Lady of the Lock

by Bancroft, Blair

  Her sharp dark eyes finally ceased their inspection. “You’ll do,” she pronounced cryptically. “Yes, you’ll do very well.”

  Not quite sure what to say, Mandy settled for a simple, “Thank you, Aunt.”

  “Ramshackle, Merriwether! You’ve not told her.”

  “I–ah–did not wish to incite air dreams, my lady,” the architect of the Kennet and Avon canal stammered. “Perhaps she would not please.”

  “Not please? Do you have feathers for brains, Merriwether? Look at her! How could she not please? The proper clothes, a new coiffure—she will take Bath by storm.”

  Mandy, now knowing how a filly must feel while being paraded at Tattersall’s, looked from her papa to her aunt, burgeoning hope struggling with horror.

  “Pull up chairs, Merriwether,” the dowager ordered. “Sit down so we can discuss how to go about this.” As soon as a rough semi-circle had been formed around the fire, Lady Tynsdale fixed her piercing gaze on Mr. Merriwether and demanded, “Have you the ready?”

  “If you’re not planning on draping her in gilded cloth and the Crown Jewels.”

  “Humph!” The baroness leaned forward, peering more closely at the subject of their conversation. “An odd mix of the both of them you are, girl—and the best parts, at that. I expect we’ll send you off in your very first season.”

  “In Bath?” She shouldn’t have said it, Mandy knew, but incredulity triumphed over good manners. The only young men who came to Bath were making fleeting visits to pay their respects to their grandmothers or possibly escorting a relative to Bath for a course of the waters, fleeing back to more lively climes as soon as their charge was settled.

  “Amanda!”

  A bark of laughter from the dowager interrupted the glare John Merriwether was directing toward his daughter. “Did you expect London, my girl? Almack’s? I assure you it is better to be a gem in a small pond than a cut-glass cit pressing her nose to the glittering wall surrounding the ton.”

  Mandy, mortified, fell to her knees before the dowager’s chair. “I am so sorry, Aunt Tynsdale. I’m the veriest wretch. It is a great fault—my tongue tends to run away with me.”

  “Too many years standing your own in a world of men,” the baroness declared. “It is only to be expected, but you must learn to school your tongue in Bath, my child. What is allowed in a woman of my age would be considered forward and impertinent from a chit of your years.”

  “Yes, my lady, I understand,” Mandy returned, much chastened. She raised her head. “If you are still willing to sponsor me in Bath society, I would be infinitely grateful. The prospect is terrifying, beyond my wildest dreams, but I will do my best not to disgrace you.”

  “That’s as may be,” the dowager declared, looking skeptical, “but your mama was a lady, born of a younger son of a younger son, thought she might be. While you, my child, are a hoyden, raised in a ménage of males. But bring you up to snuff we must.” Lady Tynsdale heaved a heartfelt sigh. “Though with your looks, I daresay the young men will scarce notice any faults in your manners.”

  Mandy, unable to summon a suitable reply, regarded the arrival of the tea tray with enormous relief. But as her Aunt Tynsdale began to pour, Mandy’s mind soared. She was to have a winter season in Bath. Papa had actually noticed her advancing years.

  She might meet a young man who was not an engineer. Perhaps a solicitor, a military gentleman? A prosperous merchant, a younger son of the aristocracy, or even . . .

  “Amanda!”

  Oh, dear! Lady Tynsdale’s hand, proffering a full cup of tea, was beginning to waver as Mandy failed to take it from her. Her father scooped up the cup and handed it to her with an admonitory frown.

  Mandy apologized, ducked her head, and finished the thought that had popped into her head just before her papa barked her name. The Dowager Duchess of Carewe lived in Bath. Perhaps, during these next three months of winter, the Marquess of Montsale might deign to visit his grandmother.

  Chapter Four

  Becoming fashionable was not as pleasurable as Mandy had anticipated. She stood on a small, square dais in the dressing room of Bath’s finest modiste, Madame Clotilde, consciously schooling her features into a nice mix of interest in the cream silk, which was being draped, tucked, and pinned around her, and smiles of appreciation directed at Aunt Tynsdale. But, truth to tell, she longed to be almost anywhere else. Displaying oneself in the Pump Room and at assemblies was all well and good, but the process of becoming fashionably attired, she decided, was beyond tedious. What could it matter if her gown had three rows of lace instead of two? If a hem was ruched or gathered, a flounce cut bias or straight? If only she were standing before her easel, sketching some of Sydney Garden’s delightful prospects . . .

