by Sandra Heath
Christina retreated thankfully to the privacy of her bedroom, where she lay wide-awake, watching the dawn lighten the sky outside. She’d often wondered what it would be like to fall in love, but she’d never dreamed it would feel like this, so desolate and full of hurt.
How she’d endured the rest of the ball, she really didn’t know, for every minute had been an ordeal. Robert and Jane had made such a delightful couple that they’d soon captivated the entire gathering, except, perhaps, for the unfortunate William Grenfell.
Jane’s rather too enthusiastic enjoyment of the young pilot’s company before Robert’s arrival, and then Robert’s unexpected invitation to his bride’s sister to dance with him first, had soon been forgotten by everyone, and by the end of the ball it was generally agreed that Lord St. Clement and Miss Jane Richmond were ideally suited.
Of course there were still those who murmured that Miss Richmond was too lowly for the match, but even they were forced to concede that with looks, vivacity, and charm such as hers, it wouldn’t be long before the famous marriage of convenience became a love match of the highest order.
There had been a moment, while Robert was observed deep in conversation with his old friend William Grenfell, when Christina had feared the young pilot’s own feelings for Jane might persuade him to forget his promise, but it seemed that he’d resisted the temptation to tell tales about Jane’s indiscretions, for Robert’s manner didn’t change at all, and it was clear he hadn’t been told anything even remotely untoward about his lovely prospective bride’s previous conduct.
At the end of the ball, Mr. Richmond had invited Robert to dine with them the following evening, and Jane had lingered a moment with him before hurrying after her father and sister to the waiting chairs. Christina hadn’t been able to bring herself to look at Robert as he’d waved farewell; she’d been close to tears throughout the evening, and was striving to contain them until she was alone.
Now she was alone, but the tears hadn’t come. She stared at the cracks of morning light piercing the shutters, listening to the first street calls as the early traders went about their business. Birds were in full morning song in the garden, and across the river the abbey bells began to peal. It was set to be another glorious autumn day, and somehow she was going to have to cope with what had happened; she couldn’t confide in anyone, it was something that was going to have to remain secret.
Mr. Richmond was in such ebullient spirits after the success of the ball that sleep eluded him as well, for he rose only a short while after retiring, calling to the butler to have a chair wait at the door to take him for his daily immersion at the Cross Bath. Jane, exhausted by the excitement, slept on and on, not even stirring when her father returned to take to his bed for the necessary cooling off.
Breakfast came and went, Mr. Richmond went to the Pump Room and returned, and still Jane slumbered on, but Christina was up and about, busying herself with various tasks in order to take her mind off her unhappiness. Letters were written, instructions were issued to the cook, and an hour was spent on her embroidery before she felt she simply had to escape from the house for a while to be completely on her own.
She was presented with an excellent excuse when her father grumbled that the circulating library in Milsom Street had failed to send someone with his London newspapers, a service for which he’d paid handsomely and which he therefore expected to be prompt and faultless. Christina immediately volunteered to go for them herself, and at just gone noon, accompanied by Jenny, she set off gladly from the house in the October sunshine. She wore her dove-gray velvet spencer and gray-and-white-striped silk gown, with ringlets tumbling from beneath her bonnet, and to all intents and purposes she appeared lighthearted and carefree.
The short extent of Argyle Street was very busy, with the noise of constant traffic echoing between the elegant houses. There were curricles and cabriolets drawn by high-stepping blood horses, gleaming town carriages with liveried coachmen, gentlemen mounted on superb thoroughbreds, delivery wagons of every color and description, chattering pedestrians, and, of course, the ubiquitous sedan chairs. Not all the pedestrians were walking toward the center of the town, for quite a number were obviously making for Sydney Gardens, in the hope that William Grenfell’s balloon would make another of its celebrated ascents.
