by Sandra Heath
In the evening they attended the theater with their father, or responded to the various invitations that continually arrived through the door. Miss Jane Richmond was a person of note, and everyone was anxious to make her acquaintance, although it had to be said that Madame Gilbert’s tittle-tattle had raised a mixed reaction. For every person who thought Jane’s interest in the balloon was an indication of her admirable spirit, there were two who thought it revealed her foolishness and unsuitability for the grand marriage she’d been fortunate enough to secure.
The balloon continued to make its captive ascents from the pleasure gardens, and the crowds continued to flock to watch, but as the days passed, it became less of an attraction. As the days passed, too, Jane was very mindful to conduct herself with perfect decorum. She didn’t put a foot wrong, and was everything the prospective Lady St. Clement should be, much to her proud father’s delight.
Christina found the week very trying indeed, for a dizzy social life was the last thing she found enjoyable. She longed for it all to be over, so that she could return to the peace and quiet of Stroud. She was glad enough to withdraw into the background, leaving her sister to revel in being the center of attention, but all the time she was conscious of the dread possibility that Willian Grenfell might acquaint Robert with the facts concerning the invitation to tea. Such information about his prospective bride might lead Robert to think Jane entirely unsuitable.
It was a dread that lingered for Christina until almost the end of the week, when a chance encounter with William in the Orange Grove gave her the opportunity to broach the subject. She was alone at the time, Jane having accepted an invitation to drive with Lady Joan Newton to see an exhibition of porcelain at Shockerwick House on the London road.
As tactfully and delicately as she could, Christina brought the conversation around to what had happened at their last meeting. William hastened to reassure her that not a word would pass his lips, and she was much relieved; she was less than pleased when he continued by saying that he looked forward to their next meeting, which would be at the autumn ball, a function he had every intention of attending.
She sighed to herself as she walked back to Johnstone Street. Jane was a trial that ought not to be inflicted on anyone, least of all a long-suffering half-sister who wanted nothing more than a quiet life! William was far too attracted to his friend’s future wife, and that future wife was too impulsive to keep a firm hold on common sense; they’d both require close watching at the ball.
There was one moment during that week when Christina, not Jane, emerged as the center of attention. It happened outside the Pump Room, when she was seated on a bench reading Gil Blas while waiting for her father, who’d taken an unconscionable length of time.
Mr. Pitt emerged, attended by his usual gaggle of followers. He was looking a little better than he had done at the beginning of the week, although still far from healthy. Something about Christina’s neat figure on the bench attracted his attention. Ignoring everyone else, he approached her, apologized for his boldness, and inquired if the volume she was reading was indeed The Adventures of Gil Blas. Startled, she stammered that it was, and he remarked that he’d guessed it to be so because the volume was bound in precisely the same way as his own copy.
He told her that the book was his favorite reading, giving him endless pleasure, and he hoped that it was proving as rewarding to her. Almost overcome, and more than a little aware of the envious stares of the onlookers, she replied that she was enjoying the book very much indeed. He gave her a warm smile that transformed him, then took his leave, proceeding to his waiting sedan chair and according her another smile before being conveyed away.
Mr. Richmond had emerged to hear of the incident with mixed feelings. He was delighted that at least one of his family had spoken to the great man, but he was pinched to the quick that after all his efforts, he hadn’t been the one.
* * *
On the day of the ball, Robert Temple’s elegant dark-blue traveling carriage bowled into Bath along the London road, its team of high-stepping grays drawing much attention because their manes and tails had been left unfashionably long and unplaited. It was an eye-catching drag, driven with masterly ease by a coachman in scarlet livery, and there wasn’t a head that didn’t turn in admiration as it drove along the Paragon, making for Bath’s most exclusive address, the Royal Crescent.