  For a moment Mandy nearly allowed her face to slip into a scowl as she glanced at her aunt and her faithful shadow, Miss Grimley. The two ladies, seated on a rose brocade sofa, seemed enchanted with hours of watching Miss Amanda Merriwether being transformed from Lady of the Lock into someone who could at least pass for a Bath Miss of less dubious background. Mandy, however, had doubts. You could take the girl away from the canal, but was it possible to remove the canal from the girl?

  Did she want to?

  She cast another half-smile at the ladies on the sofa before drifting back to her wayward thoughts. The Kennet and Avon canal was one of the Britain’s finest feats of engineering, the achievement of a lifetime. And because of it her papa was in direct contact with men of high title and great fortune. Men whose trust had provided him with the opportunity to become one of the most respected architect/engineers in the kingdom and also provided the necessary funds for her presentation to Bath society. It was, therefore, her obligation to be a credit to him. To endure the tedium of being transformed from a chit called Lady of the Lock—fair game for dalliance to men like the Marquess of Montsale—to a young lady of the gentry, someone a gentleman might court . . . and marry.

  Though not Montsale. Forever a dazzling sun far beyond her reach.

  “Miss . . . Miss? We’re finished, you may step down now.”

  Blankly, Mandy stared at Lady Clotilde’s assistant a moment before glancing down to discover she was now wearing nothing more than her chemise and stays. Quickly stepping down from the dais, she allowed the assistant to slip her forest green kerseymere gown over her head and fasten the tapes in back. She could only be grateful her thoughts had not been as exposed as her body, for never could she allow Aunt Tynsdale to think her efforts to present Miss Amanda Merriwether to Bath society were not appreciated.

  “Come, come, child,” the baroness said, “we have yet to visit the milliner and after that the cobbler and the glover.”

  Inwardly, Mandy groaned. “Yes, my lady,” she murmured and dutifully followed the elderly ladies as they led the way out of the shop.

  Hours later, Mandy trudged over the Pulteney Bridge on her way back to Laura Place, hugging herself to fend off the cold breeze off the river. Ordinarily, she was too busy gawking at the items in the windows of the shops that ran along both sides of the bridge to spare any attention for the townhouses in Laura Place. But today the waning rays of the sun highlighted the golden stone just enough for Mandy to realize the houses were nearly duplicates of those on Gay Street. Except that here, on the edge of the River Avon, the ground was nearly flat, requiring no “stair-steps” from one house to the next. A grand place to be, truly it was. She could even descend through the rear door straight into a large courtyard which, though sparse of greenery at the moment, featured a covered walkway along the banks of the river.

  In spite of the stiff breeze, Mandy’s lips curled up in a smile. There must be some kind of irony in still appreciating a view of the water when water had been part of her life for nearly as long as she could remember. But this was the river, not the canal. She could look out and see it bubbling over the Bath weir from her bedroom window two stories above the courtyard. And beyond the river, the ancient city of Bath, its rooflines punc
tuated by the jutting spire of Bath Abbey. And in the shadow of the Abbey, the Pump Room, the place where everyone from sharp-eyed dowagers and doddering old men to half-pay officers and anxious mamas with their daughters in tow, paraded, chattered, and sampled the supposedly medicinal waters. And tomorrow—now that the first of her new wardrobe was ready—Aunt Tynsdale would take her there.

  It wasn’t as if Mandy had never been to the Pump Room. Papa and she had paid many visits to this center of Bath’s social life, though after their first sampling of the warm, sulphurous water bubbling up in the massive stone fountain, father and daughter had assiduously avoided any further contact with the product for which Bath was famous. But this year would be different. They would not be travelers staying at the King’s Inn, but genuine Bath residents, situated in fashionable Laura Place. She would put up her hair, don a fine array of brand new gowns, and join the Pump Room parade with head held high.