Christina reached Pulteney Bridge, where the narrower confines exaggerated the noise. An ox wagon had somehow become stuck in a rut, causing even more congestion. Men were shouting, the oxen were giving voice of their own, and a dog was barking. Christina and Jenny hurried along the pavement, anxious to escape from the furor, but as they reached the far side of the bridge, instead of walking up into the town, Christina turned to the left, where a paved terrace edged by a wrought-iron railing overlooked the river.
The noise of the traffic jam was overwhelmed by the roar of the weir. Downstream some men were fishing, and a sailing barge was moored at a tree. There were a lot of trees, their leaves either on the point of turning to autumn colors or already in their full glory of scarlet, russet, and gold. Looking across the river, past the gardens of Argyle Street, Christina could see the rear of Johnstone Street, and her own bedroom window, where a maid was polishing the glass.
Jenny drew discreetly to one side as her mistress looked down at the water as it spilled over the weir. Christina sighed. How she wished last night had all been a dream, and suddenly she’d wake up to discover nothing had happened at all, that Robert Temple hadn’t affected her, and that she, Christina Richmond, was her old unruffled self.
“Miss Richmond?”
With a gasp she turned, for it was Robert.
He was crossing the terrace toward her, looking very Bond Street in a pale-green coat with brass buttons, a dark-green brocade waistcoat, and tightly fitted cream cord breeches. A discreet gold pin was on the knot of his unstarched neckcloth, and the golden tassels on his highly polished Hessian boots swung to and fro as he walked. A pearl-handled cane was in his gloved hand, and he removed his top hat as he bowed on reaching her. “Good morning, Miss Richmond, or is it good afternoon?” He smiled.
Flustered, she did her best to appear natural. “I believe it’s good afternoon, my lord.”
“Have I discovered you on your way into town, or on your way home?”
“I’m going to the circulating library in Milsom Street. They’ve been remiss enough to forget my father’s London papers.”
She marveled that somehow she was contriving to sound quite normal, for in truth she was all at sixes and sevens again. He had such an effect on her that she was sure he must be able to read her like one of her books. She was trembling inside because she was face-to-face with him again.
He didn’t seem to be aware of anything as he leaned on the iron railing, his top hat and cane swinging together as he looked at the view. “Bath is very lovely, is it not?”
“Yes.”
He glanced at her. “I’m glad to have encountered you like this, for last night’s gross error on my part has been preying on my mind.”
“There’s no need, truly.”
“But there is, Miss Richmond, for I could tell by your subsequent manner that I’d upset you more than you’d admitted.”
Her subsequent manner? He’d obviously noticed how she’d withdrawn into the background as much as possible. She colored a little.
“You’re mistaken, my lord, for I certainly didn’t take offense, nor was I unduly upset. If you noticed any, er, reserve, it was simply that I wished to leave the evening entirely to you and Jane. It would hardly have done for the elder Miss Richmond to look as if she wished to be at the center of things as well, would it?” She smiled.
He studied her. “I did notice your reserve, and if it was simply as you say, then I can understand and appreciate your reasons, but I can’t help feeling ...”
“Yes?”
“That there is something else concerning you. Is it perhaps that you have doubts about the betrothal? Maybe your sister isn’t entirely happy a
bout something?”
“Oh, please don’t think that,” she said quickly. “No woman on earth could be happier than Jane, believe me, and I don’t have any doubts about the match, for I’m sure you and she were made for each other.”
He smiled. “I’m relieved to hear you say so, Miss Richmond.” He looked at the river again. “Did you know that you and I almost met earlier this year?”
She was startled. “Did we? But how could that possibly be? I hardly ever leave Richmond House.”
“You ventured to London, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“We happened to attend the theater on the same evening. You were in Mrs. Brooke’s box. I understand she’s your aunt.”
“Yes, although I fancy she now wishes me in perdition for the disaster I made of my stay.”
“Disaster?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t much care for London life.”
“Is that why you cut short your visit?”
She stared at him. “How did you know that?”
