by Sandra Heath
The dressmaker knew all about the balloon’s undignified descent into the garden, for the news had traveled the length and breadth of Bath, and it was to learn all about the incident that the talkative Frenchwoman had hastened so promptly to Johnstone Street. She was very adept indeed when it came to subtly extracting every morsel of information, especially from someone as basically unwary as Jane, and by the time she left with the two ball gowns, she knew exactly how much the future Lady St. Clement admired balloons and balloonists. It wouldn’t be long before Bath society heard all about it, for Miss Jane Richmond was a very interesting person—how could she not be, when she was set to marry one of England’s most eligible gentlemen?
During the couturiere’s visit there had been little Christina could do to stop Jane’s indiscreet revelations, but the moment the Frenchwoman had departed, Jane was left in no doubt at all what her elder sister thought of her lack of wisdom; she was also warned that Mr. Grenfell’s return that afternoon was an occasion that would now require the utmost prudence. Jane, belatedly chastened, promised faithfully to be very good, but it was a promise that was thrown to the four winds when she was again faced with the temptation of learning more about the mysteries of ballooning.
At a quarter to two precisely, Mr. Richmond embarked in a sedan chair to be conveyed across Bath to the residence of the master of ceremonies, a gentleman of the utmost importance. It was unthinkable that any new arrival in Bath should fail to pay such a call, for Mr. Tyson wielded absolute power over every social function of consequence, and could bar any individual, even the father of the future Lady St. Clement.
The anxious Mr. Grenfell had evidently been waiting secretly nearby with his small band of assistants from Sydney Gardens, for the moment the sedan chair disappeared along Argyle Street in the direction of Pulteney Bridge, the pilot hastened to the door, after first instructing his assistants to go around to the rear of the house with the wagon they’d brought for the balloon.
Mr. Richmond had left strict orders that his daughters were to remain in the house while the “accursed aerostation” was collected, and Christina stood at her bedroom window, watching everything from a discreet and safe distance, and thinking that Jane was in her bedroom, writing an overdue letter to Aunt Brooke; but Jane wasn’t in her room, she’d slipped downstairs to the dining room in order to watch the rescue exercise more closely.
Christina found it all interesting as well, watching as Mr. Grenfell instructed his men, several of whom had climbed the pear tree in order to tease the collapsed orb of rubberized taffeta, for that was what she’d discovered the balloon was made of, away from the sharp twigs and branches. Two more men were engaged in unfastening the ropes holding the golden car, which was lowered with great difficulty to the grass. The oars and wings were treated with great care, for they were very fragile and had miraculously survived the crash intact.
At last the balloon itself was recovered, and after a brief inspection for any tears in the taffeta, it was carefully folded into a manageable bundle and carried out through the coach house to the waiting wagon. Then the car was carried out as well, laden with the ropes, flags, oars, wings, and other equipment, and Mr. Grenfell prepared to call briefly at the back door to inform the waiting butler that all had been completed,
It was then that Christina realized to her horror that Jane had been by the French window in the dining room, for her sister’s dainty redheaded figure suddenly emerged into view in the garden, hurrying across the grass to speak to the pilot. Christina watched in the utmost dismay as a brief exchange took place, then Mr. Grenfell smiled and nodded, kissing Jane’s hand before walking away after his assistants. Jane paused for a moment, then gathered her skirts to hasten into the house again.
Christina didn’t delay, but almost ran from her room and down the stairs, determined to find out what was going on. She was just in time to hear her sister instructing the butler to serve a tray of tea in the drawing room.
“Jane? What are you doing?” she demanded with grave misgivings.
Jane’s brown eyes met hers very briefly. “I thought it only polite to take a dish of tea with Mr. Grenfell,” she replied a little airily, for it was plain she knew she’d again allowed her impetuosity to get the better of her common sense.
Christina stared at her in disbelief. “You ... you thought what?”
Jane bit her lip. “Well, it’s only good manners,” she replied, realizing there was little point in attempting to justify her faux pas.
“Oh, Jane!”