Robert hardly glanced out at the streets; he was too deep in thought about how things would go at the ball that night. He wore a gray greatcoat with a black astrakhan collar, over a charcoal coat and cream breeches, and his long legs were stretched out on the seat opposite, his Hessian boots polished so much that they gleamed. His top hat was tilted back on his dark hair, and the diamond pin in his neckcloth glittered in the sunlight shining in through the carriage window.
The moment was almost upon him when he’d meet his Miss Richmond. Had he made the right decision where she was concerned? Was it really wise, in his changed circumstances, to take a rather insignificant landowner’s daughter as his bride? He knew that the beau monde of London didn’t think it was wise, they’d made their opinion very clear indeed, and he could only suppose that Bath society would feel the same way.
When he’d been impoverished, the marriage had been regarded as one of convenience and necessity; now it was regarded as a misalliance. The Richmonds simply weren’t good enough for a man of Lord St. Clement’s present exalted standing, and society wanted him to drop them in favor of an aristocratic connection that was considered more in keeping with his new circumstances.
He drew a long breath, glancing out at last as the carriage entered the curving magnificence of Royal Crescent. Let society think as it chose, he intended to make Jane Richmond his bride.
The carriage pulled up at the curb by his aunt’s residence, and he alighted, pausing for a moment to gaze around at the superb elegance of the crescent, and the matchless view over Bath in the valley below.
Turning, he looked across the road and down over the grassy slope toward the heart of Bath. Something caught his eye, a crimson-and-blue globe suspended in the air above Sydney Gardens. A faint smile touched his lips, for he recognized the balloon. So, his old friend William was in Bath, was he? It would be good to see him again.
Pulling his hat forward a little, Robert turned on his heel to enter the house, pausing only to acknowledge the brief greeting of his next-door neighbor, a very crusty military gentleman, Major General Sir Harold Penn-Blagington.
* * *
As darkness fell, Christina and Jane prepared for the ball. Christina sat at her dressing table while her maid, Jenny, put the final touches to her hair. Jenny was the daughter of one of Mr. Richmond’s gamekeepers and intensely loyal to the family. She was a fair-haired country girl, with a rather buxom figure and china-blue eyes, and her starched cream cotton dress crackled as she moved.
She was clever with her mistress’s shining dark hair, combing it expertly up into a knot at the back of her head, and teasing many thin ringlets into a tumble to the nape of her neck. The knot was then adorned with little mother-of-pearl flowers which went well with the necklace Christina’s mother had left her, and which she wore tonight.
Madame Gilbert had done well with the bluebell silk gown, adorning its bodice, puffed sleeves, and trained hem with countless tiny pearl beads that again echoed the necklace. A white shawl rested over Christina’s arms, and she wore long white gloves. A fan and reticule lay waiting on the dressing table before her.
The door opened behind her, and Jane came in in the pink plowman’s gauze that had needed taking in. Madame Gilbert had excelled, for it was impossible to tell that the dress had been altered at all. The delicate gauze, adorned with silver satin spots, shimmered and glittered at the slightest movement, and the scoop neckline was daringly low, but stylishly so.
Turbans were all the rage, and Jane’s red hair was almost concealed beneath one made of silver satin, from which sprang several tall ostrich plumes. A feather boa
dragged on the floor behind her, her eyes were bright, and her cheeks flushed. She looked anxiously at her sister.
“How do I look?”
“Exquisite.”
“Do you really think so? I wondered if I should wear the lime silk tunic dress after all ...”
“No,” said Christina quickly, “you look quite perfect as you are.”
“I want to look my very best, and somehow I don’t feel I do.”
“But you do look your best,” reassured Christina, getting up and going to her, but as she did so, the clasp on her necklace gave way and it fell to the floor. “Oh, no!” she cried, bending to retrieve it.
Jenny hurried over to her. “I think there’s something wrong with the fastening, Miss Christina. I had quite a job doing it up.”
Christina inspected the necklace. “I can’t see anything wrong.”
“Maybe you should wear the diamond pendant, Miss Christina,” Jenny suggested.