  And armor firmly in place, stoppering her ears to all remarks about her antecedents . . .

  Although this year the Bath quizzes might have even more reason for censure. For in the past few years she had grown taller, her figure developing curves beyond her wildest hopes; her blonde hair had deepened to polished bronze, the face of a child turned into that of a singularly beautiful young woman. Not vanity. Admiring glances from men of all ages and sharp looks from women confirmed what her mirror told her. In past visits to the Pump Room, Mandy suspected she had been spared the sharpest barbs by the brevity of her stay. But this year, when she was full grown and dressed to the nines, it seemed likely the wall of hopeful mamas, as well as the formidable array of dowagers, would suddenly recall her papa practiced a trade, resulting in decidedly cool breezes insinuating their way into the Pump Room.

  Mandy’s lips tilted into a somewhat pugnacious smile. No one, absolutely no one, snubbed the Dowager Baroness Tynsdale. With her sponsorship, all should be well. And since Montsale’s grandmother lived in Bath, it was entirely possible—

  A particularly intense gust tugged at Mandy’s bonnet. Silly fool! Air dreams would not keep her warm. She hastened down Argyle Street, turned right into Johnstone Street, and was soon knocking on her own front door.

  “Shocking!” declared Miss Grimley as the two elderly ladies sank into comfortable chairs in the drawing room at Gay Street. “I swear, Eulalia, the chit cares not a whit for all you have done for her. She poses with all the ennui of a duchess, yet her manners are as forward as a Covent Garden doxy. But what else can one expect when she was raised among navvies?” Although companions tended to be shy and retiring, insignificant gray mice scurrying to do their employers’ bidding, Miss Grimley broke the mold, as outspoken as she was tall, gangling, and plain as vanilla pudding.

  “She’ll do,” Lady Tynsdale countered. “The gel comes of fine stock—her mama was granddaughter of an earl, though I dare say the blood is a trifle watered down through the line of younger son of a younger son. As for Merriwether”—the dowager paused to huff a sharp breath—“our dear Caro would have him, though there’s nothing in his ancestry but good yeoman stock and rumors of a high personage on his family tree.”

  Miss Grimley’s eyes grew wide. “Merriwether was born on the wrong side of the blanket?”

  “It’s not generally known, and we never speak of it, of course. The boy was fostered well and given an education well above his station. You could almost say”—the dowager paused, looking conscious—“Merriwether was born into his profession.”

  “A high personage?” Miss Grimley prodded.

  “I’ve said quite enough,” Lady Tynsdale returned with asperity.

  “How high?” Miss Grimley persisted.

  “Exceedingly.”

  Cordelia Grimley regarded her employer with awe. “Not–not His Maj—”

  “Don’t be a widgeon, Cordelia,” the dowager snapped. “I daresay Farmer George was far too busy creating that vast brood of his to stray far from the fold.” Lady Tynsdale, clearly interpreting her companion’s inward gaze as a mental perusal of the king’s four younger brothers, declared, “Not quite so high, my dear. The Hanovers are not noted for the sharpness of their intellect.”

  “Eulalia!”

  “Come now, Cordelia, neither of us is mealy-mouthed. “Gel’s as sharp as a pin and so is Merriwether. Not all the chit’s understanding came from my side of the family.”

  After a short rumination, Miss Grimley ventured, “You can’t mean Bridgewater?”

  “Bite your tongue! It is never spoken of,” the dowager added more softly. “Indeed, I truly don’t know, but the on dits I heard when I was old enough to understand . . .” The baroness’s voice trailed away, leaving little doubt about her personal opinion that Amanda Merriwether might include on her family tree the duke who had instigated the building of Britain’s vast network of canals.

  “Goodness,” Miss Grimley murmured. “Granddaughter to a duke would certainly explain her confidence, the occasional—dare I say?—arrogance.”

  “Amanda holds her head high,” Lady Tynsdale agreed with pride. “She’ll do, she’ll do very well.” The dowager promptly settled into a nostalgic review of her own first season, while Miss Grimley grudgingly revised her opinion of the upstart Lady of the Lock, the silence broken only when the baroness roused herself enough to bark, “Cordelia, ring for tea!”