“I couldn’t help it, Christina. I was watching everything from the dining room, and there are so many things I want to ask about the balloon that I simply couldn’t allow him to leave without speaking properly to him.”
“And what if Father should return?”
“He won’t. Not yet, anyway.”
“And when he does, he’ll hear all about it. Jane, haven’t you got any sense? You’ve already allowed your tongue to wag unwisely to Madame Gilbert, who’ll have set the tale in motion around Bath that Robert Temple’s prospective bride is disgracefully eager to know all about Mr. Grenfell’s balloon, and now you compound the sin by actually inviting Mr. Grenfell himself to take tea in this house! What if Robert should hear?”
Jane lowered her eyes guiltily. “I just didn’t think.”
“Now, where have I heard that before?” responded Christina acidly. “Oh, Jane, after all your promises, all your protests that you’re a reformed character, you have to go and do this! It’s really too bad of you. It’s also too bad of Mr. Grenfell, who should have done the gentlemanly thing and politely declined.”
“It’s hardly his fault,” objected Jane immediately.
“Oh, yes, it is. He made his admiration only too plain this morning, so much so that I felt obliged to inform him that you are about to become betrothed; he really shouldn’t have accepted your invitation.” Christina sighed crossly, for she was displeased with them both, but Jane had presented her with a fait accompli.
The drawing room was at the front of the house, its fine windows gazing out over the street. It was a handsome room with silver-blue damask on the walls, and chairs and sofa upholstered in royal-blue velvet. The white-shuttered windows boasted tasseled, ruched curtains that were raised and lowered by means of silver ropes, and on the floor there was a superb French carpet patterned in blue, cream, and gray. Above the marble fireplace there was a portrait of Sir Archibald Fitton, and on the wall between the windows there was a gilded cartel clock made by Sam Jones of Bath. The foremost item in the room, however, was a very fine forte-piano by Rolfe of Cheapside, which occupied a prime position in front of the windows. Jane was a very talented musician, and had declared the instrument to be very fine indeed when she’d played it after dinner the evening before.
The sisters sat on the sofa, waiting in silence for the butler to announce Mr. Grenfell. A maid brought the tray of tea, setting it carefully on the table and withdrawing with her eyes downcast in a way that told Christina there was a great deal of speculation going on in the kitchens.
At last there were steps in the hall, the door opened, and the butler announced the pilot. “Mr. William Grenfell.”
In the few minutes since he had accepted Jane’s foolish invitation, William Grenfell had taken care to make himself as presentable as possible. His coat had been tidied of every speck of fluff, his blond hair had been combed, and his trousers were immaculate. He smiled warmly at Jane, and then bowed over Christina’s hand. “I’m honored to be asked to join you like this, Miss Richmond.”
“Please sit down, sir,” she replied, indicating a chair that was closer to her than to Jane, but to her further annoyance, he affected not to notice, choosing one that placed him near Jane, who smiled at him.
“I trust your balloon hasn’t come to too much grief, Mr. Grenfell,” she said, as Christina poured the tea.
“There’s only a little damage, Miss Jane, and I expect to be airborne again tomorrow,” he replied, avo
iding Christina’s eyes as he took a cup.
“With better luck than today, I hope.” Jane smiled again.
“With a serviceable flap valve, that’s for sure,” he replied, smiling.
Jane was anxious to commence her cross-examination. “Mr. Grenfell, this morning you spoke of inflammable air. I believe you called it hydrogen?”
“Yes, Miss Jane.”
“I’m afraid I’m extremely ignorant, and I don’t know anything about it. What exactly is hydrogen?”
He smiled again, unable to help gazing into her eyes. “It has another name as well, phlogiston, but hydrogen is the name given to it by the Frenchman Lavoisier. It’s what causes the balloon to rise.”
She was fascinated, and fascinating. “Really? Where do you get it from?”
“We, er, we manufacture it from iron filings, acid of concentrated vitriol, and water,” he murmured, bewitched by her loveliness.
“How very scientific. I confess I’m all admiration. What first interested you in balloons, Mr. Grenfell?”