“No, it wouldn’t look quite right with all the pearls on my gown.”
“But you may lose the necklace at the ball,” observed Jenny sensibly.
Christina examined the clasp again. There really didn’t seem to be anything wrong with it, and she could only conclude that Jenny hadn’t fastened it properly. “I’ll wear it,” she declared then, giving it to the maid to put on for her.
Reluctantly Jenny did as she was told, testing the clasp several times when the necklace was in place, and then asking Jane to look at it as well. Jane obliged, and had to concede that it all seemed very safe and firm.
Christina smiled. “Are you both quite sure?”
“Yes, Miss Christina.”
“Yes, we are,” concurred Jane.
“And does the rest of me look well enough for the great occasion?”
Jane surveyed her from head to toe. “You’ll do.”
“Thank you.”
“Maybe Mr. Pitt will be there to single you out.”
“I hardly think he’ll attend a ball.”
“Maybe he’s smitten with you. After all, you have Gil Blas in common.”
“I rather think our virgin minister is too set in his ways to pursue anyone.”
Jane was a little shocked. “You really shouldn’t call him that. If Father heard you ...”
“But Father didn’t hear me,” replied Christina wickedly.
There was a tap at the door, and the butler announced that the chairs were at the door and it was time to leave.
Jane caught Christina’s arm nervously. “Oh, I feel quite sick!”
“Take a deep breath.”
“That never works!”
“Then we’ll have to leave without you,” replied Christina airily.
“Don’t be beastly.” Jane laughed ruefully then. “I wish I was as cool, calm, and collected as you.”
“Then you’d be as dull as me as well. Come on.” Christina took her hand, leading her toward the door.
They descended to the entrance hall, where their father was waiting, resplendent in formal black. The frills of his white shirt had been starched and ironed so that they protruded at right angles from his chest, and his white satin waistcoat was modishly quilted.
His white silk breeches sported fine gold buckles, and his stockinged calves were very well made indeed, so much so as to be the envy of many a footman reduced to wearing calf pads. As he turned to greet his daughters, Christina was struck that in his youth he must have been a very personable young man, for he was still good-looking.
He took their hands. “My dears, you both look charming.” His glance then rested on Jane alone. “I’m sure young Temple will be bowled over, absolutely bowled over.”
“I hope you’re right, Father,” she replied in a voice shaking with nerves.
He patted her hand reassuringly, then looked at Christina. “How you can look so very lovely and yet be determined to become an old maid is quite beyond me. You’re truly the most exasperating creature in the world. Have I ever told you that?”
“Yes, Father, frequently.”
“But to no avail, it seems,” he observed dryly. “Now, then, shall we go?”
He offered them both an arm, and they emerged from the bright warmth of the house into the dark chill of the October night.
Chapter Eight
Linkboys with smoking torches preceded the chairs all the way to the Assembly Rooms. It seemed that all of Somerset was attending the ball, for a throng of chairs and carriages was converging on the same destination. Guests from out of town arrived in carriages, but those who resided in Bath used the much more convenient and maneuverable chairs.
The Assembly Rooms, designed in the middle of the previous century by John Wood the Younger, were very austere indeed from the outside, the plain elevations giving no hint of the splendors to be found within.
From the vestibule, with its fine chandelier, everyone proceeded through to the octagon room, which was situated in the heart of the building, and from where access could be had into the three principal reception chambers—the tea room to the right, the card room directly ahead, and the splendid one-hundred-foot-long green-and-gold ballroom to the left.
The octagon room was always a terrible crush on occasions like this, and its four perfectly placed fireplaces were completely hidden by the press of guests. The seats by these fireplaces were the special preserve of elderly spinsters and chaperones, who jealously guarded their places against all comers. The room was already uncomfortably hot, even though it was cold outside.
The ball had been in progress for nearly an hour, but by no means all the guests had arrived, for it was at present quite a fashion in some circles to attend several card parties before going to the main function of the evening. In the ballroom the master of ceremonies was in complete command, supervising the dancing and seeing that all went as smoothly and agreeably as possible.