  The following morning, Mandy, long accustomed to early rising, accompanied her father on his daily walk to the Kennet and Avon canal. Far less steep than Gay Street, Great Pulteney Street rose on a gradual incline to the entrance to Sydney Gardens, for which John Merriwether had bought passes as soon as they arrived in Bath. The guard at the gate waved them in with a bright, “Good morning, Miss Merriwether, Mr. Merriwether.”

  As they walked the central pathway at a brisk pace, their breath formed tiny steam clouds in the crisp morning air. Glimpses of sun peeked through the clouds, highlighting swaths of winter green grass, though all else, from bare-branched trees to brown flower beds lay dormant for the winter. Sydney Gardens—silent, peaceful, and strangely beautiful in its winter coat.

  Shortly before the canal, which bisected the northern end of the Gardens, Mandy halted at a path leading off to the right. “The maze again, is it?” her father teased.

  “Papa!” Mandy cried, “we were not in Bath at all last year. And this year, with all the endless fussing about gowns and bonnets and gloves and slippers and manners, you know quite well I have not had a chance to visit the maze.”

  He laughed. “I am but funning, puss. Go and enjoy yourself. How long should I give you before I send out a search party?”

  Perfectly outraged, Mandy glared at her father, who knew quite well she had been negotiating the maze on her own since he’d handed her a map at age twelve and told her he would come back for her in an hour. She had been waiting at the entrance for all of ten minutes when he returned to fetch her. By the end of that same season she had memorized the map, but the maze still fascinated her. The Sydney Gardens maze was a winding, twisting wonderland, dotted with small thatched pavilions, where a girl could sit in her own secret world and dream grand dreams, protected by a labyrinth of yew.

  Mandy waved her father toward the canal and set out for the maze, where, after renewing her acquaintance with the labyrinth’s gatekeeper, she plunged between the first hedges, following the path to the left. She wandered slowly, absorbing the solitude, yet listening for sounds from the canal on the far side of the impenetrable eight-foot hedge. Delicious! Being caught up in the maze was like visiting an old friend.

  Two U-turns, and once again the path paralleled the canal. She could even hear the clop-clop-clop of a sturdy horse pulling a narrowboat. The sounds changed to wheels over cobbles as the path veered right, running along Sydney Road. Another U-turn and Mandy arrived at the first small pavilion. The cold of the stone bench penetrated the sturdy wool of both pelisse and gown, but how wonderful to sit for a few minutes in this special place where reality did not intrude, where dream
s could come true. Where she could think outrageous thoughts like, Amanda, Marchioness of Montsale—

  Mandy’s air dreams shattered. She couldn’t possibly have heard what she thought she heard. It must be the wind sighing through the canyons of yew. She sat very still, ears on the prick.

  There it was again. A sob. More than that. A veritable gush of sobs. And close at hand.

  “Who’s there?” Mandy called.

  “Help!” cried a young voice. “We are lost and afraid to move.”

  Mandy jumped up from the bench, moving toward the sound. “Keep talking,” she ordered. She was fifteen feet back down the path before she was as close to the disembodied voice as she could get. A few more bits of conversation revealed she was talking to a Miss Henrietta Oglethorpe, who was accompanied by her maid, Agnes. “I know the maze well,” Mandy assured them through the wall of yew. “I’ll come and get you. It will take a few minutes, mind, so don’t stray. I promise I’ll find you.”

  Fortunately, the two lost females could not see Mandy as she made a face. If only she still carried the map. Knowing the right way through the maze was not at all the same as knowing how to find your way in or out of the wrong way. Some of the diversions, as she recalled, were long and complex. No wonder the poor girls were upset. Mandy marched with determination back along Sydney Road, along the canal, and–ah–there was a false path, leading back toward Sydney Road. Hopefully this would take her to the lost girls.

  Merciful heavens, but the path was treacherous. Mandy had to call out several times before she finally found them, huddled with their backs to the hedge, their bonnets askew. Not two girls, Mandy noted. Agnes the maid was forty if she was a day, yet her eyes were more red than her mistress’s. Not a strong reed in the wind, Mandy concluded.