“As a boy I saw a print of Lunardi’s balloon when it was on display in the Pantheon in London. Lunardi was, as you probably know, the first man to ascend in a balloon in England, and when I read an account of his voyage, and subsequently the voyages of others, I was inspired to attempt to follow in their illustrious footsteps.” His glance slid a little guiltily toward Christina, who was eyeing him in silent wrath.
Jane’s enthusiasm was intense, and her brown eyes shone as she sat forward. “What is it like to fly, Mr. Grenfell?” she asked breathlessly. “Is it really as wonderful as I think?”
“Miss Jane, nothing can compare with the sensation of floating away from the earth. It’s more than a wondrous experience, it’s an introduction to perfect bliss. There is silence, remoteness, and serenity, and one flies with the spirits of Phaethon, Daedalus, and Icarus.”
He was very eloquent, and Jane was entranced. “Oh, just imagine,” she breathed longingly.
Christina sipped her tea. “Phaethon, Daedalus, and Icarus?” she murmured thoughtfully. “Mr. Grenfell, of those three, only Daedalus survived intact.”
He couldn’t fail to be aware of her disapproval. “Er, yes, and it is upon him that I presume to model myself.”
“Indeed? I thought the other two must be your heroes, for to be sure, you emulated them rather well when you descended onto our pear tree this morning.”
Jane shot a dark look at her. “Christina!”
Unperturbed, for he deserved to be prodded, Christina continued to sip her tea.
Jane turned to him again. “I don’t care what my sister says, Mr. Grenfell, for I think it’s all absolutely marvelous. Tell me, have ladies ever ascended?”
“Why, yes. Mrs. Sage made a captive ascent with Lunardi, but the first lady to make a free flight was young Madame Thible, who in 1784 made a flight lasting forty-five minutes, reaching a height of eight thousand feet. It’s said that she sang like a nightingale all the time, charming the King of Sweden, who was watching.”
Jane was rapt. “Oh, I’d sing like a nightingale too!”
He gazed at her. “Would ... would you like to make an ascent, Miss Jane?” he ventured slowly, studiously ignoring Christina.
Jane’s breath caught. “Oh, yes.”
“It would please me immeasurably to grant you your wish. Would you, and Miss Richmond, of course, honor me by being the first ladies to ascend with me?”
Jane was completely overwhelmed. “Could we? Oh, could we?”
“I’d be delighted, Miss Jane,” he murmured.
Christina put down her cup, unable to believe her fluff-headed sister was actually going this far. There was no excuse, no excuse at all. Crossly she rose to her feet. “Mr. Grenfell, I fear we cannot possibly take you up on your offer, for our father wouldn’t approve at all.”
Jane’s face fell. “Oh, Christina!”
“Don’t you ‘Oh, Christina’ me. You promised you’d conduct yourself decorously, and you haven’t even attempted to.”
Jane flushed at that, lowering her eyes quickly to her cup.
William cleared his throat uncomfortably, knowing that Christina’s anger was justified. “Er, forgive me, Miss Richmond, for I spoke out of turn.”
“Yes, sir, you did,” she replied crushingly. “I told you earlier today that my sister is about to be betrothed, and so it ill becomes you to behave as you are, just as it ill becomes her to encourage you.”
Jane was thoroughly mortified, hanging her head to hide her blushes. William was acutely embarrassed now. ‘‘Perhaps I should leave ...”
“Yes, sir, perhaps you should,” responded Christina, allowing him no quarter.
He put his cup down. “May I inquire whom Miss Jane is to marry?” he asked.
“Lord St. Clement.”
He stared at her. “She’s that Miss Richmond?”
“How many Miss Richmonds abound in Bath, Mr. Grenfell?”
“Forgive me, I just hadn’t put two and two together.” He drew a long breath. “He’s a formidable rival for any man,” he murmured with some feeling.
Something in his manner told Christina that he and Robert Temple were acquainted. “You know Lord St. Clement, Mr. Grenfell?” she asked, praying he didn’t.
“Good Lord, yes, we go back a long way. Our families are neighbors in Somerset, and I went to Oxford with him.”
