leaning out to stare at the incredible sight hovering in the air across the street. They weren’t alone in watching, for a great crowd filled the pavements and thoroughfares, and the traffic was in a terrible jam as vehicles attempted to turn and follow the great spectacle in the sky.
Mr. William Grenfell’s crimson-and-blue balloon was wondrous to behold, and more splendidly accoutered today than it had been before. The gilded car, seemingly empty, was swathed with golden satin, and there were immense oars and wings, made of white silk stretched over wooden frames, protruding from the sides. These oars and wings were evidently intended to row the balloon backward and forward, or up and down, but there wasn’t anyone in evidence to employ them.
Union Jacks, still rolled around their poles, rested against the inside of the car, and the ropes of the huge net enclosing the balloon itself were fluttering with red pennants. There were Latin mottoes painted on the globe, and Christina could make them out quite clearly. Negata tentat iter via, and Spernit et humum fugiente penna, she read, calling upon her school lessons to translate them as “He dares journey by forbidden ways” and “Even the earth he spurns on flying wing.”
As Jane stared at the balloon, Christina had a wry thought. “I wonder what Father would say?” she murmured. “We’re actually being wicked enough to gaze upon an aerostation.”
“Without a balloonatic in sight,” observed Jane in puzzlement. “Look, the anchor rope seems to have broken! Yes, that’s what happened, it was making a captive ascent and the rope broke! But where’s the pilot? Oh, you don’t think he’s fallen out, do you?”
Christina looked at the golden car again, detecting a slight shuddering that told of occupancy after all. “No, I think he’s still in the car,” she said reassuringly. “He’s doing something right inside, where we can’t see. Yes, there he is!”
The pilot appeared suddenly, leaning over the edge to thrust something out that plummeted to the street below, scattering the crowd. With a dull thud, the object, a sandbag, struck the pavement, burst open, and showered sand in all directions. A second sandbag followed, and the pilot watched anxiously to see if the balloon rose to a safer level above the rooftops, for at the moment it was in imminent danger of striking the line of chimneys. There was a great cheer from the ground as the balloon obliged, floating up just sufficiently to spare both the car and the chimneys from disaster. Hearing the cheers, the pilot was showman enough to wave cheerfully down at the onlookers, although he must have been very apprehensive indeed about what was to happen to him.