He smiled. “You were pointed out to me at the theater as Miss Richmond of Richmond House in Gloucestershire, and as negotiations had begun between your father and myself, I was naturally greatly interested to meet you.”
He gave a short, rather rueful laugh. “At least, perhaps I should explain again that I was anxious to meet the young lady I believed to be Miss Jane Richmond. I attempted to introduce myself during the intermission, but your box was an intolerable crush and I couldn’t get even close to you. So I decided to call upon you the following morning, but when I did, I was informed that you’d taken yourself back to Gloucestershire.”
She looked away. That night at the theater had been the last straw. She’d hated every minute of it, loathed her aunt’s vapid friends and their endless empty chatter, and been appalled at the prospect of nearly three more weeks of such socializing. It had been too much, and she’d greatly affronted her aunt by announcing that she was returning to Stroud immediately.
He watched her. “Perhaps you now understand why I was firmly under the impression that you were my prospective bride. You’d been pointed out to me as the Miss Richmond, and I subsequently didn’t even have the miniature to correct the error, for as I explained last night, it was broken beyond all redemption when it arrived.”
“Well, I’m sure you were more than delighted when you met Jane,” she replied.
He didn’t answer, for at that moment something in the sky caught his attention. “It seems the inestimable William has taken to the air again,” he murmured.
Shading her eyes against the sun, she looked toward Sydney Gardens. Sure enough, the crimson-and-blue balloon was floating serenely in the sky, firmly anchored by its rope. “He must have repaired the flap valve,” she observed without thinking.
“Flap valve? I had no idea you were well-versed in such technical matters, Miss Richmond.”
She colored again. “I’m not, it’s just that Mr. Grenfell told us last night that he was grounded again because of the valve.”
“Ah, yes, I understand you and he are acquainted because he made a somewhat humiliating descent onto your apple tree.”
“It was a pear tree, actually.”
He grinned. “I suppose he should be thankful it wasn’t a thorn tree! But even thorns wouldn’t have taught him a lesson, he’d still be intent upon attempting his first nighttime voyage.”
Her eyes widened. “But isn’t that exceedingly hazardous?”
“William revels in the hazardous, and has occasionally paid the price for his, er, valor, as your pear tree knows only too well. I understand your father wasn’t very amused.”
“Father loathes balloons and balloonists—he calls them balloonatics.”
“Very appropriate. Tell me, why does Mr. Richmond abhor such things so much? I, er, heard a little from William last night.”
“I really have no idea. I can only think that something must have happened in the past.”
He smiled, his hat and cane still swinging idly to and fro. “If I’m perfectly honest, I noticed your sister last night before I approached you and your father.”
Her heart sank. “You did?”
“Yes. I saw William, and naturally glanced at his partner. I thought him a fortunate fellow to be dancing with such a beautiful creature.”
She didn’t know what to say, for if he’d noticed Jane dancing with his friend, he must also have noticed how openly pleased she’d been to be in that friend’s company. But there was no way of telling now what he thought; his eyes gave no hint. Feeling uncomfortable suddenly, she turned to look at a clock on the wall above a nearby shop. “I ... I think I should get on with my errand, my lord, otherwise my father will never have his London papers.”
“Allow me to accompany you,” he said immediately, straightening.
“Oh, please, there’s no need, for I have my maid.”
“But I’d like to walk with you, Miss Richmond,” he insisted.
She smiled self-consciously. “Then, of course ...”
He offered her his arm, and they proceeded from the terrace, followed by Jenny.
Milsom Street was broad and gracious, with Palladian facades and elegant bow windows, and it climbed the lower incline of the same hill that was crowned by the Royal Crescent, the Circus, and the Assembly Rooms. It was a splendid street, boasting a variety of shops, from haberdashers, milliners, and dressmakers, to tailors, confectioners, and high-class grocers.