Her heart sank, for now there was little chance of Robert Temple not hearing about this dreadful tea party.
William looked at her. “I confess I had no idea Robert was in Bath.”
“He isn’t as yet—he’s coming here by the end of the week to attend the autumn ball. He and my sister are to be introduced then.”
“I see. Well, I can tell you that you won’t be disappointed in him; and I can be equally certain that he won’t be disappointed in Miss Jane, for she is in truth the most delightful, enchanting—”
“Mr. Grenfell!” Christina was fast losing what little patience she had left.
He quickly and politely took his leave, resisting the temptation to linger over Jane’s dainty hand.
Silence reigned in the drawing room as he left the house, and it continued to reign very heavily for a minute or two until Jane gave a stifled sob and fled to her bedroom.
Christina gave vent to her anger. Standing up, she seized a cushion and hurled it across the room. She could cheerfully have choked her sister and the overbold William Grenfell; and she was displeased with herself, for she should have forbidden the pilot to enter the house.
Now she’d have to face their father, who’d be furious that his orders had been so willfully disobeyed. She, Christina, would bear the brunt of his wrath, for she was the older daughter and therefore held to be responsible. And in this she was responsible; why on earth had she permitted the invitation to stand?
With a sigh she sat down on the sofa again, leaning her head back to stare at the chandelier shimmering from the ceiling. How she wished she was back at Richmond House, where there were no difficulties. By being indiscreet with Madame Gilbert, Jane had already seen to it that Bath society would be whispering about Robert Temple’s future wife’s considerable interest in the balloon, and if William Grenfell’s visit to the house had been witnessed, as it undoubtedly had, then the whispering would increase. The whispers were bound to reach Robert’s ears, if not from the gossipmongers, then from William himself, who was such an old friend.
It had to be faced that his day’s utter foolishness could have placed the St. Clement match in jeopardy.
Chapter Seven
Whether Robert Temple would hear the story or not remained to be seen, but fate was at least kind enough to keep it from Mr. Richmond.
He returned from the master of ceremonies by a rather roundabout route, having been instructed by that erudite gentleman to take out certain subscriptions for the duration of the stay in Bath. He called first at the Assembly Rooms at the top of the town, then at a circulating library in Milsom
Street, and at the Theater Royal in Orchard Street. Last, and very reluctantly, he took himself to the Sydney Gardens Vauxhall, it having been pointed out to him that to be absent from certain forthcoming diversions would be socially disadvantageous.
Keeping up appearances was all-important, especially when one’s daughter was about to be betrothed to one of England’s most desirable gentlemen, and so Mr. Richmond had felt he had no option but to take out a subscription to the pleasure gardens; but he remained determined that neither of his daughters would have anything to do with William Grenfell or the balloon that was at the center of so much vulgar interest.
Arriving back at the house in Johnstone Street, Mr. Richmond found everything calm and apparently normal. The butler took his hat and gloves, and said nothing at all about William Grenfell’s brief presence in the drawing room. Christina had by now inveigled Jane from her room, and the sisters had patched up their differences. Seated demurely in the drawing room, they were both engaged upon their embroidery as their father entered. Detecting nothing amiss, he informed them all about his visit to the master of ceremonies, and the various subscriptions, making certain that they were both still well aware of his feelings regarding the balloon.
Jane looked her father directly in his eyes and murmured her compliance; Christina felt so wretchedly guilty that she avoided his gaze, confining herself to a dutiful nod. She glanced accusingly at Jane, warning her with a fierce look that any more nonsense like today’s would almost certainly lead to utter disaster. Indeed, today might yet lead to disaster, for William might see fit to inform Robert all about it; but for the moment, at least, they’d escaped.
* * *
In the week before Robert’s arrival and the ball, Mr. Richmond and his daughters led a very full social life. Bath was a very regulated place, with clearly defined activities that were expected of its visitors. While Mr. Richmond took the cure, his daughters sallied forth to the circulating library, went shopping, walked on Beechen Cliff, the wooded hill overlooking the spa from the south, visited a number of exhibitions, and took tea in the Assembly Rooms.