Mr. Tyson was elderly now, but ruled with a rod of iron, and wasn’t above pointing a disapproving cane at anyone observed committing even a tiny offense, such as innocently taking up a position other than the one indicated at the commencement of a contredanse.
The orchestra was situated in a semicircular apse high in the green-and-gold wall halfway down the great room, and as it began to play, a sea of people began to move in unison beneath the line of exquisite chandeliers suspended from the hipped roof. In the day the light was provided by the windows set high in the wall between Corinthian columns, but at night, when the chandeliers were lit, everything was illuminated by a warm glow. Those guests who weren’t dancing occupied tiers of scarlet stuff sofas against the walls, surveying the floor with a very critical eye, for half the pleasure of a ball was the opportunity to find fault with one’s peers.
There was quite a queue of new arrivals waiting for their names to be announced, and as she waited with her father and sister, Christina glanced carefully around, wondering if Robert Temple had arrived yet. She scanned the scene, knowing she’d recognize him immediately from his portrait, but there didn’t seem to be any sign of him.
They reached the front of the queue and the steward rapped the floor with his cane. “Mr. Henry Richmond, Miss Richmond, and Miss Jane Richmond,” he announced.
There was an immediate stir, for it was no secret that Jane’s first meeting with Robert was to take place at the ball. Quizzing glasses were raised and fans put to whispering lips as everyone studied the turnout of Bath’s most-talked-of young woman.
Jane’s cheeks flushed prettily, and she kept her lovely eyes downcast as she and Christina proceeded into the ballroom on their proud father’s arm. Even those who hadn’t seen her before could tell which of the Miss Richmonds was the prospective Lady St. Clement, for there was a glow about Jane that was quite unmistakable; she’d never looked more lovely, and guests who’d come with a sour attitude toward the match had to concede that whatever faults she had, a lack of beauty certainly wasn’t one of them.
Mr. Tyson hastened toward them immediately, for it was one of his duti
es to choose partners for the more important guests’ first dance. He’d already made his selections, and for Jane he produced a young clergyman of somewhat dull and horsey appearance but excellent family. Christina was presented to a stout viscount in clothes so unbecomingly tight they seemed to have been poured over him, but although he looked clumsy, he proved to be a dainty dancer, leading her through a very commendable landler.
Mr. Richmond had no intention of antagonizing his gout, which had been relatively docile for the past few days, and so he politely declined the master of ceremonies’ offer to secure him a lady partner, choosing instead to occupy one of the sofas at the edge of the floor.
Over the next hour there was still no sign of Robert. Jane succeeded admirably in hiding her great nervousness, dancing every dance and leaving Christina to dutifully sit with their father. Christina danced only the first dance, not because she wasn’t asked, but because she wished to sit with her father. It wasn’t an onerous duty, for he was hardly dull company, and anyway, it gave her a legitimate excuse to withdraw a little from the social hurly-burly she disliked so much.
Just as a polonaise ended, and Jane’s latest partner, a young guards officer, returned her to her family, William Grenfell approached the sofa. The pilot wasn’t in the pitch of high fashion tonight; indeed, he was as discreetly and correctly turned out as all the other gentlemen. His black coat was tight-fitting, having to be left unbuttoned to show off his white satin waistcoat, frilled shirt, and crisply starched neckcloth. His white silk breeches were of excellent cut, his patent-leather pumps exceedingly shiny, and there was no sign now of the rather outrageous aeronaut whose balloon had come to grief on the pear tree. His blond hair was carefully combed, and his manner was very conventional and proper as he bowed.
“Good evening, Mr. Richmond. Miss Richmond. Miss Jane.”
Christina inclined her head, but her father glowered.
William appeared to bring out the very worst in him, for he didn’t even accord the pilot a nodding acknowledgment.