There were repositories of art and music, superior lodging houses, and, of course, circulating libraries, and the one to which Mr. Richmond subscribed was at number 43, on the east side of the street. It was much frequented by the better levels of society, and there were several fine carriages drawn up at the curb as Robert opened the door, ushering Christina and Jenny inside.
Bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and there were ladders to reach those near the top. Tables laden with journals and various newspapers stood around, and there were several ornate writing desks where letters could be penned, paper, ink, and quills being provided for a small fee.
A smart young man in a brown coat and spotted silk neckcloth was serving behind a counter in the center of the floor. He was new to Christina, who instinctively disliked his manner. Two ladies were taking out subscriptions, entering their names in the ledger he placed before them. He informed them that a subscription of half a guinea would give them access to all the latest novels, magazines, reviews, and so on for a whole year, whereas three shillings would do the same for only three months. The ladies decided upon the latter, as Mr. Richmond had done nearly a week before.
While Robert waited by one of the writing desks with Jenny, Christina approached the counter. The young man attended to her complaint, explaining in a rather superior way that the boy they usually employed to deliver for them had been taken ill that morning. Placing the newspapers for number 14A Johnstone Street on the counter, he was about to move on to the next customer, a clergyman, when Christina realized that The Times was missing.
“Sir,” she said quickly, “I’m afraid this order isn’t correct.”
The young man paused, raising an eyebrow and pursing his lips. “Not correct?”
“There isn’t a copy of The Times.”
“Ah, yes, well, I’m afraid we only have one copy left, and that is reserved for Count Bleiburg, who has intimated that he may possibly require it.”
More than a little incensed, she stood her ground. “Sir, this Count Bleiburg may indeed possibly require it, but my father definitely does require it, and since a subscription has been taken out, and the necessary extra payments made, I rather think—”
“The count subscribes as well, madam,” replied the young man superciliously, looking down his nose at her in that arrogant way some assistants had when they gave themselves the airs and graces of the less-likable customers they were there to serve.
“Nevertheless—” she began again.
“I’m sorry, madam,”
he declared, intending to close the conversation forthwith.
She felt Robert move to her side. “Miss Richmond, is there any way I can be of assistance?” he murmured.
“It appears I cannot take the last copy of The Times, even though we’ve ordered it.”
“Why not?”
“Because a certain Count Bleiburg might require it.”
“Might require it?” Robert’s eyes moved to the man behind the counter. “Is this true?”
“Er, yes, sir ...”
“ ‘Yes, my lord,’ ” Robert said, correcting him coolly.
“M-my lord?” stammered the young man, feeling very uncomfortable before Robert’s steady gaze.
“Lord St. Clement.”
The young man’s eyes widened. Lord St. Clement and Miss Richmond? The Lord St. Clement and Miss Richmond? His face paled as he thought he’d clashed with two of the most-talked-of persons in Bath. “I, er, I may have been mistaken about the newspaper, my lord,” he said quickly, reaching for another ledger.
“Oh, I’m quite sure you’re mistaken,” murmured Robert.
With a shaking finger the flustered assistant went down a list of names, then closed the ledger with a snap, smiling a little too brightly. “Yes, indeed, I was entirely in the wrong, Count Bleiburg wishes to have a newspaper tomorrow, not today.”
Hastily reaching under the counter, he produced the contested copy of The Times, placing it neatly with the rest of Christina’s order. “I do apologize,” he said, looking so uncomfortable that Christina would have felt sorry for him, had she not remembered how very unpleasant he’d been before Robert’s intervention.
As she took the newspapers, the young man spoke again. “May ... may I take this opportunity to wish you both well for the future?”
Color rushed into her cheeks. “Oh, I ...” she began.
But Robert smiled coolly at the assistant. “Yes, sir, you may.”
As they emerged into the daylight again, followed obediently by Jenny, Christina looked accusingly at Robert. “My lord, that wasn’t well done.”
“No? Didn’t you want the newspaper?” he inquired lightly, grinning.